The billionaire's lost heiress

Lyra knocked twice on the open door of the study and carried the tea tray in without waiting for a reply, since waiting had never once made Damian look up any faster. "I brought chamomile," she said, lowering the tray onto the corner of his desk. "Marta told me you stopped drinking coffee after eight." "Marta talks too much." Damian kept his eyes on the laptop, one hand steering the mouse and the other resting flat beside the teacup as if it were not there. "Put it down and go to bed." "It's only nine." "Then go and read something." She stayed where she was, twisting the belt of her robe around two fingers until the fabric bit into her skin. "Damian, tomorrow is our anniversary." "I know what tomorrow is." "I thought we could have dinner before the gala. Just us, at the little Italian place by the river where you proposed." She tried a smile, and it wobbled on her mouth. "You said the tiramisu was the only dessert you had ever finished." "Lyra." He leaned back and pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. "Three hundred people will be watching me hold your mother's company together tomorrow night. I don't have time for tiramisu." "It was my mother's company first," she said softly. "Isn't it supposed to be mine one day?" "Which is exactly why I run it, since you can't read a balance sheet without crying." He said it flatly, as if reading from a card, and her chin dipped before she could stop it. "I only cried once," she muttered. "It was the week after the funeral." "Yes, and it was very moving." He turned back to the screen. "Celeste is choosing your dress tomorrow. Let her." "Why does Celeste have to choose everything?" "Because she has taste, and you have grief." Lyra edged around the desk and rested her hand on his shoulder. His muscles went rigid under her palm, and he glanced down at her fingers as though a spider had landed there. "What are you doing?" "Nothing." She left her hand where it was, though her fingertips had started to shake. "It's just... we have been married a whole year, Damian. You sleep in the guest room, you leave before I wake, and whenever I touch you, you..." Her voice thinned to a thread. "Have I done something wrong?" "You haven't done anything." "Then why won't you look at me?" He looked at her then, fully, his blue eyes traveling from her damp hair to her bare feet, and his mouth curved into the polite smile he kept for waiters and journalists. "I'm looking at you now. Happy?" Her hand slid off his shoulder. She pressed her palm flat against her stomach, nodded twice, and said, "Okay," so quietly that the word almost stayed in her throat. "Good. Take the tray with you." "You haven't touched the tea." "I said take it." She lifted the tray, and the cup rattled against its saucer because her wrists would not stay still. At the door she turned, hoping for one soft word, but his fingers were already flying over the keyboard. In the hallway she nearly collided with Celeste, who leaned against the wall in a cream silk pajama set, swirling a glass of red wine and looking far too polished for someone on her way to bed. "Oh, cousin," Celeste said brightly, straightening up. "Have you been crying again?" "I wasn't crying." "Your nose is pink." Celeste tapped its tip with a manicured nail, and Lyra flinched back so fast that the tea sloshed over the rim. "It's fine, Damian says you get emotional before big events. Did he tell you I'm choosing your dress?" "He did." Lyra shifted the tray to her other arm. "But I have dresses, Celeste. I could wear the blue one Mama bought me." "The blue one?" Celeste laughed into her glass. "Sweetheart, that dress has survived three winters. The board will be there, and the investors, and every reporter in Velmont. Do you want them writing that the Castell heiress looks like a governess?" "I want them to see me looking like myself." "Then they'll write governess. I was thinking red." "Red?" Lyra's brows pulled together. "Mama said red was for women who want to be stared at." "Exactly." Celeste's smile was wide and warm and never reached her green eyes. "Trust me. I've looked after you since we were girls. When have I ever led you wrong?" Lyra's gaze dropped to the wine glass, to the red smear left on its rim. "Never," she said, because it was easier than the truth. "Good girl." Celeste patted her cheek twice, plucked a loose thread from the shoulder of her robe, and let it drift to the floor. "Go to bed. And please stop hovering outside his door, it's embarrassing." "I wasn't hovering." "Of course you weren't." Celeste's laughter trailed after her as she strolled to the study, slipped inside without knocking, and closed the door with a soft click. Lyra stood with the tray pressed against her chest. Through the wood she could hear Damian's voice, lower and warmer than it had ever sounded for her, and then Celeste's murmur, and then a low laugh that seemed to belong to both of them at once. Her heart was thudding so hard that she set the tray on the hall table before she dropped it. She counted five slow seconds, then knocked once and pushed the door open. "Sorry, I forgot to say goodnight." Celeste sat on the edge of the desk with one bare foot swinging, and Damian's hand was wrapped around her wrist. He let go at once, and the wrist stayed in the air between them. "We were going over the seating chart," Damian said, his voice smooth and almost bored. "What is it now?" "I only wanted to..." Lyra's eyes slid past him and stopped. His phone lay face up beside the laptop, its screen glowing in the dim room, and the message on it was still open. Unknown number: Tomorrow night, it ends. Make sure she drinks. Damian followed her gaze, and in one quick movement he flipped the phone face down. "Lyra." "Who is she?" Her voice cracked in the middle, and both hands went behind her back to hide their shaking. "Who has to drink, Damian?" "A Danish investor." He rose, rounded the desk, and folded his hand around her elbow, steering her toward the door with a smile that showed all his teeth. "He's difficult, and he never signs unless the wine is flowing. That's all this is." "At nine at night? From a number with no name?" "From my secretary's new phone." He guided her over the threshold and into the hallway. "Go to bed, Lyra." The door started to close, and through the narrowing gap she saw Celeste lift her wine glass in a silent toast and mouth one word over its rim. Tomorrow.