Page 31 of Greek’s Christmas Heir

Anax took in the pile of books beside her. The tray of food, a crock of soup and freshly baked bread in place of the usual delicacies.

“Would you have hidden all these books?” he asked after a moment. “For fear I would discover that you’d actually been reading?”

“You are a deeply annoying man,” Constance told him, but so very calmly, that he almost missed what she was telling him. “I have always read. Your suggestion that I shouldtry readingas an activity made me want to never read another word as long as I lived. And yes, I would rather that you not see me doing it, because it would give me pleasure to read every book in your library and never mention it.”

“What would be the point of that?”

“It doesn’t matter ifyouknow how wrong you are,” she said, and smiled at him. A bit too piously. “Iknow, and I will nurse that flame for as long as I live.”

But he was caught up on that smile. It was sobright. Festive, or near enough. He tried to imagine her smiling like this in the ballrooms of Athens, surrounded by those circling predators, and couldn’t.

He had made the right decision. He was sure of it.

“Have you been complaining to Stavros about my not making it out to the island recently?”

He walked in further and threw himself down on the couch where she had clearly spent some time, if the cashmere throw that was tossed aside there was any indication.

She eyed him narrowly, breaking off a piece of bread with her fingers and dipping it into the crock of her soup. “I’m not much for complaining. My grandmother used to say that a complainer was a coward, too afraid to say what they really wanted until it was too late. I don’t know about you, Anax, but I dotrynot to be a coward.”

“That feels pointed.”

She looked at him, then back to her meal, which rather dug the point in deeper, to his mind. “Besides, why would I complain to Stavros? He works for you. What would be the point?”

“My sister says that you did.” He considered. “Or rather, she said that he had mentioned it had been a while.”

“Has it not occurred to you that your sister and your head of security invent reasons to talk to each other?” Constance smiled again when she looked up and saw the blank look on his face. “Oh, come on, Anax. Where are those killer instincts you pride yourself on? You can’t see that your sister and your head of security are enamored of each other?”

“Stavros would never—” he began. But then stopped himself.

Because he would not. But Vasiliki was bound by nothing at all—and least of all any disapproval from Anax.

Constance only shrugged. “Why? Because you would disapprove?” She did not roll her eyes. Not precisely. But the way she did not roll her eyes had the same effect. “You might not have any interest in being happy yourself, Anax. That’s perfectly clear. But does that mean no one else can be, either?”

When he left later that evening, he could not think of a single reason why he had come, save the few moments he’d spent with his beautiful daughter after her bath. Much less why he would hurry to return.

But he found himself watching his sister and his security head over the following days, noticing that it did seem as if the two of them paid a bit more attention to each other than necessary...

And he hated that his secluded wife, who saw the pair of them far less than he did, had picked up on something he should have understood was happening before it started.

But there was little time to think too much of these things. Because the holiday event season was beginning, and, as ever, it started off with a particularly ornate gala in the center of Athens. Vasiliki had made certain to block it off in his calendar in capital letters to remind him of their conversation.

He had to hurry out of a meeting to get ready the way he always did, because he put effort into the things he wore, unlike some. He had learned early on that the real secret of fashion was the way it was discussed, as if it was the sole province of empty-headed women, when the truth was that powerful men had whole conversations with their clothes alone. Sometimes these conversations took the place of other negotiations entirely.

It was the first foreign language he’d taught himself.

And yet tonight, instead of plotting out the conversations he wished to have and avoid, the photographs he would allow and those he would not, he found himself wondering why he’d been so adamant that Vasiliki continue to keep Constance’s existence a secret. His sister had not been wrong. He had grown tired of these events long since. The same conversations with the same people, over and over again, were tiresome.

And yes, there were the women who followed him around, something the younger version of him would never have believed could prove objectionable. But then, Delphine had soured him on such experiences long before he’d learned of her vicious revenge.

In the car that drove him to the gala, he found himself thinking about his ex-lover, something he normally preferred to avoid. There was still such a huge part of him that wanted to enact his revenge upon her in a manner no one could mistake. So that no one, ever, would dare attempt such a thing again—on him or on anyone.

And yet...how could he wish his daughter out of existence?

He hated being away from her. That was the stark truth of it. Natalia had started walking. She was saying words, deliberately. Every time he saw her, she was a brand-new human. Even her face looked different, and he deeply loathed the fact that he could not be with her all the time to see these things.

He had been adamantly opposed to ever having children, and this was part of the reason why. Already he could feel it, this helpless certainty that he would raze the earth to dust and rubble for her. That he would never be happy if she was not. That everything he was, or would ever become, was wrapped up in two chubby fists, that stubborn little scowl she often wore, and that smile of hers that was already too much like her mother’s.

What revenge could he take on Delphine for that?

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