Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
“No.” Monty winces, his guilt deepening. “The mistakes were mine, and I’ve paid dearly for them.” He stares at his busted knuckles, the malice in his voice softening into regret. “I won’t let Frankie suffer for my failures any longer. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her, to make things right.”
“There’s a crack in the arched window that faces the guest house.” I gesture in the general direction.
His eyes lock onto mine. Then he blinks. “I’ll let Greyson know.”
“The landscaper?”
“He’s also the handyman.”
“Does he wear a suit and gold pocket watch, too?”
“No.”
“So the window…Is it attic space?”
“Yes.”
“I want to see it.”
“It’s a mess up there. Just a bunch of old furniture and—”
“Then you won’t mind me poking around.”
“Of course.” His eye contact holds steady, his anger and hatred of me just beneath the surface. “It’s important that we keep certain conversations between ourselves. The guards, Oliver, Greyson, Aurora—there are too many ears, always listening. Be mindful of what you say in front of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one knows our full story. Only the four of us and Melanie Stokes have the details.”
“Do you trust the lawyer with this information?”
“I don’t trust anyone. Melanie was hired by Frankie.”
“Hang on. So Oliver doesn’t know anything? Does he know you’re Rurik’s son?”
“He didn’t learn I’m a Strakh until he saw it in the news. He didn’t even know Rurik had a second son.”
“Or a third son.” I grimace at the reminder of how Kody was conceived. “Does he know Kody’s your brother?”
“I told him yesterday when I informed him you would be staying here.”
“How long has Oliver worked for you?”
“Twenty-five years.”
“And you didn’t trust him enough to tell him your real identity?”
“I don’t trust anyone,” he snaps, short-tempered. “I kept him on my payroll because I wanted him close and…”
“He makes the best Eggs Benedict.”
“Yes.”
“But he knows everything now?”
He shifts his eyes back to the door, his voice low. “He only knows what I’m feeding to the press. While I was in Whittier, news of Frankie’s disappearance and my brother’s possible connection to it exploded in the media. Oliver didn’t know about Denver’s existence until he saw it on TV. No one did. When the story hit, I controlled the narrative as much as possible. I’m still controlling it.”
“What’s the narrative?” My mind spins.
The door opens, and Oliver emerges, balancing trays in both hands.
The aroma hits me first—a rich blend of coffee and the savory scent of meat, lemon, and eggs.
“Eggs Benedict.” He sets the trays down before us, revealing two perfectly plated servings.
Poached eggs rest atop slices of Canadian bacon and English muffins, all generously covered in a glossy, golden sauce. On the side, there’s a mound of crispy hash browns and a steaming cup of dark, fragrant coffee.
The sight mesmerizes me, each element artfully arranged. The smell is even better, a mouthwatering smack of butter, eggs, and tangy vinegar from the yellow sauce.
I dig in without hesitation, and the flavors burst in my mouth. “Holy fuck.”
The creamy richness of the yellow stuff blends perfectly with the runny egg yolk. The smoky saltiness of the Canadian bacon, the crunch of the toasted English muffin…
“Christ.” I chew greedily, savoring each mouthful, my taste buds reveling in the experience. “This is fucking amazing.”
I glance up to see Oliver watching me with a pleased expression, his grin softening his stern features.
As he turns to pour Monty’s coffee, the smile vanishes, replaced by cold, simmering anger.
He drips coffee over Monty’s eggs with deliberate rudeness, his lips pressed into a thin line. The silent fury in his eyes chills the damn air.
When he steps back, his expression returns to that of a stoic servant. He gives me a final nod before leaving, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
As I look at Monty, who remains sullen and unresponsive, I realize why he tolerates the old man’s blatant insubordination.
Guilt.
He didn’t trust Oliver or Frankie with his identity. If he’d told Oliver who he was, he might’ve had a much-needed friend for the past few months rather than sharing this massive estate with an employee who resents him.
Then again, I’m a stranger in a strange land. Maybe Monty’s distrust in everyone is what’s kept him alive.
Still, I can’t help but point out the obvious. “That man is harboring some deep-seated animosity toward you. Might want to check your eggs for rat poison.”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
“What about the animosity you’re harboring toward me? Should I check my food for poison?”
“Yes.”
A swallow of eggs sticks in my throat.
“I want you dead.” He pitches forward, his breath a surging tide of wrath. “I want to fucking bury you.”
There it is. The venom that’s been boiling beneath every glance, every word since I sat down. He’s about to pop a blood vessel.
“Why?” I smile, provoking him.
“Why?” His eyes go wild, and he slams his injured fist onto the table, unleashing his rage with a roar. “You’re fucking my wife!”