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By the time I left and moved to Seattle, he had nothing. Nothing but an empty shack and an endless bottle of vodka that served as his only companion when he walked off the edge of a pier and into the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean.
Heat threatens to take over, licking at the edges of my control with a seductive whisper. So tempting to track Gavriil Drakos down, grab him by his tailored collar and vent my fury on him.
But that would accomplish nothing. I’d feel better in the moment, sure. I’d also ruin any chances I have of figuring out if Gavriil knows about Grey House, if he has plans for it or if he might be open to righting his father’s wrongs. Not just for my father and myself, but for the woman who had become my second mother. To give her more than a tiny cottage to live out the rest of her life in. A cottage that, when she experiences one of her multiple sclerosis relapses, is impossible for her to navigate in her wheelchair.
Grief rubs against the anger, raw and bleak. The wordstepmotherused to conjure images of the villainess in Cinderella, with her crazy hair and evil cat. But then my father met Dessie three years after my mom passed and I realized that while I would always love my mother, it was possible to love someone else, too. Dessie hadn’t pushed her way into my life or ignored me in those early months of her relationship with my dad. She slipped in as much as I would let her, reassuring me when I would feel angry or guilty, stepping back when I needed space.
It’s funny how much the little things matter. I walked out one day, late for school, to find a strudel warmed up and waiting for me with my raincoat laid out. It probably took her all of five minutes. But as she looked up and smiled at me from the living room, coffee cup in one hand and our cat Jinx purring on her lap, I realized how well she fit into our lives.
A woman like her deserved the best. Not a man who wasted away after making a colossal mistake. They never married, but she was there, a piece of our lives until my father’s desperation and pride drove her out of his life. But not mine. Like clockwork, every other weekend she drove from Seattle to Rêve Beach to see me. When my father could barely take care of himself, let alone his teenage daughter, she stepped in and took me away.
She deserved to have a home of her own. Not the loss of her job that sent her back to Rêve Beach to live with me three years ago. Not a disease that randomly yanks her out of her life for an unknown length of time and, for now, has her living in an assisted-living facility I can barely pay for.
I inhale deeply through my nose, purse my lips, and slowly breathe out. There’s far too much at stake for me to give into my emotions. I have to play this carefully. There’s nothing illegal about what Lucifer did. He bought the property. He just happened to do it at a fraction of its estimated value, preying on my father’s gullibility and desperation as his own business dwindled. It was hideous, horrific.
But not illegal.
Until five years ago when I uncovered something criminal. Not with my father. But someone else. Another victim. One subjected to coercion, force, payouts. I hadn’t hesitated then to put together the story that, when it was published a year later, made my career and unveiled Lucifer to the world as the monster he truly was.
A murmur rises as a group of people walk out of a doorway and mount the stage. The first is Rafael Drakos, tall, cold, face sharp like it’s been hewn from a glacier. Seeing him—with the same distinct features and icy arrogance as his father—catapults me back to the last time I spoke to Lucifer in person. I’d paid him a visit after he’d stepped back from his role as CEO of Drakos Development amid the fallout. I’d slid my father’s picture across the table, knew the moment Lucifer recognized the man he’d conned.
The ice in my spine spreads, fills my veins as I remember the way Lucifer looked at me, eyes dark and lips twisted into a cruel smirk as he offered to sell it back to me at market value. Six times what he had bought it for all those years ago.
Before I’d been able to utter a retort, he’d smiled. “It would be a shame, wouldn’t it, to fight me on this? Who knows what might be revealed?”
My father’s drinking. His gambling. Grey House meant the world to me. But not enough to sacrifice my father’s already tortured memory. To go to court and risk thousands of dollars. I may have won the battle against Lucifer and taken away something he valued. But the war between us was far from over.
Today, though, I have another chance. Unlike five years ago, there’s far more at stake. This phase of Dessie’s multiple sclerosis has lasted for over a month now. The longest we’ve ever experienced. We’re both wondering the same thing, not wanting to say it out loud. Has the disease progressed? Will she ever have another period of remission again where she can walk without assistance? Live on her own?
Dread builds in my chest as Rafael takes a seat to the side of the podium. I need Grey House. Not, as I once dreamed, to live in, but to sell, to make the kind of money I need for Dessie and me to survive. The thought of it breaks my heart. But I’m out of options. I make decent money as a reporter, but not enough to pay for the care Dessie will need if this is permanent.
As much as I don’t care for Rafael and his brooding, superior attitude, he’s not my target today.
My gaze shifts to the man moving behind the gleaming podium. Awareness flickers low in my stomach. Broad-shouldered, with mahogany hair and a confident smile he aims like a weapon out over the crowd. Thick head of hair combed back from his face? Check. Square jaw? Check. Chiseled cheekbones I secretly envy? Check. It’s not fair for a man like him to be as handsome as he is.
We’ve interacted over the years, mostly at press conferences. Unlike his father, he’s never shied away from my questions or threatened to have me thrown out. As head of the North American division of Drakos Development, he’s the most likely holder of Grey House.
The question is, how far does the apple fall from the tree when it comes to Gavriil Drakos? Does he have plans for Grey House? Does he even know it’s in his family’s roster of holdings? From what I’ve observed, he’s obsessive about details and can quote company facts for days on end. But will a Victorian house on the remote Olympic Peninsula have attracted his attention?
I need to find out if he knows and, if he does, what his plans are so I know what angle to approach him from. Will he do the right thing and pay up the difference of what Grey House was actually worth? Sign it back over to me? Or will I have to go public and unveil a scandal he can’t afford as he seeks to show the world he’s not like his father?
Our eyes meet. His grin widens, a dare that pisses me off even as it sends an illicit thrill through my veins. I squelch it. I will not be distracted. I will do whatever I have to do to get Grey House back. To provide for Dessie.
I smile back at him. Knocking Gavriil Drakos and his enormous ego down a peg or two is just a bonus.
Gavriil
She stands on the fringes of the ballroom amongst a sea of people, eyes fixed on me with a confident smirk on her lips. Reluctant admiration warms my chest as I arch a brow at her.
Game on, Grey.
I flew from New York to Malibu right after my meeting with Alessandra. Stepping off the plane and into the embrace of the California sunshine did nothing to ease the tension that had slithered under my skin and lay coiled like a snake about to strike ever since learning about Lucifer’s ultimatum.
Tension exacerbated by learning that Juliette Grey, the reporter who is the only person in known history to bring my father to his knees, would be in attendance at today’s press conference.
I have nothing to hide. But that doesn’t mean she hasn’t discovered something illicit, something Lucifer did before his death that could bring Drakos Development to the edge once more. I can’t think of a single article she’s published in the years since her bombshell exposé that didn’t include a reference to Drakos Development. Her obsession is the last thing I need to worry about right now, especially when my first priority needs to be finding a wife who will stick with me for a year and satisfy that damned clause.
Unlike the rest of the crowd milling about the ballroom, dressed mostly in name-brand labels and upscale clothing, Juliette is wearing a white T-shirt underneath a cheap-looking gray blazer and simple black pants, with her dark hair pulled up into a ponytail. I rake her casual clothing with my gaze and raise a brow. She returns the gesture and gives me a thumbs-up.