Chapter 8
Emery's pov
Roman leapt around the desk so fast I took a step back. But he didn't hit me. He simply stood there, his voice low and combative. "I don't care what others say about me. But getting you involved? That's not something I do. I protect what belongs to me."
"I'm not yours," I whispered.
A stop. A long one. "You're right. You're not. But I still wouldn't hurt you like this."
He ran his fingers through his hair, pacing now. "I have enemies, Emery. Powerful ones. They'll do anything to make me appear unstable, unpredictable. And since you're my 'fiancée'. you're a target now too."
I sank into the nearest chair, my legs suddenly weak. "So this is my life now? Attacked in public, exposed in private? For what? For a man who won't even tell me the truth about a photograph?"
"I'm handling it," he said tightly.
"I don't want you to handle it!" I barked. "I want the truth. I want to know what I walked into. Because right now, I feel like I'm in the middle of a storm without an umbrella and without an exit."
He didn't say anything. Just looked out the window, his face gleaming behind the glass like a specter.
I couldn't breathe. My heart hurt. My past, my terrors, were public again. I was exposed.
Maybe it was time to disappear again.
Back in my studio, I was unable to focus. I walked the floor, every inch of it foreign. My sketchbooks, my swatches, the project plans all useless now. Who would hire me now? Who would trust a designer with scandal in her past?
I needed to leave.
My bag half-packed before the door knocked.
It wasn't a knock. Not really. It was more of a hesitant thump. Like the person didn't realize they were supposed to be there.
I opened it, hoping maybe Talia. Or Roman, to give me another half-truth.
But it wasn't them.
It was my dad.
Silas Blake.
He looked older than I'd seen him. Bone thin. Wrinkled. But clean. That was the first thing that hit me. Clear eyes. No slurred words.
"Emery," he growled, his voice rough.
"We need to talk."
I didn't move. My heart pounded in my ears.
"How did you find me?" I asked again, my voice lifeless.
"I've been following the news," he said, nodding his head toward his phone. "You're everywhere. Elise Blake back from the dead. I didn't recognize you at first. But then I saw your mother's eyes."
I ought to have slammed the door. Ought to have sent him to hell. But something in his face did halt me.
"I don't want money," he said in a rush. "I don't want anything. Except to warn you."
"Warn me?"
He took a step closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "Roman Hart is not what you think he is. He is not a wealthy man with a tragic past. He is dangerous. I know, because I used to be employed by the man who destroyed his family."
"What do you mean?"
He plunged his hand deep into his coat and pulled out a folder worn to a soft sheen. From it were faded photographs, duplicates of documents, unfamiliar names.
"I'm telling you," he murmured. "Whatever you're doing with him, be careful. Because somebody is going to be buried before this is over."
The room spun around.
And for the first time in years, I wasn't sure that I had the strength to stand.
The last thing I'd seen of my father, he'd been half-drunk, half-broken, and totally out of my life.
This Silas Blake slouched in the doorway to my studio was a specter with serious eyes and an actual spine. I stared at him for ten straight seconds, considering whether I was dreaming. He was thinner, older. More gray in the beard, more creases around the mouth. But he stood upright, his eyes shining.
"Emery," he said softly. "Can we talk?"
I crossed my arms over my chest, my mind still spinning from everything that had happened in the past day. My world had turned into one never-ending nightmare shrouded in secrets and lipstick smiles.
"What do you want?" I snapped.
His brow furrowed. "To keep you safe. To warn you."
That word again. Protect. Everyone wanted to protect me nowadays. Roman. Nathan. My irresponsible dad.
He entered cautiously, his eyes scanning my desk as if he was checking off the upgrades. "I read the stories. The one they broke. I guessed it would start. Roman Hart he's not what you think he is. And neither was his father."
I flinched at the mention of the name.
"Did you know Roman's father?"
Silas nodded, carefully sitting down on the edge of my worktable. "He tried to buy one of my pieces then. He pressured me. When I refused to sell he made sure my shows got cancelled. Galleries dropped me. Commissions dried up overnight. He ruined me without ever dirtying his own hands. And Roman. he's playing the same game."
I blinked. "That doesn't make sense. Roman doesn't even."
"He's a genius at smiling when he's bleeding people dry," Silas interjected. "He learned it from the best. Don't trust that man, Em."
That name. Em. I used to love the way it sounded on his lips. Now it annoyed me.
"You disappeared for almost ten years," I spat. "And now you show up with ghost stories and threats? Why would I believe you?"
He breathed and leaned his head forward. "Because I've witnessed the same thing happen before. Because you're my daughter. And because you're in danger."
I didn't reply. I didn't entirely trust Roman but I didn't entirely trust my dad either. The irony wasn't lost on me.
Later that night, I was at Roman's penthouse. Not because of business. Not for design modifications. I needed answers, and I needed them now.
Roman stood on the patio, scotch glass clutched in one hand, watching the city lights sparkle like distant stars. He didn't turn when I approached. He didn't have to.
"You're crazy," he murmured.
"You spilled my history."
His face snapped toward me. "No. I didn't. I would never."
"Then who did?"