Page 14

CAROLINE

“Don’t leave.”

The barely audible words circulate slowly, gradually depleting the surrounding oxygen. His breathing slows, and the muscle tension relaxes as he slips into sleep. The weight of his head on my thigh increases, and I take him in, so unexpectedly vulnerable.

A torrent of conflicting emotions erupts.

Sadness. Grief. Guilt.

I shouldn’t let my personal history interfere with mission objectives. Yet here I am, my fingers still working through his hair like we’re back in Oxford, before I understood what it meant to marry into a powerful, enigmatic family.

Why should I feel guilty? He didn’t fight for our marriage. He did nothing to stop me. No, he wanted me to leave.

Back then, all I wanted was to hear those words… Don’t leave .

My head rests on the cushioned headboard, and his rests in my lap. My fingers fall from his temples. Asleep, he’s peaceful. The tiny lines around the corners of his eyes smooth, and his jaw and lips relax.

“Don’t go. Stay. Please.”

Words from so long ago come back to me, pulling me into a memory of the first time I spent the night. Back then, to me, Dorian Moore was a slightly nerdy American studying abroad. His elusive dimple, unruly wavy hair, and wrinkled appearance set my heart into a spin.

I had no idea older Americans had watched him grow up in the pages of People Magazine .

Perhaps I should have. But the celebrities I paid attention to attended premieres and rock concerts.

I had never opened an issue of Forbes or the Wall Street Journal , and even if I had, I wouldn’t have recognized his father or put two and two together with the name.

If he’d been involved in an Esquire -worthy scandal, perhaps I would’ve recognized him.

Or if his father or he had ever been in an HGTV episode or a season of The Bachelor or Undercover CEO .

That summer, to me, he was a grad student. Brilliant, obviously, as is required to attend Oxford. My semester abroad only required signing up and paying the fee, but he was registered in a PhD program.

My campus roommate told me the key to a carefree fling abroad was to never stay the night. Feelings hatch if you stay over, she said. And I’d been so freaking clueless. I thought I could carry on like a wild girl. See a handsome guy, party, and move on, heart intact.

Like so many others, our love story was mundane. We met in a pub. Our gazes caught across the bar, and it was as if a string instantly connected us. The perimeter dimmed, and he became everything.

He approached. We talked for hours. He invited me to a party at his place that weekend. I agreed. For days, we spoke on the phone. Casual and polite. Nothing wild or reckless. But I grinned constantly, and my roommate teased me.

The second I entered the privacy of his flat, we were on each other. Couldn’t get our clothes off fast enough. It was as if the moment we were out of the public eye, all restraints snapped. Fitting, in retrospect.

After we got around to eating, I gathered my things, put on my shoes, intent on the casual pretense. He didn’t ask. No, he told me to stay.

And I did not obey. I stayed strong. I left.

Until the second time.

I breathe out the memory. Release the self-contempt. I couldn’t have known what would happen or how he would gut me. In those early years, we felt like a modern fairy tale.

He rolls onto his side, his nose angling into my hip. I run my fingers through his soft strands, trimmed so short that the waves are gone. He releases a subtle groan that reverberates up my thighs and awakens a need that has no place in this moment.

What I need is to focus.

With luck, he’ll sleep for hours. The medicine he took should knock him out.

I ease his head up and slide out from under him.

He grunts, and I freeze, holding my breath, waiting.

He rolls further onto his side. I tiptoe, searching for a blanket.

In his walk-in closet, I find several folded neatly on the top shelf.

Glancing around the closet, it’s clear that an employee organized this space.

He’d never take the time. White oxford button-down shirts hang in a row before a series of colored shirts from light to dark.

Thin cashmere sweaters and thick wool sweaters are folded in color-coordinated stacks from light to dark.

I open a walnut drawer to find neatly folded T-shirts in white, shades of gray, and black.

Narrow drawers with custom inserts hold sunglasses and watches.

Rows of jeans hang with trousers. On the back wall hang suits and overcoats.

Slanted shelves with a bar on the end hold dress shoes, while dress boots can be seen behind glass horizontal doors.

