Page 112 of The Arrogant's Redemption

"How could I not, Mom? It wasn’t just LJ who messed up—I did too. It’d be so hypocritical of me to expect him to forgive me for keeping Sedric a secret all that time, and then not forgive him for not reaching out while we were apart."

I take a sip of the chilled champagne and sigh with pleasure. Even though it wasn’t lunchtime yet, we decided to open one.

It’s the first time I’m having alcohol since my surgery. Until now, the only wine I’d ever tried was at dinner. Being banned from alcohol for months had made it all the more tempting.

When we arrived yesterday, there was a box of champagne waiting for us in the fridge—a thoughtful gift from Morrison, the owner of the house, to celebrate our engagement.

According to Mom, who read the label and looked it up online, it’s a rare vintage. And since there was also a note inside the box encouraging us to indulge in a bottle, along with some treats he had ordered from a delicatessen in Manhattan and had delivered to us, we decided to take him up on the suggestionwhen we woke up, as when we first got here, each of us had gone straight to our own rooms, exhausted.

Morrison called around eleven last night, introduced himself, welcomed me, and asked what we thought of the champagne. I told him we hadn’t tried it yet. Not wanting to seem ungrateful, we decided to open a bottle this morning.

"I think I hear a car pulling up," my mom says.

I glance at the watch on my wrist. "It must be Morrison. LJ told me his cousin would arrive early. I'll go meet him."

I step out of the "club" where I danced for Lazarus over two years ago, wondering at the same time if his cousin knows what happened in his house that weekend.

The thought makes my cheeks burn.

When I reach the front hall, I don't need the man standing in front of me to introduce himself to know it’s Morrison Seymour. Even though he looks more worn than he did in the photos I saw of him online back when the accident happened, I still recognize the unique eye color—a strong trait in their family—through the thick lenses of his glasses.

I smile, and he smiles back, but I feel a pang of guilt as I watch him drag himself toward me with the help of a cane, reminded of what caused it.

Every time I think of Jodie, I feel a mix of pity for how far she fell into madness, and anger for the pain she caused LJ and me. I rarely think about Morrison, but seeing him now reminds me that he almost died with her, spent time in a coma, and woke up with amnesia.

"Hi, my name is Alexis Gillis," I say, extending my hand.

He moves as if he’s going to hurry toward me but loses his balance. "I’m sorry," he mutters, looking embarrassed.

I offer an awkward smile and pull my hand back. "No, I’m the one who’s sorry. My mom, along with Athanasios’s and William’s wives, is downstairs in your club. We finally openedthat champagne you sent us this morning. Thank you, it’s delicious."

He smiles. "I think I’ll go join them," he says.

I feel my face heating up but force myself to ask, not wanting him to get hurt. "Do you need help getting downstairs?"

"No. There’s an elevator."

"Oh, I didn’t know."

"Very few people do. Only LJ and Seth, I think. And as far as I know, you’ve only been here once before, right?"

God, how embarrassing!

"Yeah. Well, if you can get down by yourself, I’ll head to the kitchen and grab more food. None of us are used to drinking, and we’ve already polished off a whole bottle."

"All right. See you down there."

He walks away, and I make my way toward the ultramodern kitchen, a place that also brings back spicy memories of that weekend that feels like it belongs to another lifetime.

I glance over the trays of food and decide to grab a cheese platter, since we’ve already sampled one with various cured meats.

I’m carrying the tray toward the basement stairs, because I forgot to ask Morrison where this elevator is, when something in the corner of my eye catches my attention—a photo frame.

At first, I think my eyes are playing tricks on me. I set the tray down on a piece of furniture and pick up the frame.

No, I’m not imagining it.

It’s a photo of Morrison, LJ’s cousin, posing with several members of the DeCarlo family—the same people we’re currently fighting in a civil lawsuit because of the false accusations against my mother.

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