Page 13 of Laced With Secrets
It would have to wait.
“Okay,” I whispered instead.
Relief flooded through our bond. “Text me if you need anything before then. Anything at all.”
“It’s just sorting through old clothes,” I said, my voice softer than I intended. “I’ll be fine.”
His jaw tightened, clearly not satisfied but willing to accept my boundaries. “Like I said, if you need anything.”
“You look exhausted,” Penny said the moment we were in the car, his voice low enough that Marcus wouldn’t hear. “How much longer are you going to punish him?”
“I’m not punishing him.” I kept my voice equally quiet. “I’m trying to figure out if I can live with what he did.”
“Mmm.” Penny’s scent carried sharp concern. “We both know how this is going to end, so why not put both of you out of your misery sooner rather than later?”
When I didn’t reply, he pressed. “I’m going to tell Dominic you’re not eating right.”
“I’m eating fine,” I protested.
“Pickles and ice cream don’t count as balanced nutrition.” He retorted. “And before you say it’s just pregnancy cravings, I can smell the stress on you again.”
He was right. “Three hundred people, Penny. Three hundred families who lost their income because Dominic and Blake decided it was acceptable collateral damage.”
“To stop a company that was enabling organized crime and threatening our entire community,” Penny countered. “I’m not saying it was right. But I’m saying maybe it’s not as black and white as you’re making it.”
“He’d planned to seduce me and get me to manipulate others to sell,” I said, my voice cracking as tears stung the corners of my eyes.
Pregnancy hormones sucked.
Penny’s features melted into something gentler, his eyes searching mine. “But he didn’t go through with it in the end.”
The car slowed as we approached the Fairfax estate, its Gothic architecture looming ahead.
“Can we just focus on the exhibition for now?” I asked tiredly.
Penny squeezed my hand. “Okay. But you can’t keep living in limbo forever. It’s not good for you or the baby.”
I knew he was right. But knowing and being able to act on it were two different things.
Penny’s fingers curled around his door handle, tugging it open. “Let’s go.”
The Fairfax mansion was always even more imposing up close, all Gothic architecture and old money. Sebastian greeted us at the door, his honey-blond hair catching the morning light. He wore expensive casual clothing that somehow looked both effortless and perfectly styled—designer jeans and a turquoise cashmere sweater.
“Bienvenue! Welcome!” His French accent was warm and enthusiastic. “Victor is already upstairs preparing the workspace. Please, come in.”
Sebastian led us up the sweeping staircase, gesturing to the ornate details. “The main storage areas are in the east wing attic,” he explained as we climbed. “Grand-mère Ophelia was a collector. She never threw anything away, which makes for fascinating historical research but somewhat challenging organization.”
“Richard’s mother, right?” I asked, slightly breathless from the stairs. Pregnancy fatigue was making itself known.
“Oui.” Sebastian glanced back with an apologetic smile. “She passed over twenty years ago, but her collections remain largely untouched. Too many memories, you understand.”
The attic was enormous when we reached it, stretching the length of the mansion’s east wing. Exposed beams created interesting shadows, and dormer windows let in dusty shafts of winter sunlight. Racks of clothing lined one wall, organized by decade with varying levels of precision. Trunks and boxes were stacked everywhere else, each labeled with dates and cryptic descriptions in faded ink.
“This is incredible,” Penny breathed, the fashionista in him immediately engaging as he moved toward the nearest rack. “Is that an authentic 1920s beaded flapper dress?”
“It is.” Victor’s voice cut through the dust-filled air, making Penny and me jump. “My grandmother wore it to several society events. It was her favorite. There are photographs in the family albums.”
Victor materialized from the shadows, his figure cutting through the murky beams of light like a character from a Gothic novel. Each step carried a deliberate grace as he approached. The anemic winter sunlight filtering through the begrimed windows caught his icy-blond hair, creating a weak halo effect. Not a single strand dared to rebel against its perfect arrangement. His clothing—tailored and clearly expensive—remained immaculate despite the attic’s ancient dust.