Thoroughly Whipped

Finally finding my voice, I smiled and said, “Luckily, I have fangs, Mr. Sinclair. Big, venomous fangs.” King laughed and got to his feet.

I went to help him, but he held up his hand. “It’s just a precaution,” he said, referring to his cane. “I really am feeling better. Even better than before.” I remained sitting, and he said, “You know, my wife would have loved you.”

He laughed like he was laughing alongside her, here, with us right now. “She would have loved this. Loved that Harry had chosen to break away and make his own rules. Loved that he pushed back against me. And loved that he would fall for a woman who could cut down all of English society with a lash of her tongue.”

King nodded, like he was agreeing with an internal thought. “Yes, she would have loved you as a daughter-in-law very much. You are so like her, or so Harry tells me. She certainly was quick to put me in my place. I think that’s what I miss most about her—our verbal sparring. I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed it until she died and everything went silent.” King nodded goodbye, and I watched him slowly walk away.

“Mr. Sinclair?” I called, and he turned around.

I shrugged. “I’m not bragging or anything, but I’ve been known to throw some epic verbal throwdowns in my day, if you ever find yourself wanting a challenge again.”

The flicker of a smirk that pulled on his lips mirrored Harry’s expression when he was amused. “And you may just be a worthy adversary for me, Miss Parisi. A very worthy adversary for me indeed.” He took a step and said, “And call me King.”

“In that case, call me Faith.” I winked to exaggerate my point. King smiled more widely and, shaking his head, disappeared down the pathway toward the house.

I stared out at the rippling lake in wide-eyed wonder. What the hell was happening? King had given us his blessing. He was giving Harry the reins to HCS Media.

I laid my head back on the wooden bench and tried to let it all sink in. I closed my eyes and let the English morning sun kiss my face. A strange kind of static rushed through my body. Could I do all of this with Harry? Where would we even live? Nerves threatened to overwhelm me, but then I thought of one thing King had said, and it chased them all away.

My son is in love with you.

I replayed it, once, twice, three times, just to allow it to sink in.

My son is in love with you, my son is in love with you, my son is in love with you…

And beside the bridge I loved so much, sure his mum was here in spirit, I whispered, “I love him too, Aline. I love him so much.”

As those words disappeared into the bright sky, I returned to the house and began readying for that night. Running the bath, I let the vanilla-scented bubbles envelope me and saw Harry’s smiling face in my mind. “I love you too,” I said, as though he had heard me. “Harry, I love you too.”

The lanterns created a galaxy of stars as I walked toward the ballroom, an orchestra playing classical music and opera singers singing in Italian, luring me closer. Papa would have loved this, all the drama.

I walked with careful feet as I approached the archway that led to the top of the staircase. From here, I saw people dancing, gowns and masks firmly in place. A nervous chill raced up my spine as I passed two men on either side of the archway and let my gaze run all over the room. It was a Shakespearean fantasy. Lights of all colors draped over the ceiling in crisscross shapes.

Giant sculptures of flowers of various hues created an indoor garden, and oversized fairy wings fluttered from the ceiling, up and down, like they were moving, flying across the sky. The floor was a mass of pink flowers, not real but illuminated by a projector hidden somewhere in the ceiling. A large crescent moon and thousands of stars hung from the walls and roof. It was like being trapped in a dream.

I brushed my hand down the skirt of my dress; then I saw him. Cutting through the crowd, Harry, in a black suit and white shirt and tie, looking as tall and handsome as any man could, stopped at the bottom of the stairs. A laugh slipped from my lips at the mask he wore.

Phantom of the Opera.

I saw him smile under the familiar white porcelain mask and wondered how I ever could have not realized it was him. It seemed so obvious to me now. I descended the steps, seeing Harry’s eyes—his true blue, not silver contacts—watching my every move.