Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 30269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Then I take his most valuable piece.
His mouth forms an adorable frown.
I wait for him to discover a winning play, one I’m blind to…
Instead, he tips his king. “You’ve got me.”
“Do I really?”
“I think you know the answer to that, my sweet girl.”
Liam Castle never loses…
Except when it comes to his heart.
7
Last month, Sebastian’s father carved me open across the dinner table, merciless in his cutting accusations, making sure every house in the tower watched me bleed. Like a verdict, he laid his son’s death at my feet. From there, the night unraveled, one fraying thread at a time.
Too much wine with Ford.
Unforgivable words I couldn’t take back.
Liam hauling me away from the ledge.
So tonight, as I step into the dining room, part of me braces for more wreckage.
But it doesn’t come.
I go through the motions of eating dinner, sipping wine, counting down the moments until I can leave this room.
When the time comes to announce my choice, this supposed gift from the Brotherhood for the night of my birthday, still weeks away, I keep my promise and pick Liam.
My choice makes its way around the table without a ripple. Liam fights a smile. Mr. Bordeaux is…well, Mr. Bordeaux. No one seems surprised.
But Oliver doesn’t react at all, which is how I know.
His attention stays on his wine a moment too long before he levels me with a glance.
Disappointment, bolted down so only I can see it.
And then there’s Hugo, who simply nods and asks to see my studio. I’m still not sure why, and he hasn’t said a word since we left the dining room.
We reach the workspace Landon set up for me all those months ago, and I dig out the key, turn it in the lock, and push the door open with my hip.
Hugo reaches past me for the wall switch, flipping it up with the back of his hand, and warm light fills the studio. The air’s stale, most of the surfaces dulled with dust—except for the areas I’ve touched since returning from the States to work on a project.
The project.
The gown Sebastian will see me in on our wedding day.
Hugo moves into the room and circles it, taking in the space as if he’s taking inventory. He lingers at the column of swatches I’ve pinned up, head tilted, and studies the messy parts of my design work.
I shift my weight in the doorway, suddenly aware of every loose thread on my work table.
Next, he wanders to the cutting station and glides his knuckles along the bolt of fabric I left out yesterday morning.
“Good material,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
Fabric quality isn’t something I’d expect him to care about.
His attention lands on a prototype—little more than a pinned mockup of satin, draped with a skirt I’ve barely started and a neckline I already despise.
“You draft your own patterns?”
“Yes.”
Whatever he’s thinking, he keeps it to himself.
And he’s not finished with his scrutiny. He finds my sketchbook, where I foolishly left it on the drafting table, face-up, the pages fanned to last night’s silhouette of a ball gown with a cathedral train.
The sketch is one of many—I’ve filled the book in search of the perfect design, circling it from every angle, and still landing on nothing concrete.
Hugo leans in and studies the drawing the way he assessed the fabric a minute ago.
My pulse gives a kick.
Those pages are too personal, like confessions straight from my diary, and anyone who gives them more than a passing glance will know how excited I am for this wedding.
That can’t be true if I’m supposed to be grieving.
In four quick strides, I cross the room and shut the cover.
Hugo lifts his head, his gaze drifting across my face before settling on the wall behind me. “My apologies. I overstepped.”
“No, it’s not that. You didn’t…” Trailing off, I shake my head, fishing for a polite way out of this awkward conversation. “Forgive me, but…I’m not sure why we’re here.”
His green eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second. “I’d like your help with a project.”
Whatever I expected him to say, it wasn’t that.
“You want my help?”
“Yes.” His hands unclasp as he moves to the nearest workstation. “I run an organization for at-risk youth.” He taps one corner of the table three times. “The Aquarius Foundation. We take in kids who aren’t safe at home. They stay as long as they need, often until they’re grown and ready to live on their own.”
It’s the most I’ve heard him say all night.
“That’s an admirable endeavor. I’m not sure how I’m able to help, though.”
“The foundation hosts a charity auction every spring. We make it a point to feature up-and-coming artists along with the big names. Painters, sculptors, designers…they donate their talent and time. Buyers fly in from all over the world to bid.”