Page 55 of The Silent War
It burned. Because this wasn’t friendship. This ended with her as our wife. But I smiled instead, indulging her. If it made it easier for her to let us back in her life.
“Can I convince you to stay at our penthouse then—” I leaned closer, brushed her hair back, my other hand sliding off her neck, to the back of her neck. “—as a friend?”
“I have to go home,”
“Then I’ll call you every hour,” I murmured, thumb against her pulse. “Message every half hour.”
She giggled, soft and unguarded, and I let myself breathe it in. God, I’d missed that sound. I kissed the side of her head again, slower this time, holding her in place.
Bastion walked in, he looked went from her to me, reading the air in a second.
“We’re friends now,” I told him, dry.
“Friends,” he repeated, as he walked toward us.
Emilia’s fingers paused on my arm. “If you don’t want friends, I’m happy to take it back.”
Bastion dragged a chair towards us, his hand sliding to her thigh. Fuck. It took everything inside me not to say what good girl she was to not pull away from us.
“No. Friends work.” Bastion thumb traced her knee.
We both knew it was one step closer to having our girl admitting she wants us back.
Chapter Twenty
EMILIA
Charlotte’s kitchen had gone quiet in the focused way that only happens when friends are doing something they shouldn’t be good at.
The balms sat in rows. Vivienne’s fingerprint-locked cases on side. Charlotte steadied another tube, drew the brush along the rim with a painter’s care, and clicked it shut.
“Don’t breathe on it,” Vivienne said, deadpan, as if exhaling could trigger a felony.
“I have steady hands,” Charlotte repeated.
“Your hands shake when your mother calls,” Vivienne said.
Charlotte didn’t miss a stroke. “That’s muscle memory, not nerves.”
“Hold it steady,” Vivienne muttered, leaning over with a precision that came from years of threading necklaces instead of syringes. Her bracelets clinked as she pushed a fingerprint-lock case closer. “One wrong swipe and you’ll put yourself under.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Thank you for the vote of confidence.”
Vivienne ignored her, snapped another case open, andbegan slotting the balms inside. “You’re lucky I like you, Adams,” she said to me without looking up. “These cases cost more than my entire winter wardrobe.”
“You say that every time,” I said.
“And it’s true every time,” Vivienne shot back.
I leaned against the counter, watching them work. It should have felt surreal—my friends dosing cosmetics like it was a parlor game—but nothing about our world had been surreal for a long time. It was dynasty. If you weren’t laundering, you were smuggling. If you weren’t smuggling, you were coating lip balm with poison.
“Careful,” Charlotte said again to herself, slipping the brush over another rim. She moved slow, deliberate, the picture of a girl who wanted her mother’s approval even when her mother wasn’t in the room.
I smiled faintly. “You’ve gotten good at that.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” She twisted the balm shut with a sharp click. “Micro-dosing is an art.”
“It’s lip gloss,” Vivienne said dryly. “Stop acting like you’re Michelangelo.”
