CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Juliette Two days later

M Y MOM TOOK me to a butterfly garden when I was four. The summer before she died. When we walked into the outdoor mesh tent, a swarm of butterflies flew up and around us. Their bodies brushed my skin, their wings soft, their movements frantic.

As I watch people filter into the ballroom, I can feel that same movement now, except it’s in my stomach. A flutter of anticipation and determination, underlined with a sharp sliver of doubt.

Anticipation for facing a Drakos once more. Determination to follow through on what might be my last chance to take back my family’s legacy.

And doubt. Doubt that’s been plaguing me ever since Texas. That’s where it first started. I had hesitated in a moment that mattered more than anything else had in my life. Where I came face-to-face with the fact that we are all capable of being monsters.

An ugly, sluggish sensation fills me, drags me down. That doubt has only grown, chipping away at the motivation that had driven my career ever since my first exposé. When I learned of Lucifer’s impending death, my determination dimmed even further, leaving me adrift. That the man I hated more than anything in the world had been part of the foundation of my professional life was a cold truth I hadn’t been prepared to confront.

Stop. I’ll address my own hang-ups later. Right now, my mission isn’t just making sure Lucifer Drakos’s cruelty stopped with his death. No, it’s a chance to reclaim what he stole from my family fourteen years ago. To give back something to a woman who carved out a piece of heaven for me to live and thrive in even as my life fell apart. Lucifer’s death has put that possibility within reach.

If Lucifer’s sons and heirs are following in his footsteps and I just happen to uncover another story in the process of achieving my own goals, so be it.

People start filtering into the ballroom. I lean against a pillar, watching, mentally cataloging those in attendance. My initial plan had simply been to observe Gavriil Drakos’s press conference, to hear if any of his future plans for the North American division included a certain section of coastline in Washington State.

Specifically, my family’s home that Lucifer stole for pennies on the dollar from my reckless father.

The worst part is that, in the years since Lucifer bought Grey House, he visited it once. I saw him arrive in a limo with a tiny blonde woman on his arm. They walked around the property. The wind carried her voice down the hill to where I spied on them from the bushes. I couldn’t hear everything, but I heard enough. She wanted a house on the coast, yes, but not in a backwater town that only had two coffee shops and a scattering of restaurants. Never mind that people traveled from all over the world to the peace and quiet elegance of Rêve Beach, or that two of those restaurants had won national awards. All she’d seen was the lack of glitter and, like so many who lived privileged lives, turned her back before she’d truly looked.

I never saw Lucifer at Grey House again. The house was repaired. I watched the new roof being put on, the exterior being sanded and painted.

And then it sat. Empty, lonely, taunting as my father and I squeezed into the tiny gamekeeper’s cottage left over from the early days when Grey House had hundreds of acres and a staff that included a butler and a head housekeeper. I watched my father stand at the fence that marks the line between cottage and mansion day after day, pining for what he had lost. His wife. His business. The second woman who loved him even when he couldn’t love himself.

By the time I left and moved to Seattle, he had nothing. Nothing but an empty shack and an endless bottle of vodka that served as his only companion when he walked off the edge of a pier and into the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean.

Heat threatens to take over, licking at the edges of my control with a seductive whisper. So tempting to track Gavriil Drakos down, grab him by his tailored collar and vent my fury on him.

But that would accomplish nothing. I’d feel better in the moment, sure. I’d also ruin any chances I have of figuring out if Gavriil knows about Grey House, if he has plans for it or if he might be open to righting his father’s wrongs. Not just for my father and myself, but for the woman who had become my second mother. To give her more than a tiny cottage to live out the rest of her life in. A cottage that, when she experiences one of her multiple sclerosis relapses, is impossible for her to navigate in her wheelchair.

Grief rubs against the anger, raw and bleak. The word stepmother used to conjure images of the villainess in Cinderella, with her crazy hair and evil cat. But then my father met Dessie three years after my mom passed and I realized that while I would always love my mother, it was possible to love someone else, too. Dessie hadn’t pushed her way into my life or ignored me in those early months of her relationship with my dad. She slipped in as much as I would let her, reassuring me when I would feel angry or guilty, stepping back when I needed space.

