Beautiful Nightmare (Dark Dream 2)

“Absolutely not,” she’d sniffed as if the idea was insulting. “I will not be seen with a woman dressed in anything less than the best.” Turning to the poor woman helping us, she waved at the pile of discarded clothes I’d accumulated in the dressing room. “Pack everything up and send it to Bishop’s Landing. She will wear this one with the Chanel jacket right now.”

Which was how I ended up dining in one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city wearing an outfit that cost more than my entire wardrobe back in Texas. Even the gentle noises filling the ornate interior were somehow expensive: the clink of real silverware, the chime of crystal glasses undercut by the low murmur of cultured voices and barely discernable classical music. I felt like an imposter sitting there with Caroline, who was greeted by almost every diner as if she owned not only the restaurant but the very chairs they sat on and cars they had arrived in.

“It was a nice day, Caroline,” I said as we were served heaping salads topped with fresh seafood that made my mouth water. “Thank you so much for this. For everything really.”

Unlike the polite smile she had given to everyone else that day, Caroline gave me a small, genuine grin that curled her pale pink painted lips. She had been quiet for most of our lunch, contemplative, her gaze pinned to memories cast over my shoulder.

“I am glad you enjoyed yourself. I was hoping you would, because, you see, I have grown quite fond of you over the last week. My lawyer dropped these off last night and I really believe this is the right choice. Not just for you, but for myself. I’ve been lonely since my husband past away and my kids are older now, fair too busy to spend time with their mother.” Her expression was wistful, but her eyes were still a sharp, pale blue, cutting as the edge of an icicle. “It will be nice to have you as a true companion.”

I watched silently as she reached into her Hermes bag and produced a collection of papers that she placed beside my plate.

A guardianship agreement.

I looked up at her with wide eyes, hope and misgiving lodged in my throat.

“You’re old enough to make the decision for yourself, so if you no longer want to be the ward of Tiernan Morelli, all you have to do is sign the papers, and you’ll be mine,” she assured me, her manicured fingers curled around a Mont Blanc pen. “Here, Bianca. Take your life back.”

The pen was cold and absurdly heavy in my hand as I grasped it. My vision swam as I tried to make sense of the legal jargon presented to me. It was hard to reconcile the terror I felt staring at those pages that represented a lifelong dream when I’d always believed this was exactly what I wanted. But my heart pounded hard enough to crack a rib and cold sweat crusted my brow.

“It’s very standard,” she guaranteed with that plastic smile she was so practiced at.

Still, I tried to read more of the document. I couldn’t shake my father’s voice, telling me more snakes lay hidden in silks and furs than in the long Texas grasslands.

“Here,” she pressed, leaning forward to pick up the papers and flip to the second page where my signature was needed. “Sign just here, here, and here so we can wrap this matter up for good.”

I bent to read again when her cool fingers gently grasped my chin and raised it until my eyes were level with her own. Her expression was soft in a bid to express her sincerity, but there was a tension in the fingers that held me, a vibrating kind of energy that made it obvious she was coiled tightly around something.

Some secret she was trying to keep hidden from me.

“One day,” she murmured, her voice as cool and smooth as silk. “If you’re with us long enough, we might even see what we can do about giving you the Constantine name.”

Each word shot through me like bullet to the chest. A twisted cocktail of hope, longing, and suspicion threatened to drown my lungs, overloading my system until I couldn’t breathe.

How was it possible that a name could mean so much?

It was a short collection of consonants and vowels. Pleasant enough to speak, but hollow without the meaning attributed to it by others.

Constantine was almost a brand, one synonymous with wealth, prestige and glory.

If I asked anyone in the restaurant today if they wanted to be a Constantine, most of them wouldn’t think twice about saying yes.

Of course, the name meant even more to me.

My dad had been a Constantine. He had been the one to take that name and reputation and forge it into steel, something unconquerable and eternal.