Page 34 of Where Angels Fall

There is a pause. “Always does.”

Something about it makes my skin prickle. The words are harmless enough, but my chest tightens anyway.

Footsteps sound, but the door opens before I can step away. I gasp softly, caught mid-breath.

The man who steps out is definitely someone that I don’t recognise; tall, broad shoulders, wrapped in an immaculate grey suit that fits him all too well. His presence fills the hallway as he closes the office door behind him, his eyes lingering on me. Sun-kissed skin contrasts sharply against his suit; dark hair shaved close to his scalp.

He is shockingly handsome, in a harsh way. Sharply cut features, his short dark hair that exposes a strong jaw covered in closely shaved stubble. His lips are pillowy, like those of a woman’s, yet it suits him.

His brown eyes sweep over me in a single, unhurried glance, far too assessing for a stranger. His smile is easy and charming, yet it never reaches those intense, dark eyes.

“Well,” he says lightly, extending a hand as if we’re meeting at the office, instead of outside my father’s private office. “You must be Maddison.”

Plastering my smile back on my face and swallowing down the shame of being caught listening to their meeting, I reach my hand out to his.

His grip is firm, his hand warm and solid as it envelopes mine. He doesn’t rush to let go, and I’m suddenly aware of how small my hand feels in his. It’s ridiculous, but my pulse stutters anyway.

“Yes,” I manage. “Maddison Dally.”

“Zeke.” His gaze flicks briefly toward the office behind him, then back to me. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

I want to scoff, because my father wouldn’t have mentioned me unless it was to do with business, but I don’t. “I’m sure,” I say, forcing my voice to fill with politeness.

My eyes dart down, and I see the shadow of a tattoo peeking out of the arm of his jacket, and my brows draw together. Noone who does business with my father has tattoos like… him.

He releases my hand slowly, deliberately, before stepping past me. As he goes, he dips his head just enough to feel a little too intimate. Like we’ve already met in some other context I can’t remember.

“Lovely to finally put a face to the name,” he adds.

Then he’s gone, footsteps fading down the hall.

I stand there longer than I should, my heart thudding, skin buzzing like I’ve brushed against something live, turning my head to watch the stranger, Zeke, saunter out of the house like he owns it. I jump as my father steps out of the office, forcing my attention off the man whose presence feels too big for the space.

“You’re here,” he states, giving me a once-over before stepping past me on his way to the dining room.

My fingernails dig into my palms as I follow him, the momentary ease I felt earlier slipping away every second I spend here. Muscles slowly growing more and more tense as I hold myself upright.

Mother sits at the dining room table already, looking off into the distance with a blank look on her face. An empty wine glass sits next to her, stained with her lipstick, a bottle sitting next to it, ready for her next glass. Never mind that it’s still morning, always seeking an escape, even if it’s just mentally.

She barely reacts when we enter, only lifting her eyes long enough to acknowledge our presence before they drift back to nowhere in particular. She looks beautiful, the way she always does, perfectly styled hair, soft makeup, expensive silk draped over a body that seems permanently tired.

Weirdly, she looks the same as she did when I was ten. And twelve. And fifteen.

“Darling,” she murmurs, reaching to fill up her glass. “You’re late. I have an evening with the girls that I must get ready for soon.”

“I apologise, Mother,” I say, sliding into my seat. My voice sounds smaller here, like it always does.

She hums and takes a sip. My father sits at the head of the table, unfolding his napkin, just as one of his staff appears silently to pour water before retreating like a ghost.

No one asks how I am. Not that I’d be able to answer honestly, after the twenty-four hours I’ve had. Hell, after the week I’ve had.

The cutlery clinks. The room fills with the sound of plates being set down. Everything is immaculate, in a way that is all too familiar. I stare down at my plate as familiar tension coils in my stomach.

As a child, I used to sit right here in this seat. Imagining what it’d be like to eat a greasy pizza with my hands, or a burger that dripped sauce and cheese. With noise around me, laughter, conversation, or even yelling. At that age, I wasn’t picky; all I wanted was a sign of life. People laughing with their mouths full and talking over one another. A joke. A fight. Anything.

Once, I remember, I asked my mother about it, tugging on her sleeve while she lay on the chaise in the sunroom, half asleep with a drink sweating beside her.

Take me with you on your next holiday! Can I please go to school and make some friends? Can you tell Father I don’t want to meet his new executive partner?