Page 84 of Coldhearted King

I look around, seeing the place the way someone who is unfamiliar might. The foyer boasts twenty-four-foot ceilings, and the pale blond wood floor, white walls, and expansive windows fill the area with light. Directly in front of us, a wide staircase sweeps upward. With all the sun streaming in, the place should feel warm and inviting. But it doesn’t. At least, not to me. If I had memories of these rooms filled with love and laughter, it might feel like a family home, but I don’t have those memories. I have others.

My eyes go to the closed library door, but I turn away before the scene I witnessed there can play through my head.

We follow Peters to the back of the house, where glass doors lead onto the porch. My brothers are already seated at the table in the middle of the precisely manicured lawn.

Peters opens the door for us and stands to the side to let us pass. I step out, then turn back and see Delilah paused on the threshold. It hits me that this must be intimidating for her. Not thinking too hard about it, I reach out, thread my fingers through hers, and tug her forward. When she comes with no more hesitation, a strange warmth unfurls in my chest. We make our way across the lawn, with Delilah walking on her tiptoes so her heels don’t sink into the grass.

Noticing our approach, Tate and Roman look up. I can see their raised brows from here, but I ignore them. A moment later, Mom looks over her shoulder. She stiffens, but I keep moving forward, bringing Delilah with me.

“Cole,” Mom says as we draw closer, “I didn’t know you were bringing a guest.”

Her gaze drops to where my hand is joined with Delilah’s, and her lips thin. The intimacy of what I’m doing hits me with a sudden twist of discomfort in my gut. I let go as soon as we reach the table, using the excuse of pulling out Delilah’s chair for her. “Mom. This is Delilah.”

“Hello, Delilah.” Mom runs her silvery-blue eyes over Delilah, then twitches her lips into what’s supposed to be a smile.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. King,” Delilah says, her own smile far warmer than Mom’s.

“Good to see you again, Delilah,” Tate says, his lips curved into a smirk.

Roman just nods, his gaze coolly assessing as he watches Delilah sit gracefully in the chair I’ve pulled out for her. But then, that’s the way Roman looks at everyone.

I take a seat between Delilah and Mom, who takes a sip from her teacup and delicately puts it on the saucer. “So, Delilah, what is it you do?”

“I’m an architect.”

Mom’s blonde eyebrows arch. “An architect? You’re very young for that, aren’t you?”

“I completed my licensure early.”

“Delilah’s very talented.” Tate throws this in with a sly grin in my direction. “She’s working on the new hotel development.”

I don’t miss the way Mom’s eyes narrow. “You work for the company?”

“I work for Elite Architecture. We’re contracted to the King Group for the duration of the development.”

“I see.” Mom picks a bit of lint off the table before leveling me with a cold look I don’t acknowledge. I merely reach for the open bottle of wine and fill Delilah’s glass, followed by mine.

“Roman and Tate were just telling me how things are going with the development,” Mom says. “Apparently, there are some concerns with the investors?”

“They’re sitting back and waiting to see if we fail,” I respond. “As soon as we show them the final numbers, they’ll realize they’re going to make more money from us than ever before.”

“As long as you don’t allow yourself to get distracted,” she says, her gaze skimming over Delilah.

Delilah shifts in her seat, then reaches for her wineglass.

“I don’t get distracted,” I say, ignoring what sounds suspiciously like a muffled snort from Tate. “And besides, the people working for us are the best in the business. I don’t have any concerns about them dropping the ball.” My eyes meet Delilah’s, and she smiles at me.

The arrival of lunch breaks the tension. A troop of servants arrives, carrying plates and placing them in front of each of us. As usual, the food is exquisite and there’s a few minutes of silence as we all enjoy our meals. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last.

“When did you last speak to your father?” Mom asks.

I share a look with Tate and Roman, and it’s Roman who answers. “A few weeks ago. They’re still discussing a plea bargain, but he’s holding out.”

Mom snorts. “He’s being stubborn.”

“Don’t tell me you thought he’d go down without a fight?” Tate asks, amusement coloring his voice. Out of all of us, there’s the least love lost between him and Dad, for obvious reasons.

Mom sighs. “Well, hopefully all of this will blow over soon.”

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