Page 132 of Lawless Rivals

He’s sent me exactly where he wants me: toward a designer dress, toward the mirror where I am supposed to paint on the version of myself he requires.

Since I came home, the staff have arranged every room for an audience, flowers replaced before they wilt, silver set out at breakfast, the way it always was.

Everything is polished and ready for guests. There’s nothing here that isn’t staged.

And now it feels fake.

Two of his men stand near the stairs. Neither of them looks at me as I pass.

I’ve spent years in this house surrounded by staff, guards, family, drivers, maids, men with guns under tailored jackets, and all of it arranged for wealth and protection.

Years of living in this house have created the illusion of a life I should want. Now loneliness creeps over me, and all I want to do is leave again.

My hand hovers above the banister as I climb. The chandelier sparkles light over the treads, and by the time I reach the upper landing, my mind has dragged me back to the cabin with Saint.

His voice in the shadows.

The smile he’d let break when he tried hard not to let it show.

That careful space he tried to put between us when we both wanted to crash into it.

I press a hand to my stomach and force myself to keep walking as the memories make my heart pump faster.

Whatever this ache is, it’s chosen somewhere deep to live.

My room is at the far end of the corridor, on the east side of my family home. I hurry inside, kick the door shut, lock it, then stand in the middle of a room I’ve already outgrown.

A dark green dress hangs from the wardrobe door, chosen by a maid who knows the color suits me and has worked here long enough not to ask whether I want to wear it.

Thin straps. Gold zip. Expensive material designed to tell our dinner guests that money is no object.

I strip off my clothes, pull on a silk robe, and cinch the waist tight.

At the dressing table, I open my make-up bag and line the products along the edge of the wood. Concealer. Powder. Mascara. Lipstick. All the small weapons the world hands women when it wants them presentable.

Before I pick up the concealer, I stare at my bare face in the mirror.

The whole time I was with Saint, I never covered my skin with foundation or darkened my lashes for his approval.

There was only my face, washed clean, and his gaze flicking away whenever I caught him staring.

As I pick up the concealer, dot it beneath one eye, and blend it in with my finger, the lock turns, and the door swings open.

Fionn steps in, already dressed for dinner in a close-cut black suit, white shirt open at the throat, tie hanging loose from one hand instead of around his neck.

“You picked the lock,” I say, shaking my head.

“I used a key.”

“That’s worse.”

My brother closes the door behind him and pockets the tiny key without apology. “You weren’t answering.”

“That’s because you didn’t knock, dumbass.”

He shrugs. “I knocked.”

“You imagined it and decided that was the same thing.”