Page 56 of Peasants and Kings
She squeezed me back and then quickly left the apartment. When I heard the front door shut, I looked back at my suitcase, which was now zipped closed. I had no reason to linger.
I went to the bedside table and opened the drawer. The letter from my mother was folded, but I didn’t need to read the delicate scroll of her handwriting to know its contents. I had it perfectly memorized after reading it for a year straight.
The letter was dangerous. Not only did it give away every piece of truth about my parentage and ancestry, but it was a physical link to my mother.
From the moment I got the phone call that she’d passed and the date and time of the funeral, I felt like I was living someone else’s life. It was like I was watching myself from above with a weird sort of detachment.
I’d been running from a faceless enemy for a year. The Foscari, though a very real threat, hadn’t presented themselves to me. They hadn’t showed up on my doorstep. I hadn’t come face to face with the horrors of them.
I took the letter and went into the kitchen. I turned on a stove burner and set the paper on fire. As it burned, I dropped it into the sink. Only when it was a pile of ashes did I run water over it, letting it wash down the drain.
I’d never forget her words. I’d never forget the smudged ink from the tears my mother had shed while writing the letter. I didn’t need a physical reminder of my past life because somewhere, in the back of my mind I was already worried that my past wasn’t going to remain in the past, no matter how much I tried to keep it there.
The next morning, I woke up in my hotel suite at The Rex. It took me a moment to process where I was—I’d been bouncing around so much it was hard to feel settled.
Autumn sunlight streamed through the curtains I hadn’t bothered closing the night before. I’d wanted to wake up with the sun. I looked at the alarm clock. It was just past seven. I got up and showered and was just about to call room service for breakfast when my work cell phone buzzed with an incoming text.
Genevieve: Meet me in my office in an hour.
I sent back a confirmation text and then ordered breakfast. There were a few items of clothing in my closet, and I was able to piece together a decent outfit. I wore the black ballet flats Tiffany had called out for.
Five minutes prior to my meeting with Gen, I grabbed my cell and suite key and left the room and headed for her office.
Annika smiled at me as I arrived. “You look like you slept well.”
I paused and then nodded. “I did.”
“You can go on in. She’s ready for you.”
“Thanks.”
I knocked on the door of Gen’s office and then entered. The woman didn’t know the meaning of dressing down. She was in what I was learning was her signature look. Another black, form-fitting dress, sheer black hose and three-inch stilettos.
She was perched on the arm of the leather couch and in the matching chair was a man with dark curls. His green eyes peered at me with interest as I came into the room and shut the door.
He rose slowly and I noted the breadth of his shoulders and the three-piece suit he wore.
I frowned in confusion.
“Eden,” Gen greeted. “Thank you for coming.”
It was a formality, of course, since I worked at The Rex and Gen was my boss.
“Ramsey Buchanan,” the man said in a Scottish brogue, stepping forward and holding his hand out to me.
I took it as I studied him.
He reminded me of Hadrian. Not physically, the two men were not built similarly. And I could tell Ramsey wore his suit and polish comfortably, unlike Hadrian—who seemed like he would’ve been content wearing animal pelts and carrying an axe covered in the blood of his enemies.
“Nice to meet you,” I murmured.
He gestured to the empty chair across the coffee table and I sat.
“You don’t know who I am,” he said.
I shook my head.
“I run The Dallas Rex.” He studied me. “I watched your interview with Genevieve.”
