Page 2 of Owned

Not wanting to linger, I nodded my thanks and went up the sweeping staircase. It was carpeted in the same thick, dark blue carpet as the entrance hall, the heels of my cheap black pumps sinking into the pile.

The place was quiet, though every now and then I could hear the murmur of voices and a burst of music from downstairs. The weighty silence felt as if it hid secrets, as if things were going on behind closed doors that would shock and appall me.

It made me deeply uncomfortable.

At the top of the stairs was a long hallway with all kinds of pictures hanging on the red walls and a long line of closed doors. I paused a moment, staring down the hall, realizing that I hadn’t asked Mr Handsome which room Mr Jordan was in.

Not wanting to open a succession of doors and perhaps witnessing something I shouldn’t, I turned back to the stairs, leaning over the banister to see if Mr Handsome was still in the entrance way.

He was, so I started down the stairs, not wanting to yell rudely at him from the second floor, only to stop a third of the way down as a couple came out of a hallway down below and into the entranceway.

The woman was tall and willowy and blonde, wearing some kind of white, grecian-style gown that was half falling off her. A man was with her, a very tall man, the light from the chandelier picking out threads of gold and tawny in his dark hair.

I couldn’t see his face from where I stood, but there was something familiar about him. Unlike Mr Handsome, he was in jeans and a worn leather jacket, which seemed a little down rent for this place, and he towered over both the woman and Mr Handsome.

Something tugged at my memory like a spider moving around its web.

I was sure I knew him or had met him at some point. A client of Mr Jordan’s perhaps? I was doing some paid interning in his finance company and was often with him when he met with clients. Or perhaps he was someone I’d worked with at some point? I’d done a lot of jobs trying to keep Mom and I afloat after all.

Then the man laughed, the sound low, a little rough, a little warm, but most of all disturbingly sexy. Which was when it hit me.

That laugh… I used to hear it in my head, in my dreams. Years ago, when I’d been a silly teenager and Mom had still been married.

To Atlas Blackwood.

My stepfather.

It was him. Holy fuck.

Adrenaline hit me in a wild rush, and before I knew what I was doing, I’d run back up the stairs and had started down the hallway, my only plan to avoid him, the memories of our last meeting far too fresh and far too embarrassing.

It had been eight years ago, and I’d just turned sixteen. Mom still had money back then, and Atlas had lived with us in our large and sunny SoHo apartment.

I’d hated him on sight. He’d been my mom’s age (she’d had me young), and laidback, easy going, really, the best of my mother’s constant parade of men. I hadn’t realized that at the time, though. All I knew was that he was yet another man Mom had lost her head over and who’d probably leave her, as they all did at some point.

In fact, our last meeting had been the day he’d moved out and I’d yelled at him that he was a user and an asshole and I hated him, before running to my room and slamming the door so hard it almost came off its hinges.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so embarrassed about the teenage tantrum I’d had eight years ago, but I was, and the thought of him accidentally spotting me here, in Arcadia, was the last thing I wanted.

I lingered in the hallway, listening and hoping like hell that Atlas and whoever it was were leaving the building. Only for the lilting sound of the woman’s giggle to come floating up the stairwell. Getting closer.

They were coming upstairs. Great.

I looked at the line of closed doors and grabbed a knob at random, hoping at least one would be unlocked so I could duck into the room and hide. The first was locked, but the second wasn’t, the door opening and letting me slip inside.

The room looked very much like someone’s cozy study, with a fireplace and a couple of armchairs. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, along with a drinks cabinet, bottles of spirits arranged neatly on top of it.

My heart racing, I shut the door then pressed my ear against the wood, listening intently for any sound, but I couldn’t hear a damn thing.

Then much to my horror, I saw the door knob begin to turn.

Oh God, someone — probably him — was coming in here.

Instinct had me turning from the door and scanning the room, looking for a place to hide, and as the door began to open, I bolted over to the windows and ducked behind the heavy blue velvet curtains drawn across the glass, my heart hammering in my ears.

I stood there, trying desperately not to breathe as the sound of soft, feminine laughter filled the room.

“This private enough for you?” a man asked, his voice deep, masculine, hitting me with all the force of a crossbow bolt.

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