Page 36 of Beautiful Enemy

His brother shoots him a look that could freeze an active volcano before glancing my way.

No sign of a thaw.

He’s gone the next instant.

“It’s not you,” Ash says. “There’s a charity gala event tomorrow night and major players Harrison needs to show face with.”

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 new 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 state.

“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.”

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