Page 63 of When Hearts Awaken

I think back to the way she reacted when I kissed her the last time I was here—the lust and passion quickly spiraling into devastating terror, the way she flinched when I closed in on her last night, wanting to give her my body heat because she was shivering like a leaf, to the stack of books I saw in her opened box this morning when I was tidying her apartment.

Healing from Darkness.

When Words Aren’t Enough.

Why Won’t They Believe Me?

Each volume was a gut punch to my soul. The fury, sadness, and outrage were a wildfire charring my insides—a beast wanting to level everything in its path.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out the truth. The God awful truth that I suspected since the kiss, but didn’t realize the extent until I browsed the books on her shelves. And now, I don’t know what to do next.

Taylor has been raped. There’s no doubt about it. The details, I don’t know, but she has endured a horror no woman should ever experience. I clench my hands tightly as murderous rage fills me.

I want to flay the skin of whoever did this to her. Dismember him body part by body part. And that still wouldn’t be enough.

Expelling a heavy breath, my mind grabs onto something I didn’t want to think about for the longest time, because the alternative would be unbearable.

Her reactions to Ian—the fear in her eyes when she first saw him at ABTC. Even though she doesn’t seem to know my uncle, why would she have such a strong visceral reaction toward him?

The car lurches to a stop and I hear the driver mutter a curse and an apology as he blares the horn at whoever cut in front of us.

Acid boils in my gut and I want to crank open the windows and throw up.

It can’t be Uncle Ian. There’s no way he has anything to do with this. I’ve looked into him, haven’t I? He wasn’t in the States back then. He was in Europe, choreographing ballet.

It was a cursory review, Charles. You only did a cursory review. Photos can be faked. They don’t document every second of his days.

My hands shake as I remember growing up in the cold, empty mansion, knowing I was raised to be the heir of the Bank of Columbia fortune because my parents couldn’t be depended on. My absentee parents I saw once a month if I was lucky.

The fights. The black eyes on Mom’s face. The public spats when our rare public outings devolved into an argument over another woman or man and I’d hide behind the nanny in embarrassment, wishing I were anywhere but there.

The joy I felt when Uncle Ian would show up after I called him. He’d take one quick glance at me and would know what happened. He’d whisk me away to the Met Opera or Central Park, where he’d buy me all the ice cream I wasn’t supposed to eat. He’d take Liam, Firefly, and me to Coney Island for rides and roller coasters and tell us we were loved.

It can’t be him. Can it?

But the terror in her eyes. The way blood drains from her face whenever his name is brought up. I sense uncertainty in her voice as well, because if she knew for a fact it was him, she wouldn’t stay at ABTC. I’d bet my life on it.

“Sir, we’re here.”

My troublesome thoughts stay with me as I exit the car and climb the steps of the building. A small group of paparazzi are gathered outside. I couldn’t focus on work today—meetings with investors, the PR team, my new finance team, which now includes an interim CFO, the permanent CFO position we’re still recruiting for—I couldn’t recall a single thing that was discussed. My assistant probably wants to kill me right now.

I only had a single thought today. I need to help Taylor, however I can.

“Mr. Vaughn! Can we get a comment about your opinion on the Patterson trial?” Reporters holler at me, but I ignore them. Sixty counts of sexual assault. Ten counts of rape. Patterson can rot in hell for all I care.

“Charles! Does your silence mean you’re on his side? What about the victims?”

I freeze, the last man’s words echoing in my head. I think of Taylor—the terror in her eyes, the books on her shelves.

Fury singes through me.

Whipping my head around, I grab the phone from the reporter who tossed out that question. “You want a statement? Fine, you got one. Patterson, if you’re seeing this, you are the fucking scum of the earth and I sincerely hope you get what’s coming to you.”

The reporters gasp as I shove the phone back to the idiot’s face. I growl, “Happy now?”

Ignoring the rest of them, I hurry up the steps and enter the lobby. Fuck, I should’ve controlled myself better—the press is going to have a field day with this.

But I don’t have it in me to care. My mind only swirls around a certain ballerina and the terror in her eyes when she met Ian for the first time.

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