I’m sure ties, belts, socks, and briefs are neatly stored in drawers or behind a hidden panel.

If I were to guess, he hired someone to design the closet and then hired someone else to fill it. Or his house manager did it all.

The freshly pressed clothes appear new. Tags dangle from several coats.

I’d bet a personal shopper ordered every single item in this closet, and tags remain on items he hasn’t yet worn, not to be returned, but should he decide he doesn’t want to wear them, or never wears them, it makes them more desirable when he donates them to charity.

Are his personal items in another home? His old sweatshirts, crew tees, his favorite navy sweater fraying along the edges…

Are they stored in the house he considers home?

No, what am I thinking? He probably tossed them all.

Sentimentality is absent from his DNA. With a faux fur blanket in my arms, I exit the closet and carefully place it over his feet and legs, draping it around his waist.

With one last glance, I exit the darkened room and silently tug the door closed. Then I speed walk to the guest room downstairs, mentally mapping potential camera angles and blind spots. My training screams at me to maintain a natural pace—just in case someone’s watching.

I gather my pocketbook with the listening devices inside.

NightHawk X7s, latest gen surveillance tech.

Better than anything we had at the agency.

The placement protocol must be remembered: minimum eighteen inches from any electronic devices, avoid metal surfaces, maintain line of sight to exterior walls where possible.

I casually stroll through the home, keeping my movement patterns consistent with someone exploring out of curiosity.

Years of analyzing surveillance footage taught me that irregular movement patterns are the first thing that triggers security AI.

I doubt he’d put security cameras inside his living quarters—he was always paranoid about his own privacy—but it’s conceivable some of the outside cameras cover the glass hallway connecting the home with the office section.

I catalog every potential sight line, each reflective surface that could hide a lens.

If he wakes, or anyone asks, I’ll say it was too early to fall asleep, and I wandered around, curious about Dorian’s life. He wouldn’t suspect me of stealing.

A memory flashes of a tear-stricken maid in a black-and-white uniform. Halston required his staff to wear uniforms so they could be easily recognized. Everyone in his orbit needed recognizable status. I strain to remember if he suspected the maid of stealing a watch or his eyeglasses.

His prescription eyeglasses. That’s what it was. Ludicrous. He verbally lashed out so loudly and violently that Dorian sprang into action, protecting the middle-aged woman. If Halston ever found his lost glasses, he never said. Halston Moore didn’t admit when he was wrong.

If anyone watched security footage, it would be Halston.

One might expect that a man with more money than god wouldn’t care about minor theft.

One would be wrong. Halston cares. It used to surprise me that he invested his money, as he’d be happier buying gold coins and filling rooms with them in a treasure motif.

If Halston saw me roaming the property, he’d assume I was looking for something of value to steal or assessing value for some nefarious purpose.

My years of analyzing security protocols tell me the real defense isn’t in the obvious cameras or guards—it’s in the layers of subtle surveillance I can sense but not quite see.

The well-maintained paths aren’t just aesthetic; they funnel visitors through predetermined routes, probably lined with motion sensors and thermal imaging.

The paths through the woods are suspiciously well-maintained. Instead of wilderness, the acreage between the Moore men’s dwellings is park-like—engineered sightlines, I realize now. Everything is designed to look natural while optimizing surveillance coverage.

What must it be like to believe every person you come across wants to steal your hard-earned wealth?

Years have passed. Perhaps Halston’s mellowed. I did, after all, wander through his compound without coming across any barriers.

If someone inquires about why I’m in Dorian’s home office, I’ll say I was curious about Dorian’s life. It’s the truth, but not the whole truth.

Glass windows with black iron grids line the connector between the main house and the attached office.

The floor looks like white pine laid in a herringbone pattern, but the subtle change in sound underfoot tells a different story.

I didn’t expect a tile floor, but given the snowy months, it’s practical, and Dorian has always been practical.

A black iron-framed glass door divides the hallway to the adjacent building—again, most likely a practical addition. The glass allows light to flow between the spaces, but I imagine the door increases energy efficiency.

Will the door be locked? And if it is, will that prove the suspicions about Dorian correct? Why else would a man living alone lock a section of his home?