Page 13

"You said that you needed fresh air." He studies me with new eyes now.

I avert my gaze. Heat blooms over my cheeks and neck, the fire burning so hot that it stings my eyes.

"Are you going to fire me?" I ask.

"Why would I do that?" he replies.

I glance up at him. Hope inflates inside my ribcage, transient but life-giving.

"It's not like you chose to have a stalker," he says. "All that matters now is what we will do about it. I'm going to start by amplifying security. The kids don't normally go anywhere without bodyguards, but I'll add more guards as a precaution."

I take a deep breath.

This is a new feeling. I'm not used to having someone looking out for me and making decisions for my safety. It makes me feel protected. Cherished .

"You really need to stop looking at me like that, Emma," he says.

I suck in a breath.

"You're just...not who I expected you to be," I say.

"I'm less of an asshole than you predicted?" he asks.

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that," I say, smiling despite everything.

His eyes dip to my lips. He's staring at me like he's witnessing a sunrise for the first time. His intensity feeds mine.

We're playing dangerous games.

An electric energy ripples from his body, striking me everywhere. My entire body feels like it's made of guitar strings that have been plucked incessantly. Every cell inside me vibrates just for him.

"I'm not a nice guy, Emma," he says. "I'm not a gentleman. So I really mean it when I say that you need to stop giving me those fuck-me eyes."

Heat rushes to my cheeks.

"You're very honest," I say.

"So I've been told."

"I imagine that many are put off by your honesty."

"Are you?" he asks. I don't know if I imagine it, but he's closer to me than he was a moment ago. Our bodies are drawn to each other like heavenly bodies that can't help but orbit around each other.

"I find it refreshing," I say. "I like that you say whatever's on your mind without holding anything back."

I remember the words he said to me last night. “ If you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from me, little girl.”

"Can I look at the email?" he asks.

I come crashing back to reality.

I open the email app and hand my phone over to him. His jaw hardens as he stares at the email.

"Are there more?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. I know each of them by heart.

"You didn't delete any?"

I shake my head.

"Good girl," he says.

Warmth pools between my thighs. I'm feeling things for this man that I barely understand.

He pockets my phone.

"Are you taking my phone away?" I ask.

"I'll issue a new one to you in a few hours," he says. "I'll have all of your contacts and apps synced, but I want you to stop using your old email and social media. And if you ever receive anything even mildly threatening, I want you to inform me immediately."

"Okay," I say.

"You'll be assigned a bodyguard who'll be with you at all times," he says. "If you ever get the feeling of being watched or followed, I need you to contact me right away."

There's a lump in my throat.

"Thank you," I say.

He nods. I can tell he wants to say more, but he doesn't say anything.

"I care about the kids," he says finally. "I wouldn't ever do anything to hurt them."

"I know," I say. "And I didn't mean to insinuate anything earlier."

He nods and studies my face. "Are there any other secrets you're keeping from me, Miss Turner?"

I think about the other night when we bumped into each other at Elysium.

It takes everything in me not to avert my gaze. If I did, he'd instantly know that I was hiding something. I could lie, but something tells me he would see right through me.

"If I told you another secret, will you tell me one of yours?" I ask, looking up at him through my lashes.

His face is only inches apart right now. I'm intoxicated by his proximity, but it's not enough. I want more.

And I can tell by the way he's looking at me that he's thinking the same thing.

Someone clears their throat, breaking the spell between us.

Helena stands a few feet away. I don't know how long she's been there. I didn't even hear her approach.

"The kids will be late for school," she says.

He walks toward Helena.

"Are they done with breakfast?" he asks.

"Yes, they're ready to go," Helena replies.

Mr. Sinclair turns his head toward me. The morning sun falls on the scar on his face, making it look like a river of molten gold.

"You don't have to come along," he says. "You haven't had a chance to eat anything."

My heartbeat is erratic once again.

"That's okay, I'll eat later," I say.

He looks displeased by my answer but nods. I get the children and walk toward the Rolls Royce that's waiting for us outside. Mr. Sinclair sits next to the driver, and I sit with the kids in the back.

As we pull out of the driveway, James sniffles.

Mr. Sinclair sighs. "Not this again."

"James, what's wrong?" I ask, gently holding his small shoulder. He's slumped in the seat, his chin tucked into his chest. Fat tears roll down his cheeks.

"He has a meltdown every Monday morning about not wanting to go to school," Mr. Sinclair says.

"Why don't you want to go to school?" I ask James.

"I hate it there," James says in a small voice. "I want to stay home. With you."

"I'm not going anywhere," I say. "I'll be right here when you get back."

He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

I glance at Rosalie. She's staring out at the moving road. James is the one who's crying, but Rosalie is the one I'm more concerned about.

There's something melancholic in the girl's eyes.

I sometimes see the same melancholy when I look at myself in the mirror. I see soft traces of it on Mr. Sinclair's face. But Rosalie is too young to be weighed down by the reality of life.

