Page 38 of Salvaged Hearts

Curious phrasing. “Is it a tracker or something?”

“Or something.” One hand settled on my shoulder, giving me a gentle squeeze, in prompting or reassurance, I wasn’t sure. The other trailed back down my neck before he stepped away abruptly and waved in the stylists, who had just bustled into the bedroom beyond the doorway with coffees in hand. “Wear it for me?”

I nodded, unsure of the significance or whether my words would hold the gusto I needed. There were so many questions, so few answers.

Greyson lifted his chin to the girls before curtly greeting them, “Lina, Sandra.” He wound one of my face-framing curls around his finger, and I didn’t have to fake how my breath got trapped in my chest. “What exactly are we going for with this…look?Prom?” he asked, eyes on mine, which meant he didn’tsee how both of their faces drained of color before their mouths caught up.

“Timeless,” Lina exclaimed, then added, “Sophisticated.”

“Elegant?” Sandra supplied, hopefully, more a question than an answer.

He grunted, the sound blatantly displeased. When I turned to face him, his expression was pensive. “Let’s tone it down, shall we?”

“Tone it down?” Lina squeaked, rushing to set her coffee on the counter and reclaiming her tools as if donning armor for battle.

“I’m not my father,” he stated firmly. When two sets of round eyes blinked back at him, he clarified with a sigh, “This is giving first lady, White HouseBarbie. Nothing brings me to my knees faster than this woman with her hair down. Let’s ease up on the Skeletor cheekbones, and I’d like to see the freckles over her nose. I happen to love that she’s not waifish.” Gently brushing a knuckle down the side of my face, he smiled softly, evidently unaware that my entire body was tracking that point of contact. “She should look like herself.”

“Yes, sir,” Sandra blurted, diving for the sink like her life depended on it. I guessed in this world, keeping Greyson Hart happy might be the same thing.

“Of course!” Lina promised, immediately shoving her hands into my hair to start pulling pins. “Sorry, Mr. Hart.”

“You’ll make it right,” he assured with a gentle smile. The man walked from the room like he hadn’t just sent three grown women scrambling for their composure.

Albeit mine was the result of a very different kind of fear.

Greyson

The familiar raspylaugh of Lucas Riviera broke through the conversations of my staff as they rushed about readying the venue for our engagement party the following week. Luke was a detective—one of two people outside of the operation who knew the full scope of whatThunderstrikedid. He’d started as an adversary and, within a few months, had grown into a friend as our relationship became one of mutual respect. He was also why city brass would monitor the engagement party alongside my security personnel. As though he’d checked off every box on the list of stereotypes, the man strutted into my building like he owned it, wearing a black leather jacket. His hair was slicked back, and his button-up strained over an extra twenty-five pounds in his belly, which he swore he would lose—thus refusing to update his wardrobe.

I’d been working with the man for three years, and neither had changed.

“Hart! You son of a bitch,” he barked, announcing his presence to my entire staff as they prepared for the evening. The man didn’t have a subtle bone in his body, but he was shrewd and had integrity wreathing every action. I studied his open body language and the slow smile stretching his stubbled cheeks. Sincere enough. Opting to return his greeting, I handed back the seating chart the event planner had been explaining and turned to meet his approach. Yanking me into a one-sided hug and slapping my back, he said, “I had my suspicions, but you are one tough motherfucker to read.”

“We kept it quiet for obvious reasons,” I simply supplied, jerking my head toward the bar, where they’d ensured my favorite bottles were well stocked. “Whiskey?”

“Nah, man. Thank you, though.”

“I insist,” I said, settling a hand on his shoulder. Stockily built, Luke was all of five-foot-eleven but took up space like a brick wall. “Let me get you something.”

“Unless it’s a cola, you’re outta’ luck. Just got the lay of the land from Mike, so my guys are up to speed.”

“Good deal.” I motioned toward the open terrace, overlooking the putting greens and beach below. “How have you been?”

“Better than I deserve. Gotta say, I expected a call before the press caught wind.”

“I intended one, but things…escalated.”

“You knock her up or something?”

“Nothing like that.” It was in that precise moment that Alessandra stepped onto the balcony from a side room like an ethereal dream. At five-foot-ten, she towered over most other women, bustling to get things in order. A curve-hugging white lace dress highlighted sinfully feminine lines; her long sheet of shining chocolate hair was straight today with salon-level perfection. My gold necklace adorned her skin for seven days running, much to my satisfaction. She wore it obediently through public appearances, dinners, private evenings with our publicists, and countless meetings. I’d noticed her study it a time or two, but if she’d noted anything peculiar, she’d yet to say anything.

I just wished she’d emerge from her rooms every now and then. It was like a ghost haunting my halls—food not where I’d left it in the fridge, the occasional pair of shoes by the door, but otherwise, a heavy silence had filled the space once the movers left. She attended our meetings and spent longer hours at the office to which I was dying to return, but she seemed to have decided avoiding me was the answer.

No wife of mine would spend her days hiding in her home. It would have to change, but it didn’t seem like she’d make it easy on me.

Sharp gray eyes surveyed the greens, the decor being meticulously placed, then softened to return smiles as staffrecognized the queen in their midst. She held herself like royalty—unbothered by her height and sure in her observations. If she gave a single flying fuck about status, the woman would wear wealth exceptionally well.

That was one thing that caught my attention. Alessandra didn’t speak unless her words held value, kindness, or humor. Didn’t act unless she was certain. It’s why I knew that if anyone could pull this off with me, it was my begrudging right-hand woman. She could hate me all she wanted; it didn’t negate that she was damn good at her job and even better at trusting her blunt intuition. Which, luckily for me, had at least hinted that I was innocent and, somehow, despite her distaste, worth helping. “Sometimes, you just know.”

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