Page 99

If he deactivated my code…

Whir!

The lock disengages and I try the handle, relief pouring through me as I push the door open.

Being here, walking through the entryway, running up the wide staircase to the second floor, hustling down the hall to my old bedroom has fear skittering down my spine, terror clawing through my middle.

I don’t like it.

This isn’t home—it never was.

But I push those thoughts away, move through the bedroom, and start searching.

First the drawer where my box had been stored in the closet, then the remainder of the space. Then my nightstand and Dylan’s. The bathroom. The linen cabinet. The spare bedrooms. The extra bathrooms. Downstairs—the kitchen and mudroom, laundry and pantry, half bath, the library, the family and living rooms, and then…finally…

Dylan’s office.

Panic claws up my throat?—

I forcefully shove it down and deliberately take a step forward. Then another. Then another. Until I’m searching the shelves, the file cabinet, and eventually…his desk.

One drawer.

Another.

Another.

Another.

And then?—

Buried beneath a stack of papers…

I see it.

I jerk my hand out and grab the silver-framed picture of my dad and me, and all the air in my lungs rushes out of me.

It’s perfect.

It’s beautiful.

It’s—

“Oh, you dumb, dumb bitch.”

Thirty-Three

Dash

I’m ten minutes later than I intended—fucking L.A. traffic—but I make my way backstage to meet up with the others. I spot Atlas and almost stumble because…he’s not wearing a suit.

He’s not wearing a suit?

I can’t help but stare in confusion.

Other than our occasional hockey games, where he shows up in sweats, or when we golf, Atlas always wears a suit. Tom Ford is his go-to, though he saves the Armani for special occasions. Even when we hang out at The Sapphire Room and the rest of us are in jeans, he wears a suit. He takes the jacket off and rolls up his sleeves after a few drinks but—I’m having a really hard time with this.

Not only is he not wearing a suit, he’s in jeans.