Page 19 of Widow's Walk

I bite down on my bottom lip, still smiling. “I think those are the most romantic words anyone has ever said to me.”

He chuckles, dimples popping. “I’m sure.” He sips from his glass.

“Glad you bought it.” I revert back into my preferred persona.

“You could have told me any version of the story, truth or not, and I would have gotten exactly what I was looking for.”

I stare at him, tongue dried up. “Am I so transparent?” I sass.

“No, I’m just that good.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

“You have no idea how much it drives Blackwell mad.” My eyes jump up to lock with his. “He hates that he still doesn’t have you figured out yet.”

I want to laugh it off. I want to flash teeth and roll my eyes and toss out some biting remark, but instead, my fingers tighten around the stem of my glass. Just enough to betray something.

He watches me for a drawn-out moment. Not in a daunting way. Observant. Then his head tilts to one side, eyes narrowed like he’s seeing something in me I didn’t mean to show. “Youever feel like you’ve played so many versions of yourself, you’re not even sure which one was real to begin with?”

His unexpected question rattles me, but I cover it up with a laugh, bringing the glass up to my lips and taking a sip before responding. “Every version is real,” I say. “In the moment.”

I don’t elaborate, and he doesn’t press.

Chapter eight

Blackwell

“Blackwell,” my father’s firm tone cuts through the room.

“Yes?” I look up and realize he’s now standing in front of his desk rather than sitting behind it like he was before.

“I asked how the estate is coming along?”

“Oh.” I clear my throat. “It’s nearly done. Possibly a few more months before we can furnish it and move in.”

The words may come out easily enough, but the thought of sharing a home with Sinclair is an idea that still sits strangely in my mind. Like trying to keep a live wire in my pocket, thinking it won’t burn me.

She’s been complacent on the surface, playing along, but I don’t trust it for a second. She’s trying to disarm me like she has done with her security detail.

Every damn day she ditches them, just long enough to stir panic, then resurfaces without apology as if nothing happened.Wearing the same damn expression—boredom mixed with defiance.

She’s not looking for an escape, she’s testing the boundaries. Testingme. It’s all one big game to her. Even if the gate was left wide open, she’d probably stay just to keep everyone trying to figure her out.

It drives me mental never knowing if she’s reaching for her lipstick or a knife.

My father looks down and nods. “Something wrong?” I ask.

He sighs, eyes drifting towards the window. “I have to tell you something.” He pauses and turns his face to me. “It’s about my health.” A knock on the door cuts through the moment. “We can talk about this later.”

“No,” I snap. “Fuck whoever knocked. I want to finish this conversation now.”

He gives a soft laugh as if trying to diffuse the tension. “It’s not that bad. Just some concerns that might have me stepping back more.” The knock persists. “Enter!” I’m left balking at my father as the door opens behind me.

Scout, our head of security, pokes his head inside. “Apologies, sir, but could I have a private word with you, Blackwell?”

My father chuckles as I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. We both know what—or rather,who—this is about. “Excuse me,” I mutter, rising. “I’ll be back later to finish our conversation.”

“Good luck,” my father calls out after me, far too amused.

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