Page 76 of Royal Bargain
“I want to see Miranda.”
That wakes him up.
He props himself up on one elbow, frowning. “Why?”
“I just need to talk to her. Career stuff.” The lie slips out too smooth. I hate that I’ve gotten used to it.
Liam watches me a second longer than I want him to. Then he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Fine. But Shane’s going with you. One hour, Ana. That’s it. No wandering, no errands. You talk to her, then you come back. Deal?”
“Deal,” I say, placing a hand on his chest. He still looks unsure, but leans in and kisses my forehead before climbing out of bed.
I exhale slow.
If Sasha’s right, I need answers. I need to be ready.
The scentof bergamot hits before she speaks. Miranda pours the tea like it’s a ritual, each movement clean and practiced.
Her office is the same—sharp, modern, impossible to read. Floor-to-ceiling windows pour light across white leather and glossy floors, turning everything soft at the edges.
She hands me a China cup, her smile faint. “You look more rested than last time, darling. I assume the Irishman’s apartment agrees with you?”
I take the cup. “It’s… something.”
Miranda raises a brow, graceful in that way only she can be. Cream blouse, tailored navy trousers. Like serenity with bite.
“That’s not very descriptive,” she says.
“It’s a lot of noise,” I admit, wrapping my fingers around the warm porcelain. “Liam doesn’t shut drawers. Or doors. Or his mouth, apparently. But he means well.”
She chuckles. “Men often do. It rarely helps.”
Despite myself, I laugh, and for a moment it’s easy to pretend this is just tea with a mentor. But it’s not. There’s an edge to this, a purpose behind my visit—and she knows it.
Miranda sips her tea and regards me over the rim of her cup. “So. To what do I owe the pleasure? I’m guessing this isn’t just a check-in.”
I hesitate, then set the cup down gently on the saucer. “I need to ask you something. Off the record. Not as my manager. As the woman who helped me walk away when I thought I couldn’t.”
Miranda’s eyes sharpen, the warmth fading into something colder. More precise.
“I’m listening.”
I reach into my coat pocket and slide my phone across the table, the screen lit with the last message from Sasha. Miranda barely glances down at it before returning her gaze to me.
“You should be asking why Burns needed to be shot, not who shot him,” I read aloud.
Miranda doesn’t react at first. Just picks up her teacup again, taking a small, measured sip.
“Well,” she says finally, her voice clipped, “that’s cryptic.”
“You don’t think she might know something?” I press. “Or that someone else might?”
Miranda’s jaw tightens just slightly. “I think some people have far too much time on their hands and a bad habit of stirring up drama where there is none.” She sets the cup down with a gentle clink. “Your sister always did hate not being the center of attention.”
It’s a deflection, and we both know it.
“But—”
