Page 8 of Seen Knot Heard

I’m not so sure, but I don’t pop his bubble.

Holden has a lot riding on Grady having saved important information about Chloe. But I’m putting my hope in Dominic tracking down that viper of a mother and convincing her to reveal Chloe’s location.

Chapter Three

Chloe

Istudy my reflection in the floor-length mirror, the dress Louie chose for me clinging to my curves. My cast stands out against the soft fabric that whispers against my skin, a shimmering waterfall of silk that pools at my feet.

A tripping hazard if ever I saw one.

Heels would turn it into an elegant outfit, but those weren’t included in my new wardrobe. Does Louie think I’ll take out my guards with a six-inch stiletto? Or is the excess material intended to tangle me up if I run for it? Or maybe Louie just doesn’t understand how to dress up his doll.

I miss my comfy onesies, but based on all the expensive fabrics in the closet, there will be no animal jumpsuits in my future.

Huffing, I pull up my vibrant pink hair, the cast causing me to fumble with the golden combs that don’t want to stay in place. If I had access to the internet, I’d watch a video on how to use the stupid things, because there has to be a trick to it that I’m missing.

Blake would know. Quinn looked like a little girl who enjoyed all sorts of dress-up, and Blake seemed like the kind of uncle who learned all sorts of girly things to make her happy.

A stab of longing pierces my heart. I hope he and Nathaniel found her and they’re having a princess tea party back on Misty Pines.

The door opens, and my guard pokes her head inside. “Dinner will be served soon.”

I take a deep breath, and set the combs back on their tray, my hair falling down my back. Louie will have to be satisfied with my best efforts. Steeling myself, I yank up the hem of my dress and follow her out.

Cold marble chills my bare feet once I leave the soft carpet of my prison behind. As we walk, I take in my surroundings while trying not to be obvious about it.

My room is at the end of a hall, and we pass a set of French doors on the right that open into a luxurious office. Built-in display cases cover one wall, and the modern furniture appears both expensive and uncomfortable to sit on.

I must be on the guest side of the penthouse.

The hallway opens into a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows that flood the space with gray sunlight. A minimalistic, but plush, sectional sofa faces a low-profile gas fireplace, where pink flames dance. The oil painting above it looks like an original piece.

Doors lead out to a private balcony with a glass railing, providing an unobstructed view of the bustling downtown area of Mosswood below and the storm clouds rolling in from the east. Green shrubs surround a hot tub, while lounge chairs sit beside a firepit.

We walk around a staircase with floating treads into the dining room, where a crystal chandelier hangs over a marble dining table long enough to seat ten people.

The sight of its hard lines makes my heart ache for the comforting warmth of wood at the Homestead. Everythingabout this penthouse is cold and impersonal. Like a mausoleum instead of a home.

Louie stands from his place at the head of the table, smoothing down the front of his pale gray suit. His slicked-back hair gleams gold as he walks forward, arms outstretched. “Chloe, darling, you look beautiful tonight.”

I want to shrink away from him, but I force my lips into a smile.

“Thank you.” Purposefully misunderstanding his intention, I thrust out my hands, and after a brief hesitation, he clasps them. “There were so many choices in the wardrobe. I wasn’t sure which would be right for the occasion.”

“Anything you wear will instantly become lovely.” He uses our clasped fingers to spread my arms, and his gaze rakes over me. “Just lovely.”

The possessiveness behind the words, like I’m a piece of artwork he acquired, sends a shiver of fear through me.

“Are you cold?” He turns, tucking my arm into the crook of his elbow. “Come, sit close to the fire.”

He walks me down the length of the table to the place setting to the right of his. Here, another pink-flamed fireplace dances in the recesses of a wall, the faint whir of a fan pushing out artificial heat.

Releasing me, he pulls out a chrome chair with a plush, blue-velvet cushion. I move to stand in front of it, lifting my too-long skirt as he pushes it in.

I expect him to resume his seat and jump when cool fingers brush my bare shoulders. “I so hoped you would wear your hair up tonight.”

Glad now that I didn’t, I use the pretense of scooting in a little more to slip out of his touch. “I couldn’t figure out how the combs worked.”

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