“Approve it all,” I said, flicking my hand to dismiss the list that Astor had produced. “Whatever she wants, she gets. She has her money.” Several months’ worth of money that I’d promised her in our marriage negotiations. The cash had been collecting in a bank account, enough to build an entire new building, if she chose. Still I added, “If that’s not enough, transfer what else she needs from my account.”
“Yes, sir. And the crew that Mateo’s asked for? Did you want to bring in islanders?”
At that I shook my head. “Have Mateo find a crew from Mexico. Spanish speaking only.” It would take longer to bring one in with that specification, and would cost more too, and I almost second thought the decision. I didn’t want to believe that she’d try to escape again, not now. I wanted to believe I’d earned at least the beginnings of what would one day be loyalty if not something else. Something more.
I thought about how her resistance had begun to diminish when I’d been there last. How she looked better than she ever had, her skin supple, her muscles toned. How she’d relaxed enough to let me bring her to climax, not once, but four times. How she’d begged for me to fuck her.
I could still taste her. Could still feel the unrhythmic vibrations of her body as she came against my tongue. Could still hear the catch in her voice when she’d said her parting words—Thank you, Edward.
And none of that mattered. I’d imprisoned her. She’d run if she could. Why wouldn’t she?
“Yes,” I confirmed, for myself rather than Astor. “A Spanish crew.”
“Yes, sir.” He bent down to reach inside his bag. “Finally, this arrived. The book you ordered. Shall I send it on?”
I took the book he handed me, a scarlet goatskin leather journal with her initials written in gold foil on the bottom. A heart-shaped accompanying gold clasp was a bit more romantic than I’d intended, but it had been the only quality one I’d found that locked.
The lock had been important. I wanted her to feel free to write her soul, to let out what was inside as she had in her second letter to her parents, without worry of what I’d think or do. While I wanted to know with fierce longing every thought of hers, every detail of her imaginings, I preferred that she tell me those things herself. I liked her vulnerable, yes, like I enjoyed all my women, but the point was for her to choose that, not for me to take it.
It didn’t mean anything unless she chose.
And if she did choose, then could things be different? Could this really work out another way?
I traced the letters with my finger—CEF. Celia Edyn Fasbender. I’d taken the Werner away from her when I’d put that ring on her finger—my mother’s ring, for fuck’s sake. I’d made her mine. She belonged to me now.
Didn’t she?
I set the journal on my desk. “Not yet. I’ll tell you when it’s ready to send. What else do you have?”
The next thing on Astor’s agenda was interrupted by the chirp of my desk phone. I hit the speaker button. “Yes, Charlotte?”
“Camilla’s on the line for you.”
My chest tightened. If the anxiety that was Warren Werner lived in my neck, the emotions I felt for my sister resided deep in my torso, complicated and protective in nature.
But things hadn’t been easy between us as of late.
“Tell her I’m in a meeting,” I said, tapping the button off with my finger.
Immediately, the phone chirped again.
“She says it’s urgent,” Charlotte said when I answered.
I should have guessed. Charlotte wouldn’t have interrupted in the first place if my sister hadn’t pressed. Annoyed, I looked to Astor, as though he could save me from the responsibility of family.
He read my expression wrong. Standing, he picked up his bag. “I didn’t have much more. I’ll come back.” He returned the chair to the spot Celia had designed it to sit on his way out.
I hit line one and put the receiver to my ear. “What is it, C?” I asked, using the nickname that came more easily when I was frustrated. “I was in an important meeting.”
It was a bit overstated, but I had a feeling her cry of “urgent” was as well.
“There’s a delivery,” she said, her tone clipped.
“Then accept it.” But I already knew it was more. I’d hoped Camilla wouldn’t have been there when it arrived, that Jeremy could have taken care of it all, but she’d canceled her planned photography outing when Freddie had woken up with a fever.
“It’s from the States,” she went on. “An entire moving truck. And it’s addressed to Celia Fasbender. Do you want to tell me what I’m supposed to do with an entire moving truck worth of items? The deliverers are asking.”
She was exaggerating. It was a small moving truck. I’d read the manifest before I’d approved the shipping.
But I knew the amount of items wasn’t really the concern—it was what they were. That I’d had them shipped at all.
“Tell them to take them upstairs to Celia’s room.” Jeremy would have already said that. Camilla wanted reassurance from me. “I’ll take care of them later.”
“But what are they, Eddie? They’re her things, aren’t they? Why are you bringing them here? Do you realize you called it her room?”
“Because it is her room.” I sat forward, my voice sharp. “There’s not anyone else using it. And what would you prefer I do with her things? She’s my wife. What would you prefer?”
“I’d prefer that you stick to the plan. You said marrying her was simply a door in. That I would never have to deal with her. You led me to believe that you would be leading very separate lives. Moving her things in is not separate. This wasn’t the plan we’d discussed.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I said, but I hadn’t been completely honest with her. I hadn’t wanted her involved with the gritty details. Camilla was too good. She would have rightly objected, even though it was the surest way to where we meant to end.
I felt guilty about that, more than I wanted to admit. About not being honest with her. About the horrible thing I’d planned to do. About changing my strategy midstream. About getting so fucking twisted by Celia’s blue eyes and tenacity and the way she opened up when she began to truly give in.
My guilt made me angry. Angry with myself.
But also angry about being challenged. “Let’s not forget that it was my plan, Camilla. My idea. I’m the one who orchestrated it, all of it. And that makes it my plan to change.” Then, before she could argue further, “Let Jeremy deal with the deliverers. I’ll worry about the rest. Like I always do.”
I hung up before she could say another word. I didn’t need to hear what else she had to say. I already knew, already felt the anxiety of having lost control of the reins.
What the fuck was I doing bringing her things to my house? As though she wanted them here. As though she meant to live on with me as husband and wife. As though I planned to keep her.
I scrubbed my hands over my face then held them there. Light slipped in through my fingers, gleaming off the band on my left hand. I pulled them down so I could stare at it. My father’s wedding ring, now my own. His marriage had been everything to him. His wife had been his very reason for living. The ring was a reminder of my reasons, why I’d pursued vengeance with single-minded dedication.