It’s funny how much the little things matter. I walked out one day, late for school, to find a strudel warmed up and waiting for me with my raincoat laid out. It probably took her all of five minutes. But as she looked up and smiled at me from the living room, coffee cup in one hand and our cat Jinx purring on her lap, I realized how well she fit into our lives.

A woman like her deserved the best. Not a man who wasted away after making a colossal mistake. They never married, but she was there, a piece of our lives until my father’s desperation and pride drove her out of his life. But not mine. Like clockwork, every other weekend she drove from Seattle to Rêve Beach to see me. When my father could barely take care of himself, let alone his teenage daughter, she stepped in and took me away.

She deserved to have a home of her own. Not the loss of her job that sent her back to Rêve Beach to live with me three years ago. Not a disease that randomly yanks her out of her life for an unknown length of time and, for now, has her living in an assisted-living facility I can barely pay for.

I inhale deeply through my nose, purse my lips, and slowly breathe out. There’s far too much at stake for me to give into my emotions. I have to play this carefully. There’s nothing illegal about what Lucifer did. He bought the property. He just happened to do it at a fraction of its estimated value, preying on my father’s gullibility and desperation as his own business dwindled. It was hideous, horrific.

But not illegal.

Until five years ago when I uncovered something criminal. Not with my father. But someone else. Another victim. One subjected to coercion, force, payouts. I hadn’t hesitated then to put together the story that, when it was published a year later, made my career and unveiled Lucifer to the world as the monster he truly was.

A murmur rises as a group of people walk out of a doorway and mount the stage. The first is Rafael Drakos, tall, cold, face sharp like it’s been hewn from a glacier. Seeing him—with the same distinct features and icy arrogance as his father—catapults me back to the last time I spoke to Lucifer in person. I’d paid him a visit after he’d stepped back from his role as CEO of Drakos Development amid the fallout. I’d slid my father’s picture across the table, knew the moment Lucifer recognized the man he’d conned.

The ice in my spine spreads, fills my veins as I remember the way Lucifer looked at me, eyes dark and lips twisted into a cruel smirk as he offered to sell it back to me at market value. Six times what he had bought it for all those years ago.

Before I’d been able to utter a retort, he’d smiled. “It would be a shame, wouldn’t it, to fight me on this? Who knows what might be revealed?”

My father’s drinking. His gambling. Grey House meant the world to me. But not enough to sacrifice my father’s already tortured memory. To go to court and risk thousands of dollars. I may have won the battle against Lucifer and taken away something he valued. But the war between us was far from over.

Today, though, I have another chance. Unlike five years ago, there’s far more at stake. This phase of Dessie’s multiple sclerosis has lasted for over a month now. The longest we’ve ever experienced. We’re both wondering the same thing, not wanting to say it out loud. Has the disease progressed? Will she ever have another period of remission again where she can walk without assistance? Live on her own?

Dread builds in my chest as Rafael takes a seat to the side of the podium. I need Grey House. Not, as I once dreamed, to live in, but to sell, to make the kind of money I need for Dessie and me to survive. The thought of it breaks my heart. But I’m out of options. I make decent money as a reporter, but not enough to pay for the care Dessie will need if this is permanent.

As much as I don’t care for Rafael and his brooding, superior attitude, he’s not my target today.

My gaze shifts to the man moving behind the gleaming podium. Awareness flickers low in my stomach. Broad-shouldered, with mahogany hair and a confident smile he aims like a weapon out over the crowd. Thick head of hair combed back from his face? Check. Square jaw? Check. Chiseled cheekbones I secretly envy? Check. It’s not fair for a man like him to be as handsome as he is.

We’ve interacted over the years, mostly at press conferences. Unlike his father, he’s never shied away from my questions or threatened to have me thrown out. As head of the North American division of Drakos Development, he’s the most likely holder of Grey House.