"James, pull yourself together," Mr. Sinclair chastises. His words come out rough, but there's a hint of panic in his voice.

"Can I stay at home with you, Miss Turner?" James whispers, placing his small hand over mine.

"James, this isn't something that's up for discussion," Mr. Sinclair says.

James tries to stifle his cries, but the tears spill faster.

"Hey," I say, enveloping his hand in mine. "What do you want to do when you get back?"

"I don't know," he sniffles. "I just don't want to go to school."

There's a desperation in his voice that breaks my heart.

"Halloween is coming up," I say. "Do you want to get decorations for the house? We can also get some pumpkins and carve them."

"All shopping is handled by the staff," Mr. Sinclair interjects.

I keep my eyes on James, who's watching me with big, glassy eyes.

"We can't let the staff have all the fun now, can we?" I say, smiling at James.

He wipes his tears with the back of his hand and nods, telling me he agrees.

I'm aware of Mr. Sinclair watching us through the rearview mirror. I glance up at him. For a single moment, his armor is down. He's unguarded as he watches the joy sneak up on the kid's face.

"Ask your uncle for permission," I say to James.

"Uncle Klaus, can we please get Halloween decorations after school?" James asks sweetly.

Mr. Sinclair nods. "I guess we have to now. We'll go after school."

James throws his little hands into the air and cheers. Even Rosalie looks pleased with the evening plans.

Their joy is infectious. But when I glance back at Mr. Sinclair, I see his eyes flash. He's displeased.

James starts talking about everything he wants to do for Halloween. His sister rolls her eyes, but I notice her legs are swinging.

Before long, wereach the private school. The property spans several acres of vibrant, lush greenery. I notice that the other cars in the drop-off zone are also luxury vehicles.

I get out of the car to say goodbye to the kids.

They look at Mr. Sinclair, but he only nods at them and goes back to looking at his phone. I wave to the kids until they walk through the front doors.

"Get back in the car, Emma," Mr. Sinclair says. "I need to have a word with you."

I swallow and remind myself that he's not as cruel as he looks. When I get in the back seat, the driver steps out of the car to give us privacy.

"Do you care to explain yourself?" Mr. Sinclair asks.

"I'm sorry. I should have asked you before promising him anything," I say.

He blinks, taken aback by my apology.

The two of us have been on relatively good terms today, and I don't want to ruin that already.

"Yes, you should have run it by me," he says.

"Can I ask you a question?" I say.

"You and your questions." He tilts his head to study me.

"Does James always get uneasy in the car?" I ask.

He studies me for a moment before answering. "He doesn't enjoy going to school sometimes."

"Does he go anywhere for extracurriculars?" I ask.

"The tutors come to us," he says. "Why?"

"Do you take him anywhere on the weekends?" I ask. "To a friend's house, perhaps?"

"All playdates are located at home," he says. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Because I have a feeling that it's not the school that makes him anxious," I say. "It could be the car."

"The car?"

"His parents died in a car accident, right?" I say. "That might be why he gets so upset whenever he's in a car."

The second these words leave my mouth, I see his walls going back up. They form a barricade around him until I can't reach him anymore. He's completely distant again.

"I just think the kids could benefit from some therapy," I say. "The worst thing that could happen to a kid has happened to them. They lost their parents. I know what that's like, and I think having someone they can talk to about this kind of stuff would really benefit them."

"You're crossing the line again, Miss Turner," he says. "Do you really think that I haven't tried providing therapy for the kids?"

My cheeks flush with heat. "Um, no, I just noticed it wasn't listed on their schedule."

"That's because they refuse to speak with anyone about what happened," he says.

"Have you tried speaking to them?" I ask gently.

"Please just stick to doing your job," he snaps. "I'm not really asking for much here."

His sharp words cut me into ribbons. My cheeks are burning now.

"And if that's too hard for you, feel free to leave," he says. "The kids are fond of you, but you're still very replaceable."

My initial instinct is to say something harsh back. But I've caught a glimpse of the man he is on the inside. He's rude and arrogant, but he's also a little broken.

It wasn't just the kids who lost their mother. Klaus Sinclair lost his little sister, too.

"I'm sorry if I crossed the line," I say, lowering my gaze.

He opens the car door. Before he leaves, he turns his head toward me.

"Four p.m.," he says. "I'll pick you and the kids up from the mansion."

"Okay." I swallow.

He slams the door shut behind him. I watch as he walks toward another car parked ahead—a sleek black Lamborghini. This time, he gets into the driver's seat.

The sports car purrs to life as he pulls out of the driveway.

He's gone, but his presence lingers.

It stays with me as I go about my day. His words still echo in my ears. His cologne still fills the corners of my lungs. His hard stare remains burned in the back of my brain.

Deep in my bones, I already know.

I'll never be the same again.