Page 35 of Enemies

Curiosity has me leaning in. “And he doesn’t want to?”

“Only because his business rival might be there.”

“The man your parents used to work for.”

Ash shifts back to one end of the couch, surveying me with surprise.

“He told me he wants to build an empire to atone for what happened to your parents. What he thinks happened to them.”

Ash nods, still looking impressed by my knowledge. “Our parents worked for the Ivanov family. Now their son has taken over the business.”

“Harrison thinks they had a hand in your parents’ deaths.”

Ash flinches. “Wealth and power make people do strange things.”

I shake my head, trying to catch up. “Mischa and Harrison are the same age?”

“Two years apart. But they went to school together.” Ash frowns. “This gala is a bore, but the host is a friend of the family.” His expression brightens. “Come with me as my date.”

I snort, until I realize he’s serious.

“Can I wear this?” I gesture to my running clothes, and he barks out a laugh.

“Fuck no. It’s black tie. I’ll pick you up at eight!” he calls as I head to my room, taking down my hair and eager to shower off the sweat.

Before I can, my gaze flicks to the nightstand, and I do a double take at the bottle of pills there.

Same medication. Same dosage. Enough to last me until I leave.

What the…?

He’s been avoiding me all week. No more.

I head down the hall and push in Harrison’s office door without knocking.

He looks up from his desk, looking caught out but otherwise immaculate in a pale-green shirt that sets off his blond hair and slight tan.

“You replaced my pills,” I say.

“I estimated the dosage based on the size of the ones I disposed of.”

I turn toward his bookshelves. The fact that this man knows more than anyone about my weaknesses has my stomach clenching.

“Thank you. I like knowing they’re there if I need them.”

It’s almost as if they’re an artifact from a version of me that no longer exists but one I don’t want to forget.

There are dozens of books, and I trace a finger along the faded spines before I pull out one in a clear plastic case. “The Count of Monte Cristo. A good man who lost his way on a path for vengeance.”

“Vindication. Justice. There’s a difference.”

I open the cover and take in the date, my mouth rounding. “A first edition?”

“The first edition was published as a serial and in French. This is a second.”

I nearly drop it in my haste to replace it on the shelf.

“Why did you let me pick it up? It’s three hundred years old and could fall apart in a second.”

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