The question is, how far does the apple fall from the tree when it comes to Gavriil Drakos? Does he have plans for Grey House? Does he even know it’s in his family’s roster of holdings? From what I’ve observed, he’s obsessive about details and can quote company facts for days on end. But will a Victorian house on the remote Olympic Peninsula have attracted his attention?

I need to find out if he knows and, if he does, what his plans are so I know what angle to approach him from. Will he do the right thing and pay up the difference of what Grey House was actually worth? Sign it back over to me? Or will I have to go public and unveil a scandal he can’t afford as he seeks to show the world he’s not like his father?

Our eyes meet. His grin widens, a dare that pisses me off even as it sends an illicit thrill through my veins. I squelch it. I will not be distracted. I will do whatever I have to do to get Grey House back. To provide for Dessie.

I smile back at him. Knocking Gavriil Drakos and his enormous ego down a peg or two is just a bonus.

Gavriil

She stands on the fringes of the ballroom amongst a sea of people, eyes fixed on me with a confident smirk on her lips. Reluctant admiration warms my chest as I arch a brow at her.

Game on, Grey.

I flew from New York to Malibu right after my meeting with Alessandra. Stepping off the plane and into the embrace of the California sunshine did nothing to ease the tension that had slithered under my skin and lay coiled like a snake about to strike ever since learning about Lucifer’s ultimatum.

Tension exacerbated by learning that Juliette Grey, the reporter who is the only person in known history to bring my father to his knees, would be in attendance at today’s press conference.

I have nothing to hide. But that doesn’t mean she hasn’t discovered something illicit, something Lucifer did before his death that could bring Drakos Development to the edge once more. I can’t think of a single article she’s published in the years since her bombshell exposé that didn’t include a reference to Drakos Development. Her obsession is the last thing I need to worry about right now, especially when my first priority needs to be finding a wife who will stick with me for a year and satisfy that damned clause.

Unlike the rest of the crowd milling about the ballroom, dressed mostly in name-brand labels and upscale clothing, Juliette is wearing a white T-shirt underneath a cheap-looking gray blazer and simple black pants, with her dark hair pulled up into a ponytail. I rake her casual clothing with my gaze and raise a brow. She returns the gesture and gives me a thumbs-up.

My lips twitch. She’s got guts, I’ll give her that.

I look away. Confident or not, she’s still a threat. I want her to see firsthand how I reassure investors that Drakos Development will not only continue after my father’s death, but will flourish.

I do a quick visual sweep of the room. The chandeliers catch the afternoon sunlight filtering in. The massive windows on the far side offer views of the impossibly green grass, soaring palm trees and the Pacific Ocean beyond. Elegance. Prestige. Wealth. Everything my share of the company embodies.

Selecting the grand ballroom of The Royal for the conference was a good choice. Not only is the Malibu seaside hotel renowned for its opulence, but it was my first success when I ordered the North American branch to break into the hospitality industry. My father called me a foolish bastard.

Literally and figuratively.

I included a bottle of Rémy Martin cognac with the first year’s earnings and occupancy report. The handwritten note suggested he pour himself a glass before reading. The old ass never replied, but I didn’t need him to. I’d made my point.

Now, with him gone, Rafe and I can finally take the company beyond the selfishness and scandals my father flowed to taint his legacy in his final years.

No longer his legacy. I smile. Ours.

Thankfully, Michail wants no part of it. After doing a quick read-up on his company, Sullivan Security, it’s clear he has no need for the billions generated every year by our company. He has plenty of his own.

I spare a glance at Rafe standing just to my right. He returns my gaze. Nods. I face the audience, mentally burying my deep-rooted hatred for the man who sired me, and speak.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. It is with profound sadness and yet immense pride that my brother and I stand before you today.”

Liar. When Rafe called to tell me the news, I released a pent-up breath. Then I smiled. I kept on smiling as I poured myself a cognac and toasted to his demise. There are plenty who would be shocked by my callousness. Accuse me of being heartless or cold.

They’re right. My heart was ripped out twenty-four years ago when my mother died, alone and poor, while my father lived like a king just a few miles away.

