The Masked Heiress - A Belgravia Dynasty Novel

Friday, 1 November 2024 Dior Esme Ecclestone's POV Friday evenings at Callum’s are always louder than they mean to be. I’m barefoot on polished wood, vodka in hand, pretending the room isn’t tilting just slightly to the left. Camille is folded into Callum on the sofa like she lives there, her fingers curled in the collar of his shirt while he murmurs something low enough that I can’t hear it but high enough that I can see the way her mouth curves. “Honestly,” I call over, leaning against the back of an armchair, “if you two get any more domestic, I’m invoicing you for emotional damages.” Callum doesn’t even look up. “You’re jealous.” “Of what, exactly?” Camille laughs into his shoulder. “Of stability.” I take a slow sip. It burns. Good. “I own three companies,” I say lightly. “Stability’s not my problem.” “Mm,” Camille hums, distracted, because Callum has started kissing the inside of her wrist like he’s reading a secret there. “You’re on your..” “Third,” I cut in smoothly. She glances at my glass. “Thought so.” “It’s Friday.” “It’s six.” “And?” Callum finally looks at me, eyebrow lifting just slightly. “You pacing yourself?” “Always.” It comes out clean. Measured. Polished. No one notices that I haven’t eaten since noon. The flat smells faintly of basil and something expensive simmering. Julian cooks when he’s bored. Callum orders in. They pretend this isn’t a personality difference. I finish what’s left in my glass and roll my shoulders back. “I’m starving,” I announce, pushing off the chair. “If I pass out, tell Vogue it was artistic.” Camille waves a hand. “Kitchen’s a disaster. Don’t judge.” “I don’t judge,” I say. “I evaluate.” I walk through the open archway, heels in hand now, because the floor feels better cold under my feet. The kitchen lights are softer than the living room under-cabinet glow, marble counters, a bottle of something red already breathing beside the hob. There’s a plate half-covered in foil on the island. I lift it. Steak. Of course. I blink at it for a second. How in the lord does he do that. I didn’t see him come in. I lean my hip against the counter and carve off a slice with the knife already there. No plate. No ceremony. The first bite is ridiculous. “Unbelievable,” I mutter to myself. “You’re welcome.” His voice lands behind me like it always does, low, calm, too close. I don’t flinch, but I don’t turn immediately either. Another bite. Slow. “I wasn’t thanking you,” I say lightly. “I was insulting the cow.” A quiet breath behind me that could almost be a laugh. I set the knife down and finally glance over my shoulder. Julian is standing just inside the doorway, jacket half-off, tie loosened, sleeves already pushed back like he’s been here longer than he has. Dark hair slightly undone at the front, like he’s dragged a hand through it in the lift. Women look at him twice without meaning to. I don’t. I know exactly what he looks like. “You’re early,” I say. “So are you.” “I live here now.” “That news to me?” I shrug, stealing another slice straight off his plate. “Legally ambiguous.” He steps further in, setting his keys down. His eyes sweep me once. Not lingering. Not obvious. Assessment. He clocks it. The looseness in my posture. The glassy sheen I can feel but pretend isn’t there. The fact that I’m barefoot and leaning harder than usual against the counter. “How many?” he asks quietly. “Don’t start.” “That wasn’t starting.” I turn fully now, back against the island, arms folding loosely. “Three.” He looks at the empty bottle near the sink. Then at me. “Dior.” “It’s vodka,” I say, as if that explains anything. “Not arsenic.” He moves closer. Not rushed. Never rushed. “Is Camille aware you’re on a mission?” “She’s busy.” I tip my chin toward the living room. “Domestic bliss and all that.” His mouth twitches. There’s a moment where we just stand there. Close enough that I can smell whatever cologne he’s pretending he doesn’t wear. He reaches past me for a glass. His arm brushes mine. It’s nothing. It’s everything. I don’t move. He pours water. Hands it to me without looking at my face. “Drink.” I stare at it. “You’re not my father.” “No,” he agrees easily. “I’m not.” That lands differently than it should. I take the glass anyway. Because he’s right. Because he always is in ways that irritate me. “You’re brooding,” he says, leaning back against the counter opposite me. “I don’t brood.” “You absolutely brood.” “I process.” “Loudly.” I swallow water. Too quickly. It splashes at the corner of my mouth, and he reaches out instinctively, thumb brushing it away before I even register it. The contact is brief. Unnecessary. My pulse does something annoying. I clear my throat. “You weren’t meant to be home.” “Callum mentioned you were coming.” “And?” “And I was nearby.” Liar. I study him properly now. “You rearranged.” “Don’t flatter yourself.” “I wasn’t.” His jaw shifts just slightly. There it is. The familiar current between us. Not explosive. Not dramatic. Just steady. Like it’s always been running under the floorboards. “You’ve had more than three,” he says quietly. I hold his gaze. “You counting?” “I’m concerned.” “About?” “You.” I laugh. Soft. Dangerous. “Adam,” I say, using it deliberately, watching the way it lands. “I’m fine.” His eyes darken just enough to notice. He hates when I use his middle name like that. Loves it too. “This about Silvia?” he asks. The room tilts again. Only slightly. I look down at the plate instead of at him. “She wasn’t available,” I say, picking up the knife again. “Apparently Vogue schedules don’t align with maternal obligations.” He doesn’t answer immediately. Good. I carve another slice, but my hand isn’t as steady this time. “She read it,” he says finally. “How do you know?” “She rang my mother.” Of course, she did. I snort. “Charming.” “She said it was brave.” “That’s not a compliment.” “I’m aware.” I set the knife down harder than necessary. “I don’t need her approval,” I say. “I don’t.” “I know.” “You don’t know.” He pushes off the counter then. Closer again. Always closer when it matters. “I do,” he says, and his voice is softer now. “You never did.” I swallow. Vodka feels less clever suddenly. “You should eat properly,” he adds quietly. “Not off my plate like a feral cat.” I look up at him sharply. “It’s my plate now.” “It absolutely is not.” I reach for it again anyway. He doesn’t stop me. Of course, he doesn’t. Behind us, Camille laughs at something Callum says, loud and bright, and the world keeps spinning like nothing in this kitchen is fragile. Julian’s hand rests briefly at the small of my back as he moves past me to the fridge. Casual. Familiar. Protective. I feel it long after he lets go.