Page 70 of Stolen Harmony
“Of course you are.” His smile widened, showing teeth that were too white and too perfect. “You've always been fine, haven't you? Even when you shouldn't be.”
We traded a few minutes of small talk that felt like foreplay before a knife fight. Town projects, the upcoming spring festival, property developments that would bring Harbor's End into the twenty-first century whether it wanted to come or not. The conversation was polite on the surface but weighted underneath, like we were fencing with words instead of blades.
Victor leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers in a gesture I remembered from childhood. He'd always been theatrical, always conscious of the impression he was making, always playing the role of the smart one, the successful one, the brother who'd made something of himself.
“The waterfront development is moving forward nicely,” he said, his voice carrying just enough satisfaction to make my skin crawl. “Several property owners have already signed on. Economic growth, job creation, the kind of progress Harbor's End desperately needs.”
“Good for them.”
“Yes, it is. Of course, some people are more resistant to change than others. Some people prefer to cling to the past, even when it's clearly not working anymore.”
The words were casual, conversational, but I heard the blade underneath. Victor had always been good at wrappingthreats in pleasantries, at making aggression sound like concern.
“Elaine would have understood the vision,” Victor said, his voice taking on a reverent tone that made my skin crawl. “She always appreciated beauty, potential, the possibility of transformation. She would have seen what Harbor's End could become instead of clinging to what it was.”
The way he said her name—like a prayer, like a wound—made something cold settle in my stomach.
“Don't,” I said quietly.
“Don't what? Speak about her?” His smile sharpened. “I fell in love with her the first time you brought her to Sunday dinner at our father's house, you know. She was luminous that night. Alive in a way that made everyone else in the room seem half-asleep.” His pale eyes grew distant, bitter. “But she only had eyes for you. Always you, even when I was the one who understood her dreams.”
“Is there a point to this?” I asked.
“Actually, yes. There's been some talk around town. Questions about certain... relationships that might be developing.”
My stomach dropped, but I kept my expression neutral. “What kind of questions?”
Victor's smile sharpened, predatory now instead of merely practiced. “People are curious about Rowan. Wondering why he's sticking around Harbor's End when he clearly has nothing keeping him here. Wondering what might be influencing his decision to stay.”
The way he said Rowan's name made my hands clench into fists. Like he was tasting it, rolling it around on his tongue to see how much damage it could do.
“He has her eyes, you know,” Victor continued, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. “The exact same shade. The way they catch the light when he's trying not to show pain—it's remarkable. Like having her back in the room, watching you replace her with the closest available substitute.”
“That's not what this is.”
“Isn't it?” Victor's pale eyes glittered with satisfaction. “A grieving widower, a vulnerable young man who looks exactly like his dead mother. It's almost poetic, really.”
“What about it?” The words came out even, but there was an edge underneath that Victor caught immediately.
“Oh, nothing specific. Just idle curiosity about whether certain people might be taking advantage of a certain someone.”
The accusation hung in the air between us, unspoken but unmistakable. Victor knew. Maybe not the details, maybe not the specifics of what had almost happened between Rowan and me, but he knew enough to be dangerous.
“Leave him alone,” I said, my voice dropping low and hard. It wasn't a request.
“I'm not the one you should be worried about.” Victor's pale eyes glittered with satisfaction. He'd gotten the reaction he'd been fishing for, the confirmation that there was something worth threatening. “But people talk, Elias. They see things, they make assumptions, they draw conclusions that might not be... favorable.”
“Conclusions about what?”
“About a grieving widower who's developed an unhealthy interest in his dead wife's son. About inappropriate relationships and the kind of scandal that could destroy reputations, businesses, entire lives.”
“You don't know what you're talking about.”
“Don't I?” Victor stood up, moving around his desk with the predatory grace of someone who sensed weakness. “I know you, Elias. I know how you think, how you feel, how you make decisions based on emotion instead of logic. I know that you'relonely and damaged and desperate for connection, even if that connection comes from the most inappropriate source possible.”
“Fuck you.”
“Elaine should have married me instead.” The words came out casual, conversational, like he was commenting on the weather. “Would have saved everyone a lot of trouble.”
