Page 6 of The Devil's Pawn

Emma:You’re such a dick.

Emma: How are you doing? What’s he like?

Me: I’m fine. He’s… a jackass.

Emma: *Sad face emoji* I’m so sorry, Immy. I wish I could help.

Me: It’s fine. I have a plan. Sort of. It’s a work in progress.

Emma: Well, if you need ideas, I’m your girl.

Me: I might just take you up on that.

Me: Did I tell you Zenith gave me three months to accept their offer?

Emma: No, you didn’t. Why the deadline?

Me: That’s when the project starts, and they want the full team in place by then.

Me: Which means I have three months to make him divorce me.

Emma: Can you even get divorced that quick?

Me: This family can make anything happen if they want it badly enough. A separation will do. I just need him to tell me to leave, and I’ll have my bags packed within ten seconds flat.

Emma: Always here for you, Immy. Love you.

Me: Love you.

I toss my phone onto the coffee table and stare at the ceiling. I’m not remotely tired, despite the late hour. My brain simply won’t shut up. Heaving myself off the couch, I stuff my feet into my sneakers and head into the dimly lit hallway outside the rooms the De Vils have allocated to my parents and me.

My heartbeat pitter-patters like a spider scuttling over polished parquet flooring wearing tap shoes as I creep through the hallowed hallways of Oakleigh. I keep my eyes peeled and my ears cocked for any sign of footsteps, but the only sound is the rush of blood racing through my ears. Ominous pictures of what I presume are De Vil ancestors glare down at me from their places on the walls, their eyes following me,judging me.

Alexander has been noticeably absent since our prickly exchange yesterday. When he didn’t turn up to dinner last night, his father made some excuse about work. Suited me. The guy’s stunning to look at, but a complete asshole. He’s also cool as a spring shower, and completely indifferent to my attempts to rile him. I have a horrible feeling getting this divorce won’t be as simple as I’d hoped. However difficult it is, though, I have to make it happen. Even the thought of failure curdles my stomach. I cannot bear to think of this as my life, with no purpose other than being a brood mare and a trinket on a powerful man’s arm.

It’s not that I don’t want kids; I do. Someday. But not like this. Not with him.

I climb the stairs to the top floor and turn right. This looks vaguely familiar, and when I reach a door at the end, I remember why. Charles gave me and my parents a tour of the mansion after dinner last night, and he mentioned that each floor has a panic room. Although he was quick to point out there had never been cause to use them. He went on to say that this panic room is one that Alexander and Nicholas share, as they occupy this level of the house. Apparently, if the alarm sounds, this is where I am to go.

Reversing course, I head past the staircase in the other direction. Voices drift toward me, masculine and deep, and I skirt along the wall like an interloper. I have every right to go wherever I choose. I’m not a prisoner, and no one told me any areas of Oakleigh are out of bounds. I have a niggling worry about getting lost, but if I do, I’ll curl up on a couch in one of the countless rooms this house seems to have and wait until morning when the staff is up and about.

On the balls of my feet, I creep closer to the sound, curiosity pulling me along as if it’s woven into the fabric of my being. The smell of cigar smoke tickles my nostrils, and a triangular shard of light coming from a room a few feet ahead on the left shines up the wall. I pause on the periphery and peer inside.

Alexander sits alone on a couch at one end of a low table loaded with drinks and snacks, nursing an empty glass. His siblings lounge on two adjacent couches, one of them puffing on a cigar.

I hold my breath, intending to eavesdrop on their conversation, even though I shouldn’t. Mom used to tell me eavesdroppers don’t hear anything good about themselves, but as they appear to be discussing a win on a horse race, I think I’m safe.

Until I hear my name.

“You landed on your feet with Imogen.” I think that’s Christian, the third eldest brother. It’s hard to tell from this angle. I only briefly met them last night, and I was still too annoyed at Alexander to pay much attention.

“You marry her, then,” Alexander says in that cool, bored manner of his.

“Hard pass.” Christian laughs. “I’m not in the market for a wife anytime soon. With a bit of luck, by the time you and Nicholas have done your civic duty, Dad will have so many grandbabies puking on his Amosu suit, us three will get a pass.”

“Amen to that,” Tobias says. I know that’s him. He made an impression on me because he had the kindest eyes, and he bothered to ask how I was.

Alexander’s glower could strip paint off the walls, but his siblings don’t seem at all concerned by his fisted hands or the vein bulging in his forehead. Saskia, the only woman, and from what I’ve seen, my only hope of a friend, leans forward and snags an olive from the table, popping it into her mouth.

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