Page 31 of The Cruel Heir
He escorted me to the car.
Two turns from the estate, I cracked the door, waved a vague promise to be quick, and slipped into a side street, crowded withlunchtime pedestrians. He couldn’t pursue without blocking traffic. Perfect.
I wandered, until the river wind cut through my coat. At an empty pier, I leaned against the railing, pressed my palms to the barely-there swell beneath my dress, and tried to breathe.
Sterling’s baby.
The thought tasted like salt and rust. I loved it, hated it, and feared it, all at once. I could run right now, and he wouldn’t be able to stop me. There was no one around. I started walking in the opposite direction of the staff waiting for me.
Footsteps crunched behind me and Frankie’s low voice followed, calm as a priest. “Car’s this way, Zara.”
Of course Sterling had sent him.
He hustled me into the right direction and, when I got back to the car, the other man wasn’t there at all. I didn’t ask where he went.
I said nothing on the ride back, staring out the window, while Frankie flicked ashes into an ash tray. Each mile felt like a door sliding shut.
Silence filled the car, broken only by the wipers smearing spring drizzle across the glass. I counted power lines. Five miles. Ten. My breath evened out once the hedgerows turned to pine.
“Want music?” Frankie asked, eyes still on the road.
“Noise won’t fix this.” I hugged my arms tight. “Pull off somewhere.”
He chose a scenic overlook that faced the Atlantic, a slab of cracked asphalt, one picnic table, no cameras. Wind slapped my hair across my cheeks when I stepped out. Frankie stayed close, but gave me the length of the parking lot, a leash made of duty rather than leather.
I gripped the railing at the cliff’s edge, stomach pitching harder than the waves below. When the nausea eased, Iwalked back to the SUV. Frankie opened the door, expression unreadable.
“Ready?” he asked.
“For now.” I slid inside. On the ride back, I studied the route, memorizing every turn, every service road. Strategy, not flight. Survive now, escape later.
Garden lights glittered, like frost on iron, when we returned. Sterling waited in the doorway, arms crossed, a storm bottled tight.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Out,” my voice rasped.
“Four hours of ‘out’?” His hand closed around my wrist, measured, assessing. My pulse thudded against his thumb.
“Your estate isn’t oxygen, Sterling.” I pulled free.
His jaw flexed once. “Dinner’s over. Plate’s in the warmer.”
I climbed the marble stairs, let the shower run hot until the mirrors fogged, then curled up on the far edge of his bed. He lay flat, eyes on the ceiling, breathing even but furious. I pressed a palm to the slight curve of my abdomen, and repeated the plan like a prayer.
Survive. Observe. Wait.
STERLING
The month had gone by so fast. It was almost time for Thanksgiving. Zara thought walking away from breakfast meant she was free of me for the day. She couldn’t be more wrong. I found out her secret pretty early on, but if she wanted to stick her head in the sand about her pregnancy, who was I to stop her?
She said she hated me, but hate was next to love. It meant I was under her skin, as deeply as she’d ingrained herself beneath mine.
I watched her disappear down the hallway, her spine stiff, her defiance palpable. I let her go, for now. There was no need to drag her back when she had nowhere to run. The Kingsley mansion was as much a prison as it was a sanctuary. And she would realize soon enough that her cage had no door.
I wiped my mouth with my napkin and leaned back in my chair. My mother hadn’t come down. Probably still nursing the last dregs of champagne and control after her whirlwind shopping trip. Across from me, John, the man who called himself Zara’s father, took a sip of his coffee, pretending not to notice the power play unfolding in front of him.
“She’s a stubborn one,” he finally said, setting his cup down.
