Chapter 2 - THE BRIDE’S ALIBI
Dawn broke over Chicago in a wash of pale, bruised gray light. I left Delia sleeping under the watchful eye of a trusted private guard I had personally stationed outside her door, and drove straight back to the Romano-Vandermark estate on the South Side.
The snow had stopped, leaving a pristine, untouched white blanket across the long driveway. But inside the house, the atmosphere was thick with tension.
Celeste was waiting in the formal sitting room. She had already changed into a fresh cashmere sweater and designer trousers, her hair perfectly coiffed, looking as though she hadn't just dragged an unconscious woman across a glass-strewn floor twelve hours earlier. The porcelain teacup in her hand didn't even rattle against its saucer.
"Julian," she said smoothly, her lips curving into a practiced, elegant smile as I stepped through the double doors. "You look exhausted. Did you stay at the hospital all night over a hired nurse? Really, darling, it's sweet of you, but terribly dramatic. The agency can send a replacement by noon."
I didn't take off my coat. I didn't sit down. I walked straight across the Persian rug until I was standing tower-height over her chair.
"She’s not a replacement, Celeste," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "And she’s not leaving."
Celeste’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second—just a micro-twitch at the corner of her mouth—before she smoothly recovered, adjusting the gold bracelet on her wrist. "Don't be absurd. The woman had a psychotic break, or slipped on the rug. My security team checked the perimeter. She fell. It’s a liability having someone so clumsy around your mother."
"Your security team doesn't check the perimeter unless you tell them to," I replied, watching her eyes like a hawk. "And my mother’s nurse didn't fall. You dragged her toward the cellar because she recognized you."
The teacup finally clicked sharply against the saucer. Celeste set it down, her expression hardening from sweet fiancée to ice-cold strategist. She stood up, smoothing her trousers, her chin lifting with haughty defiance.
"Are we really doing this?" she asked, her tone dropping all pretense of warmth. "Are we going to throw away a merger of two powerful families, a wedding that half the city's elite are flying in for, over some hysterical, lying domestic worker?"
"She talked about Ewan," I said, the name dropping between us like a loaded gun.
For the first time since I had known her, the color completely drained from Celeste’s face. The pristine mask cracked wide open. She stepped back, her hand gripping the back of the velvet armchair for support.
May you like
"Ewan..." she whispered, the name tasting like poison on her tongue. "That... that’s impossible. The fire... the police report said—"
"The police report said what your father paid them to say," I interrupted, stepping closer, closing the trap around her. "And now you have three weeks to explain to me why my brother's murder investigation needs to be reopened, or I won't just call off the wedding, Celeste. I'll make sure you vanish so thoroughly even your own reflection forgets you."
