Justin's POV

The double mahogany doors of the second-floor study swung open.

The brass handles let out a faint scrape of metal.

Lena, one of the housemaids, came rushing in with a silver tablet pressed against her chest.

She stopped three feet from the desk.

She was dressed in her black-and-white uniform.

Her legs were trembling. The hem of her skirt shook with them.

"Sir." Her voice came out unsteady.

I looked up. Looked at her.

She swallowed. Her throat bobbed.

She repeated what Ella had said, word for word.

When she reached the part about Justin being incredible in bed, her voice dropped to almost nothing.

I set down my Montblanc pen.

The metal barrel struck the solid wood desk. A dull, clean sound. Unusually sharp in the quiet of the room.

I leaned back into the leather chair. Kept my eyes on her.

Lena quickly looked away.

She fixed her gaze on the Persian pattern in the carpet.

The rise and fall of her chest quickened. Her breathing grew shallow.

She was thinking about it.

She worked for Vivian because of the money.

But Ella's words had done their work.

Once desire takes root, it finds its own way out.

"Those were her exact words?" I asked.

"Yes. She also said…said that you'd grow tired of Miss Vivian sooner or later." Lena added.

"That's enough. You can go."

Lena turned.

Her steps toward the door slowed by two beats.

The sway in her hips was wider than usual. Deliberate.

The door closed.

I looked at the shut door.

Ella had changed.

She used to only cry. Only beg.

Now she'd learned to use words as weapons.

She thought these little games of hers could change something.

How naive.

I picked up the desk phone and pressed a speed dial key.

Three rings. Then someone picked up.

"Is everything in order?" I asked.

"All set. Private flight first thing tomorrow morning, direct to Switzerland. The medical team will be on board. Equipment's already loaded."

"Is he conscious?"

"Still out. Doctor says his condition is stable. As long as he's kept away from the allergen, there's no risk to his life. His cardiac readings have returned to normal."

"He's not to return to the country until he turns eighteen. All expenses come out of my private account. Payments on schedule, every month."

"Understood. And Miss Ella — should she be notified?"

"Leave her out of it."

I hung up.

I laced my fingers together and rested them against my stomach.

There was no place for that child in this house.

Every time I looked at Leo, I was pulled back four years.

Ella standing in the middle of the living room, holding a pregnancy test.

She was wearing a cheap floral dress. Her eyes were swollen.

She had forced my hand.

She had upended every plan I'd made for my life. Made me a joke in my own circles.

Now Vivian was here.

My life had returned to the track I'd chosen for it.

Leo was a complication. A stain.

Send him away. Clean break.

I needed silence. I didn't need anything weighing me down.

The door opened again.

Vivian walked in.

She was wearing a deep burgundy silk robe, the neckline cut low.

She was barefoot on the carpet. No sound at all.

Her fingers turned the little seagull pendant ring around and around.

"He leaves tomorrow?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Just like that?" She crossed to the desk and leaned over it, both palms flat on the surface, tilting her head at me.

"And what about Ella?"

"Let her make a scene. She can't change anything."

Vivian perched on the edge of the desk.

She looked down at her fresh manicure.

The red polish caught the light.

"I have a better idea," she said, lifting her head.

"What if we let Ella think her son is dead?"

"I want to watch her collapse on her knees by the river and not be able to get back up."

"The worse she has it, the better I feel."

The corners of her eyes were bright with it. Her pupils wide.

I looked at her.

I said nothing.

Vivian read my expression. She knew she had my silence as permission.

She slid off the desk.

She hummed something light and tuneless.

Walked out of the study to make her call.

She had a perfect illusion to arrange.

I watched her go.

This woman was ruthless.

That was exactly why I kept her around.

She handled the things I had no interest in getting my hands dirty over.

---

The sky sat in that grey space between night and morning.

I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window on the second floor.

A figure appeared at the corner of the street.

Ella.

She was dragging herself forward.

Each step looked like it cost her something.

She was soaked through. Water trailed behind her on the stone path in a long, dark line.

Her dress was plastered to her legs. The fabric torn in several places.

Her hair was matted against both sides of her face, covering half of it.

She reached the iron gate.

Two guards in black moved to block her.

She grabbed the bars with both hands.

Opened her mouth. Called my name.

"Justin!"

Her voice was raw. It cut through the cold morning air.

One of the guards reached out and shoved her back.

She hit the ground. Her knees struck the stone.

She got up. Grabbed the bars again.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor.

Vivian appeared at the top of the staircase, leaning around the corner.

She looked at me. Winked.

She lifted a cashmere coat from the rack and draped it over her shoulders.

Came down the stairs.

I followed.

I pushed open the front door and stepped outside.

The morning fog met my face. Damp and cold.

Vivian stood inside the iron gate.

Ella stood outside it.

One of the guards unlocked it.

"Leo is dead," Vivian said.

Ella lunged through the gate.

She grabbed Vivian by the collar with both hands.

"What did you just say?" Ella's voice tore out of her.

Vivian's shoulders began to shake.

She dropped her head.

"He jumped into the river. We couldn't stop him. The current was too strong." Her voice broke on the words.

But when she raised her head, her lashes were dry.

Not a single tear.

I stepped down the last three stairs.

Reached out and took hold of Vivian's arm.

Pulled her free from Ella's grip.

"Enough." I looked at Ella.

Ella looked at me.

"She's lying. Leo is in the hospital. He made it through surgery."

"He's dead," I said.

Ella's body went still.

Her eyes held nothing. Only a burned-out, hollow white.

She let go of my sleeve.

She turned away. Closed her right hand into a fist. The muscles in her arm pulled taut.

She swung from the hip.

The punch cut through the air.

It landed on the left corner of my mouth.

Bone against bone.

My head snapped to the right. The muscles in my neck stretched to their limit.

The inside of my cheek slammed against my teeth.

Skin split. Something warm and metallic flooded my mouth instantly.

I took half a step back. Steadied myself.

Blood. Heavy and sharp on my tongue.

"If anything has happened to my son, I will make you both pay for it!"

She screamed it.

Then she turned and ran toward the street. Her steps were unsteady, lurching. She didn't look back.

I stood where I was. The morning wind moved across the lawn.

I watched her disappear around the bend at the end of the street.

Vivian picked herself up from the grass.

She brushed the blades off her skirt. Straightened her hair.

She came to stand beside me, looking in the direction Ella had gone.

"How long do you think she'll kneel by the river?" She tilted her head, smiling. "A day? Two? Until she starves?"

"She thinks she's some great, devoted mother. She's just a joke."

I didn't answer. I turned and walked toward the gate.

"Justin." She called after me.

I didn't slow down. I walked into the front hall.

I closed the door. Shut her voice out.

I raised my right hand. Pressed my thumb to the corner of my mouth.

A sharp sting.

I looked at the blood on my finger.

---

Many years ago. A winter night.

I'd come from a business dinner. Got into an altercation in a parking garage.

I came back to the apartment with a cut at the corner of my mouth.

Ella was in a white sweater. She heard the door and came running.

She saw the mark on my face. She didn't ask how.

She turned and ran to the storage closet. Pulled out a white first aid kit.

Took out a bottle of iodine. A pack of cotton swabs.

She took my hand and led me to the living room. Sat me down on the grey sofa.

She stood in front of me. Leaned in.

She dipped a swab into the iodine.

Her fingers touched my cheek. Her fingertips were soft. Her touch impossibly light.

She looked at the cut. Asked me if it hurt.

Her eyes were full of worry.

Now.

She had hit me.