My mom stared at me. “Well, okay! Let’s get you sorted out.” And she led me into the depths of the racks.
An hour later, I’d filled the trunk of the car with seventeen dresses. As I finished paying with Konstantin’s credit card, I was feeling victorious.
Then my mom doubled over, coughing, and couldn’t stop.
I ran forward, but she waved me back, embarrassed. “I’ll be fine,” she wheezed between coughing fits. But she wasn’t.
“I think you should call someone,” I said desperately. “Have them drive you to the emergency room, get your chest looked at.”
She shook her head. “My daughter’s away on some training course.” She leaned forward conspiratorially and the pride in her voice made my chest hurt. “She’s in the FBI.”
“Hailey,” said Calahan in my ear, “I’m going to go over there right now and tell her I work with you and that you asked me to look in on her. I’ll drive her to the emergency room, okay?”
It was the hardest thing I’d ever done. “If you’re sure you’re okay….” I ground out.
My mom nodded quickly and waved me towards the door, still wheezing. All I wanted to do was run up to her and give her a hug….
I forced myself to turn around and walk out. Just as the door closed, I heard her start coughing again. I climbed back into the car, tears in my eyes.
I carried on as normal. I went back to the mansion, I picked out some lingerie, and I went down to the dungeon to meet Konstantin. But just as I started to shrug off my robe, he suddenly clapped a hand down on my shoulder, stopping the fabric from falling. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
But there was nothing I could say. I shook my head.
He frowned, stepping closer, and I saw that protective gleam in his eye. “Christina?”
But I just looked at the floor.
He started to speak again...and then shook his head. Remembering that we didn’t have that sort of relationship. But maybe—just like me—wishing we did.
* * *
That night, Calahan told me that he’d taken my mom to the ER and that it was just a chest infection. They’d started her on some meds and she was sounding much better. And she now had more than enough money to pay her medical bills. But I still lay awake all night worrying about her, and feeling like the worst daughter in the world.
The next morning, at breakfast, I slumped exhausted into my seat. The chef beamed at me—like the rest of the staff, he seemed to be getting less scared of me. “Your usual, Miss Rogan?” He was already turning away to go and prepare it.
I opened my mouth to say yes, please but...I just couldn’t face another glass of that gloopy gray-green sludge. “Actually...maybe something different, today?”
The chef’s head whipped round. Konstantin looked up.
“Maybe...waffles?” I asked hopefully.
The chef straightened up, his chest rounding in pride. “May I suggest....with some fresh blueberries and raspberries, some whipped cream and a jug of maple syrup?”
“...and maybe a large cup of coffee?” I said. “That would be wonderful, thank you!”
When the chef returned and laid the plate in front of me, his grin told me exactly how much he’d hated preparing that smoothie every morning. And the waffles were amazing, crispy on the outside, and buttery-soft inside, and drenched in maple syrup.
“It’s good to see you eating proper food,” muttered Konstantin.
I smiled at him.
“It’s good to see you smile again, too.”
I froze, the fork halfway to my mouth. I couldn’t believe he’d said something so sweet.
He looked away, as if he was going to pretend he hadn’t said it. Then he looked back at me with such a fierce, smoldering glare, such a, yes, I did damn well say it look, that I just melted in my seat.
And then the chef brought my coffee and when I looked at Konstantin again, he was back behind his newspaper. But even so, just that brief glimpse of the man I knew was in there, felt amazing.
The good feeling lasted all day. Right up until we got the phone call.
36
Konstantin
I SHOULD have seen it coming.
Maybe having Christina back had distracted me. Maybe it was the dreams disturbing my sleep—they still hadn’t gone away. But that night, when I got the call to say there’d been more fires, not in restaurants and bars, this time, but in people’s homes, I grabbed Christina and raced over there to help. I never considered that I might be taking her into danger.
A few years before, I’d bought up some slum areas just before the city announced a big redevelopment scheme that made them triple in value. A typical backroom deal, for me: my contact in the planning office got a bag of cash and I made about eighty million. But when the redevelopment was done, there were still a lot of people living in crumbling tower blocks, trying to raise kids in a place with syringes on the landings and urine on the stairs. The mayor shrugged: those people weren’t likely to vote for him, so why spend money on them? I wasn’t happy about that. No one deserves to live like an animal.