Page 15 of What You left in Me

Her nod is too quick and desperate. She angles her gaze anywhere but my face before hurrying off like she’s afraid even her footsteps might offend me.

I don’t blame her. I know what people see when they look at me. Fierce edges and zero softness.A man carved out of steel and silence, with nothing left to offer but the warning that you aren’t supposed to get too close.

My phone has been buzzing nonstop all morning. I take the stairs two at a time, already thinking about the inbox waiting for me, when I hear Eleanor’s voice slicing through from down the hall. Involuntarily, it slows me down. The door to her study is open. And Ariane’s standing inside.

She’s by the window, pale yellow sundress catching the late morning light like it was made for her. The fabric clings to her body in ways I wouldn’t even dare imagine, cinching in at her waist before flaring out to spill over her full hips. It clings to her bronzed skin, kissed by summer. Her arms are folded across her midsection, drawing attention to the soft swell of her breasts beneath the neckline, a hint of cleavage shadowed by the angleof the sun. Her hair, chestnut brown with strands that glint like copper when they catch the light, falls in loose waves down her back, almost brushing her shoulder blades. A few wisps frame her face, stubborn and wild, the kind you want to tuck behind her ear just to see what expression she’d make when you did it.

Her legs are long and toned, calves flexing just slightly where she keeps shifting her stance against Eleanor’s voice, her weight shifting from her heels to the balls of her feet and back.

The light from the window paints her skin gold, tracing the soft muscles of her thighs, the curve of her knee, the delicate arch of her ankle. She’s barefoot, toes pointed against the carpet, and for some reason that hits harder than the rest, like she belongs here in a way I don’t, like she’s the living proof this place can still be soft if it wants to be.

Eleanor is fussing in the mirror, pearl necklace clutched between her fingers, her words tumbling fast and hard. “We’ll have the photographer capture you with the Senator’s wife. Graceful and modest.”

Ariane stays quiet. She just stares out the window like she’s trying to find a reason to live on the other side of the glass.

I step forward before I can stop myself, my voice cutting through the tension. “You’re treating her into a mannequin.”

Eleanor freezes in the mirror, her eyes shifting to me with that cold-blue stare. “Good morning to you, too.”

Ariane turns at the sound, and the shift feels seismic. Her eyes, hazel-green, distinct even in silence, lock onto mine, and for a breath it’s just the two of us—no pearls, no study, no script.

Then my gaze drops before I can stop it, straight to her left hand.

Julian’s ring gleams there, smug as hell, catching the light with every subtle move of her fingers.

My stomach knots, ugly and hard.

If she notices the focus of my attention, her face gives nothing away. She’s more impenetrable than I would’ve given her credit for. Unfortunately, that makes her more irresistible instead of less.

“We’re building a narrative, Finn,” Eleanor snaps, the biting sound of her voice slicing the moment apart. “Something your father understands. We’ve built this empire together, and appearances matter, as much as all of us would like for them not to. That’s the society we exist in. We need to keep up.”

Keep up.

Well, that’s a fucking understatement.

Eleanor isn’t wrong. Dad’s empire is twice the size because she put a knife to its throat and dragged it into the modern age. That doesn’t make me like it. Orher,when it comes to making us all participate in these performative fucking parades.

“He understands how to love a stage prop. Just not his son,” I agree coldly. My gaze still remains on Ariane.

The room clamps down tight. Eleanor’s hands falter, her throat bobbing like she’s swallowed glass. Ariane’s lips part, just barely, like she’s about to speak, but nothing comes. She closes them again, swallowing whatever truth she might’ve let slip.

The hush is brutal. A chokehold. Full of things none of us will ever fucking say.

Eleanor clears her throat, smoothing her dress like she can iron the moment out of existence. “Would you like to be in the pictures with Ariane, Finn?”

I bark out a laugh, low and almost shrewd, more weapon than humor. “Yeah, that’s a great idea. Nothing screams‘wholesome family values’ like putting me in a spread. Might even scare the donors into writing bigger checks. Or send them running for the fucking hills.”

She bites her lip and doesn’t say anything more. It doesn’t feel like a victory. Ariane has fully turned away from me, now.

I shove away from the doorframe, shaking my head, and stride back down the hall. By the time I enter my room, I’m already whipping my sweat-damp shirt, as if it’s going to be that easy to sweep the entire morning away.

With a swipe of my fingers across the trackpad, my computer comes alive on the desk. Before I’ve even logged in, my phone is buzzing again: emails stacked on top of emails, Eric hammering me with updates, demands, reminders. It’s the usual shitstorm that comes with running Capital City Corp. I ignored it all morning, but there’s only so long you can outrun a flood before it drags you under.

I crack my neck, slide into the chair, and start typing. Contracts, quarterly projections, investor calls to reschedule. Some asshole in Toronto to deal with, who thinks he can bluff his way through a merger. We’ll crush him before the weekend’s out. A potential acquisition in Berlin is bleeding money, and I’ve got three proposals on how to gut it clean.

Hours slip by like they always do when I bury myself in the grind.

That’s the one good thing about owning a software company, everything lives online.