Royally Screwed(93)

It was my little brother.

Tilting the couch I passed out on and spilling my sorry arse onto the bloody floor.

When I’m able to pry my eyes open, I see him standing over me like an angel of morning-after doom—with Simon standing next to him.

“What the fucking fuck, Henry?”

“I told you, you were wrong. I told you Olivia didn’t do it.”

Those words snap me into full, immediate consciousness.

Henry’s eyes dart to Simon. “Tell him.”

Simon looks pale—paler than usual. And not a little bit guilty.

“Tell me what?” I rasp.

He clears his throat. “Yes…well, you see—I’ve begun a new business venture for Barrister’s…”

When he doesn’t continue, I nudge, “And?”

“Pies.”

Maybe I am still dreaming after all.

“Pies?”

“Yes—fresh and flash frozen—they’ll be deliverable to anyplace in the world. We’re going to knock Marie Callenders’ and Sara Lee on their arses. And you know how much I enjoyed the pies at Amelia’s when we were in the States, so…I purchased the recipes from Olivia’s father. All of them.”

My stomach is still stuck in the dream. It churns.

“How much?”

“Over six figures.”

Slowly, I sit up, anger rising. “And you didn’t think this was something you should have told me?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Mr. Hammond wanted it kept quiet. He’s been cleaning himself up—doing the twelve steps and all that. He wanted to surprise Olivia when she came home that the business was out of debt and she wouldn’t have to run it all on her own anymore.” Simon squirms. “And hell—I can never keep a secret from Franny, so I thought it best if you didn’t…” His words trail off as he looks me over. “What did you do, Nick?”

What did I do?

The realization of what I have done lands like a moose kick to the balls.

I’m on my feet in an instant. And with the awful words I threw at her ringing in my ears, I run down the hall—shirt open, feet bare.

But the moment my hands touch the handles, before I even I open the doors, I know—I can feel it.

She’s not here.

I stand in the middle of Olivia’s room—that’s how I think of it now—not the “white bedroom” or “my mother’s old room.” It’s Olivia’s.

Now, it’s Olivia’s empty room.

The bed is made but vacant. The white walls and furniture that looked so pristine and fair yesterday now seem gray and lifeless. I check the bathroom and the closet—I don’t know why—but except for a few designer outfits encased in clear plastic, that I know aren’t Olivia’s, they’re just as bare as all the rest. Any trace of her—her shampoos and trinkets and the little hair ties she’s always leaving behind—have been wiped away.

Like she was never here at all.

I wander back into the bedroom and a shiny glinting on the dresser catches my eye. The snowflake necklace. It was hers—it was made for her; I gave it to her to keep.

To have and to hold.

Even that was selfish of me, I guess. I liked the idea of her having something tangible, something she could touch, a way for her to remember me…after.

And she left it behind.

A message doesn’t get more loud and clear than that.

A maid walks past the open door in the hall and I bark at her. “Get Winston here. Now!”

I hold the necklace in the palm of my hand when Henry and Simon—and then Fergus—walk in.

“When?” I ask my butler.

“Miss Olivia left last night.”

“Why wasn’t I told?”

“You told her to go. I heard you tell her myself. The whole house heard you yell it.”

I flinch.

“Just followin’ orders.” And his words drip with sarcasm.

Not today, old man.

Winston steps into the room, his lips etched in that constant, self-important smirk. And I want to punch it off his face. Why didn’t I do that yesterday? When he suggested that Olivia would ever…Fucking hell, I’m an idiot.

“Bring her back.”

“She’s arrived in New York by now,” Fergus says.

“Then bring her back from New York.”

“She left, Nicholas,” Simon points out.

And Henry begins, “You can’t just—”

“Bring her back!” I shout, loud enough to make the frames on the walls tremble.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Henry grips my shoulders. “You tell the men to bring her back and they will bring her back by any means necessary. And then we’ll add ‘international kidnapper’ to your résumé. She’s not a bone, Nicholas—you can’t order her to be fetched.”