The digital lock on the front door beeped as Carlyle engaged the deadlock from his phone.
Beatrix watched him, her hand still white-knuckled on her suitcase handle.
He tossed the phone onto the cushion and walked to the wet bar.
The crystal decanter clinked as he poured a generous amount of amber liquid.
Whiskey.
Rare. Aged. Expensive.
He held the glass up to the light, swirling it.
"Drink?" he offered, not looking at her.
Beatrix hesitated.
Her nerves were frayed wires sparking against each other.
She needed something to dull the sharp edges of this night.
She let go of the suitcase. It stood there like a sentinel between them.
She walked to the bar.
"Yes."
Carlyle poured a second glass.
He slid it across the marble counter.
She reached for it.
Her pinky finger grazed the side of his hand.
Normally, he would have flinched. He would have wiped his hand on a napkin immediately.
He didn't.
He paused, his eyes dropping to where their skin touched.
He held the contact for a second longer than necessary before pulling his hand back.
Beatrix took the glass and downed a large swallow.
It burned.
It was a good burn. It distracted her from the ache in her chest.
Carlyle walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the grid of Manhattan lights.
Beatrix followed, keeping a safe distance.
They stood in silence for a long time, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sirens of the city below.
"You'll be twenty-six next week," Carlyle stated suddenly.
His voice was quiet, stripped of its usual mockery.
Beatrix let out a short, dry laugh.
"I'm surprised you remembered, Carlyle."
He turned his head slowly to look at her.
There was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
"Twenty-six," he repeated.
He had missed three birthdays.
He hadn't just missed them; he had ignored them.
"You look older," he said.
It wasn't a compliment.
"Being Mrs. Spears ages a person in dog years," she shot back.
Carlyle's eyebrows shot up.
"You've found your tongue," he noted, turning fully to face her. "Europe made you brave."
"Europe made me realize I don't need to be afraid of you."
"Is that right?"
He took a step toward her.
"My grandfather has security posted in the lobby," he said, changing the subject. "Just so you know."
"Protecting me from the paparazzi?" she asked.
"Protecting you from your father's investors," he corrected. "Some of them lost everything. They have long memories. They know you're back."
Beatrix felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.
"I have nothing to give them."
"They don't want money, Beatrix. They want blood."
"And you're my knight in shining armor?" she mocked. "Protecting the family silver?"
Carlyle's jaw tightened.
He didn't like that she saw through him.
He didn't like that she knew he had actually assigned guards to her specifically.
"I'm protecting my assets," he snapped.
He downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp.
The glass hit the table with a thud.
"Since you're so eager to leave," he said, his voice dropping to a cruel register. "I'm going to have the bed in the master suite replaced tomorrow."
Beatrix froze.
"Why?"
"Gene doesn't like used furniture," he said, watching her closely. "She says it holds bad energy."
Beatrix felt the blood drain from her face.
That bed.
It was a California King with a custom mattress she had spent weeks selecting.
It was the only place in this cold, glass box where she had ever felt safe.
She had spent countless nights curled up in the middle of that vast expanse, hugging a pillow, pretending Carlyle was sleeping on the other side.
He knew she loved that bed.
"It's a ten-thousand-dollar mattress," she whispered.
"It's trash," he said.
He was trying to hurt her.
He was trying to get a reaction because she had been too calm about the divorce.
Beatrix set her glass down.
She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"Fine," she said, lifting her chin. "Throw it out. It was too hard anyway. It hurt my back."
She lied straight to his face.
Carlyle's eyes narrowed.
He knew she was lying.
He remembered the one time he had walked in and seen her sleeping on it, looking like she was floating on a cloud.
"Good," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm glad we agree."
"I'm going to sleep," Beatrix said.
She turned on her heel and walked to the guest room.
She didn't look back.
She closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a shaky breath.
In the living room, Carlyle stared at the empty hallway.
He looked at the spot where she had stood.
He felt a tightening in his gut, a mix of anger and something else he refused to name.
He pulled out his phone.
He typed a message to his assistant: Don't touch the furniture in the master suite.
He stared at the screen for a moment.
His thumb hovered over the send button.
Then he deleted it.
He threw the phone onto the sofa and poured himself another drink.
