Page 89 of Stolen Moments

“Must you be so uncouth?” Cybil flips her hair, and my father leans back in his chair. He’s checked out of this conversation. If I’m not going to do his bidding, he’s done.

Well, guess what, old man? I’m done too.

I stand tall and pull my shoulders back. “Cybil, Sinclair. I’d say it was nice knowing you, but we know that would be a lie. Goodbye.”

The heavy chains of pain and neglect they’ve forced me to carry fall away. I never wanted it to end this way, but I can’t say I’m notrelieved. Head held high, I make my escape and race into my new life.

“If you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back,” my father shouts, his final parting words hitting their mark on my heart.

I knew it was coming, but it hurts all the same.

Throwing open the door, I walk into my future and into a solid wall of muscle. The familiar scent of ginger and spice surrounds me as thick arms wrap around my waist.

“Mason.” His name leaves my lips like a benediction. Looking up into his green and gold-streaked eyes, my body relaxes.

I’m home.

Chapter thirty

Mason

The car pulls throughthe gates of the biggest fucking mansion I have ever seen, and a pit forms in my stomach. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

Emery’s childhood home isn’t a mere mansion; it’s a fucking manor, like one I had envisioned while readingThe Great Gatsbyas a teen.

Exhaling a breath, I pay the driver, promising him a five-star rating, and step out onto the stone driveway. Music and voices from the back of the estate draw my attention. I glance down at my clothes—khaki slacks and a linen button-up.

I hope these people aren’t dressed to the nines tonight.

I lift my gaze up at the formidable stone and vine-covered home, with its white columns and art deco detailing. Yeah, these people are going to be wearing clothes that cost more than any average person’s paycheck. I make good money, but I have more sense than to spend thousands of dollars on a piece of fabric I’ll only wear once.

My shoulders sag, thinking about my sweet girl growing up in a home like this. She shuts down at any mention of her family unless she’s talking about her brother or her grandfather. Aside from the time she said she was nothing like her parents, Emery has never mentioned how well off her parents are and where they live, let alone how they live. She’s never acted like she was raised witha silver spoon in her mouth. Emery is kind, compassionate, and hard-working; nothing like how I’d imagine people who grew up with the uber-rich would be—entitled.

Something niggles in the back of my brain, telling me there is more to her story than I could ever understand. Memories of our first plane date come to mind.

She mentioned that her parents don’t approve of Chris because it didn’t fit into theirvalues. She said she felt like they expected too much from her and that she still feels obligated to continue a relationship with them, even though they have pretty much cut Chris out of their lives.

The story of her grandfather is starting to make a lot more sense. I suspect I’m about to meet some of the most snobbish, old-world–thinking people in the state.

I take a breath and adjust my collar. I can take anything as long I have Emery.

She sounded broken and sad on the phone, and it gutted me. I could hear her anxiety and the tears she was fighting over the line. After my talk with Eli, I knew I had to come and be here for her. She needed me. I wanted to surprise her, let her know that I will always have her back.

She’s mine, and it’s my job to support her, protect her.

The front door opens, and a guy with blond hair, a square jaw, wearing—as Cam would say—a “fuck me, I’m rich”, expensive-looking suit and loafers, steps out onto the colonnade. His blue eyes widen in shock at my presence. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for Emery.”

He nods and looks back at the door before returning his gaze to me, taking in my appearance. He frowns, looking sad and tired as fuck, like life’s been beating him down. Something about the way he looks makes me feel bad for the guy.

“She’s in her parents’ office. Just follow the hallway down to the back of the house. You can’t miss the double wood doors.” Headjusts his suit, walks around the porch, and disappears into the night.

I suck in another deep breath, attempting to calm my frayed nerves, and step through the door.

The grand entrance I’m greeted with matches the exterior of the home—white walls with expensive paintings and lighting hanging on them. A wide staircase with an intricate iron banister to the right leads to the second floor, and a matching chandelier hangs above the marble floors. On the left sits a never-been-used sitting room with a fireplace, antique chairs, and coffee tables.

Fuck, this place is insane.

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