I rattle off the speech written for me by someone in Drakos’s public relations department. It’s drivel, with sappy lines honoring my sire’s accomplishments and supposed testimonies from people who knew him. My fingers tighten on the podium every time I say his name.

Anapnéo. I fill my lungs with a deep breath, then slowly release it as I force myself to find a place of calm. This is a minor detour. Right now, my focus needs to be the future of Drakos Development North America.

A future without Lucifer.

With that thought to comfort me, I focus on the microphone.

“Our father’s legacy will live on through the continued expansion of Drakos Development.”

I finish the maudlin portion of the speech and dive into why I’m really here: my division’s growing list of projects along America’s West Coast. A buzz whips through the room, feeding my confidence and my ego as I share the three properties I’m most proud of. The three that will mark the beginning of a new era.

“The Serpentine, luxury condos on Catalina Island. The Cooper Industrial Park next to the Port of Los Angeles. The renovation of the Edgware Warehouse Complex in Seattle.”

I recite the names and locations from memory as I sweep my gaze over the hotel’s grand ballroom. Concept drawings flash on flat screens placed around the room. Appreciative murmurs ripple over the crowd.

My eyes flicker back to the woman leaning against the pillar. Her arms are still crossed, one leg crossed over the other. A casual pose to go with that casual smirk.

But something’s changed in the last ten minutes. Her body is no longer relaxed but tight, her shoulders tense beneath her blazer, her pointed chin slightly lifted. Despite her petite stature and huge eyes, she looks anything but innocent. She’s been dragging Drakos Development through the mud for years. It’s gratifying to see her riled up.

I incline my head in her direction. A deliberate provocation. Instead of glaring or flouncing off, one corner of her mouth curves up. Awareness pricks my skin. I don’t like it. Or her. I prefer women soft, warm and willing. Not hard, stubborn, prideful creatures like Juliette Grey.

I face the audience and smile. “Questions?”

Hands shoot up. I answer most of them myself, deferring to Rafe on a couple about our European and Asian markets. The energy in the room is palpable. It fuels me as I smile, laugh and converse with reporters, local legislators and community members.

And then I see it. Her hand, slowly easing up, her fingertips waving at me. My first inclination is to ignore her, which annoys the hell out of me. I don’t run from a fight. I haven’t since I was four. I’m not about to now.

“Miss Grey.”

The conversations subside. Most everyone in here knows Juliette. She’s made quite the name for herself, appearing on major news networks, podcasts and videos to discuss the results of her investigative reports. She’ll disappear for months at a time, only to reappear with a jaw-dropping report on embezzlement, money laundering, fraud, or—my father’s specialty—bribery. She’s cost companies billions in fines and lost revenue.

Not mine. Not this time.

“First, my condolences on the loss of your father, Mr. Drakos.”

Tension tightens my neck. Responding to people’s sympathies is hard to do when you have none of your own. But for once, there’s no subtle smirk or hidden intention in Juliette’s words. She actually appears sincere.

“Thank you,” I force out.

“You mentioned several large-scale projects in major metropolitan areas. Any plans for Drakos Development to expand in smaller circles?”

She knows something.

Even from across the ballroom and the few dozen people standing between us, I can feel her emotions. Feel the anticipation, the excitement as she hunts something new.

The problem is, I’m not sure what she’s after. None of our plans over the next five years include anything but projects in large cities or tourist destinations.

“Not at this time.”

The room seems to hold its collective breath, waiting for her to deliver a customary Juliette Grey follow-up question that will unveil her newest target, wreak havoc or both.

“Thank you.”

Surprised, I can only stare as she smiles, nods her head in my direction, and walks out of the ballroom.

Silence reigns for a split second before conversations break out, voices rising as everyone wonders what Juliette’s little performance was all about. Many of them cast curious eyes in my direction or, for those with a vested interest in Drakos Development, concerned faces.

I grit my teeth. Perhaps that was her game. To get her name linked to Drakos once again. Put the world on alert that my company was back in her crosshairs.

I don’t glance at the door she left through. I’ll deal with her later.

Once and for all.

I turn and give the audience a small smile, like I’m letting them in on a little secret.

“Next question?”