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Stella stood frozen in place, shock turning to apprehension as Oliver finally took notice of her.
For a long moment, he stared down at her. Then he snorted in dismissal and walked away.
“Perhaps I could show you to your suite, ma’am?” Chester offered. “I believe the stylist is arriving soon. I’ll have her sent up once you’ve had a chance to settle in.”
“Thank you. Um…unless Atlas needs my assistance with his sister?”
“One of our maids is with her. Please.” He guided her to the stairs.
As they reached the top, they found Atlas supporting Carmel as he walked her toward them along the gallery. She wore crumpled silk pajamas; her hair was lank, her skin sallow.
In a slurred voice, she complained, “I had a year. You ruined it. I hate you so much.”
“I know,” he said grimly. “You can tell the counselor all about my many offenses, but let’s get you there.”
“This is her?” She picked up her lolling head as they came even with Stella. “Daddy said you’re not even pregnant. You must have done something really vile, in bed or out—”
“No, Carmel,” Atlas said dangerously. “You hateme. Never go after Stella or I really will make your life miserable. I’ll be back in time for the party,” he told Stella before he walked his sister down the stairs.
The party would go on?
She blinked in surprise, but followed Chester as he showed her to an apartment-like suite where he left her with a maid and a promise that tea was on its way. The maid was unpacking her things into the bedroom closet and looked horrified when Stella offered to do it herself.
Stella paced back to the sitting room, trying to get her bearings in the place Atlas had spent his adolescence and young adult years. His personality wasn’t stamped here much. The decor was masculine with a sturdy desk and heavy armchairs in the study, a long sofa and big-screen television in the sitting room, and a wide king-size bed in the bedroom. A selection of his clothes were in the closet and there was a shaver on the charger in the bathroom, but those things could have belonged to any man.
Above the bed was a beautiful triptych of an island she presumed was Atlas’s birthplace, given the white buildings against a blue sky surrounded by turquoise waters. On the night table stood a framed snapshot of a young Atlas—perhaps five or six, judging by his missing teeth. He was hugging the waist of a pretty woman who had her hand on his shoulder. Her other arm was around a smiling heavyset man beside her. They stood on the stoop of what must have been the family’s taverna.
Was this all he had of them? she wondered.
Love shone out of their faces in blunt contrast to the scene that had taken place when they’d arrived. How often had he had to take Carmel to a clinic? Many times, she suspected, considering the resigned tone he’d used when he’d said she could tell the therapist about his many shortcomings.
She heard the door to the sitting room and came back, hoping to see Atlas had returned, but braced for Oliver. She wouldn’t be surprised if his father had decided to barge in and verbally attack her, blaming her for his daughter’s condition.
It was another maid, rolling in a tray with a tea service and a tiered stand filled with crustless sandwiches, scones, jam, tartlets and cakes. She asked if she could set it up on the table by the window overlooking the rose garden.
“Please.” Stella noted the staff seemed subdued, but not nearly as affected by Carmel’s condition as Stella was. They’d obviously been through this before.
She thanked the young woman, then sat, not really hungry, but it would be a long evening. She used the time to browse her phone. She didn’t know much about addiction beyond learning how to respond to overdose in first aid and reading HR policies on drug use, so she read up on recovery and support while she ate.
The stylist came in shortly after she finished and Stella was tied up with her for the next few hours. Her nails had been done yesterday, but it still took ages to have her makeup applied and her hair curled, combed out, then pinned back from her face to fall in ripples down her back.
Her gown had been a difficult choice, finding the balance between her debut as Atlas’s wife and trying not to upstage whatever his sister might wear, for fear of getting off on the wrong foot. She’d chosen a beaded one-shoulder gown in mauve that clung to her figure and split over her left thigh, revealing her cute peep-toe shoes with their double ankle straps.
She was fully dressed, necklace and earrings on, mouth dry as she contemplated whether she would have to go downstairs alone when Atlas strode in.
“You’re ready. Good. Guests are arriving.” He scraped his hand against his five-o’clock shadow. “Give me a minute to shave and change.” He began peeling off his shirt as he walked through the bedroom toward the bathroom.
“Is Carmel all right?” she asked, trailing him.
“No. But I’ve seen worse. They’re giving her fluids and will keep her while she dries out. I’ll check on her tomorrow before we go back to London.” He clicked on his shaver and began running it over his face.
She hovered, feeling useless until he turned off the shaver and walked around her toward the closet.
“It’s good they had a bed available,” she said, trying to find a bright side.
“We founded the place. She’s got her own room with her name on the door.” He dropped his trousers and kicked them away. “That is a very dark, tasteless joke. I shouldn’t have said it.” He pulled on his tuxedo pants and left them open while he shrugged on his shirt.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she invited.