Page 126 of His Pretty Little Duet

She appears beside me, her long dark hair pinned up perfectly, her chin tilted higher than straight, a pleasant smile set into her lips. She places her hand on my shoulder; her support can be sensed in the weighted touch. My chest tightens with jealousy, with happiness, too, because I like her.Gah,it's asuckysituation. "Mr Butcher is quite fond of her style. Don't change her."

That makes me smile.

"Oh, of course," the woman says through a nervous laugh, backpedalling like crazy in the presence of this impressive woman. "It was only a suggestion."

"And best refer to Fawn as Miss Harlow." She looks at me questioningly, and I suddenly straighten under her gaze. "Fawn, you don't need to pick anything. If there is nothing here you want, Prada has a white poplin dress and pleated tulle skirt that I think you'll love. We can bring you others." She studies me as I nod compliantly. "You don't want anything, do you?"

I worry my bottom lip, working the skin as I contemplate how to avoid offending her. I do want to be more like her… "It's just not mything." I squirm, my need to please twisting coils of reluctance through me. "But I understand that I live here now, and I need clothes, so…" I trail off because she laughs softly, her eyes crinkling at each edge.

"I find cooking tedious," she admits, sliding her hand from my shoulder to smooth my blonde hair down my crown. Her touch makes me sigh. "You find clothes shopping so. You don't have to be like me, Fawn. You can finally be whomever you want. I know Clay has told you to use your voice. Say what you want here."

She rubs my shoulder with gentle pressure as she turns to leave, and I follow her with my gaze until she is out of the room. The protective dominance she carries with effortless grace vanishes, leaving me with a little pout.

I realise I like her around a lot more than I like her absence. Having her close is a direct line to Clay. Having her close is like being close tohim.

I turn to the lady, squaring my shoulders. "I'm actually going to pass…" I glance around. "Oneverything—Thank you."

"Mr Butcher?" I question, squinting at a muscular, suited back. Clay's dad moves towards the double front doors.

At least I think it's Luca Butcher.

Dude looks super scary…

Just like I remember him.

It's edging 5 p.m., and Clay still isn't home, so I'm not sure why his father is wandering the halls. Not that it's any of my business what the comings and goings of a man like him are, or?—

He turns to acknowledge me; blue eyes not unlike Clay's settle on me. Matching chilling orbs of power and indifference like a fallen angel might have. Beautiful, yet heart shattering.

His muscles are larger than Clay's, his form monstrous even within a black suit, and there wouldn’t be much left of the person who decided this suited man was gentlemanly in nature.

The last time I saw him, he was watching my ultrasound with entitled interest in the baby in my belly. An interest I didn’t quite understand like I do now. He is my dad's enemy. Just like Clay.

The baby—me—we were bait.

I wonder what I am to him now…

"Fawn," he says my name without emotion. A polite acknowledgement of sorts. "I was looking for my wife." I expect him to ask if I have seen her, but he doesn't.

"Oh." I glance around the empty corridors, which is ridiculous because it's as though I must prove I haven't seen her by indicating her absence around us. I shuffle awkwardly, saying, "I haven't seen her."

Ugh. Clever girl, Fawn.

He smiles tightly and nods his response and his farewell in that gesture, but before he can turn to leave, I step towards him, my mouth rushing as my mind struggles to catch its heel. "Mr Butcher?" He stops, and I take a step closer to him. "Tell me about my dad."

"Luca," he insists, casually turning to face me as though I didn't just drop a bomb of a statement on his arse.

"Okay. Luca. Can you tell me about my dad?"

"You should ask my son."

"I'm askingyou," I press, unsure at what point I became so ballsy that I'm ready to stand my ground while literally standing on his. Maybe it was Aurora… I can still feel her hand on my shoulder. A humming reminder to be myself. That, of course, doesn't stop my hands from shaking, so I reach for my hair, twirling a golden ribbon around my finger to avoid the idling tremors. "You said that you have known my father for many years?—"

"My son will decide what you?—"

"But you didn't tell me that you meant to use me and my baby to lure him out for your revenge, which might have worked if hecared enough about me, but he doesn't, does he?" I take a big breath and say, "I'd like to know why?" I hold that breath when the last word leaves my lips. Realisation settles. I interrupted him and poked at him without any knowledge of the kind of man he is or how he would respond to my surfacing contempt. I don't hate him. I don't think I like him though. Which only lumps him in with almost everyone else I've met.

They lie.

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