Princess for brother

CHAPTER 2. THE HEIR (Travis)

She's gone. The door closed with a soft but final click. The air in the office, which had just been stirred up by her presence, her questions, froze again, heavy and stale as in a crypt.

I unclench my fists. There are bloody half — moons of fingernails on the palms of her hands. i***t. A childish, useless reaction. I go to the bar and pour myself a whiskey. Without measuring. I drink it in one gulp. The fire cuts through the cold inside, but doesn't burn it. It won't burn anything.

"Pain is a gift."

Her message burns in my head like a neon sign. George. Of course he is. It always appears where it smells weak. Like a vulture scenting carrion. But how did he know? Who gave him Ashley's number? Or was he just guessing, feeling the pain point?

I go back to the table and look at the chaos. Not a mess. This is a map. A map of the disaster that my father left behind. The papers I scooped up on the floor in a fit of impotent rage now look like evidence. Systematize it. Arrangeit. That's all I can do.

I get down on my knees and start collecting. Reports. Contracts. Bank statements. And a letter from Thomas Baker, the lawyer, that arrived just before the ceremony this morning. It was on top, and I read it first. Hence the broken ashtray.

"...the sum of two million pounds was transferred on October 12 from your father's accounts to a bank account in the Cayman Islands. The beneficiary is not specified. The trust is anonymous. There are no traces..."

Two million. A small change for our assets, but a huge, suspicious amount for a one-time, unsubstantiated transfer. A month before he died. Not an investment. Compensation payments? Payment for silence? Or ... start-up capital for something that was supposed to happen after?

I arrange the papers on my desk, trying to build a timeline. My dad's been weird for the last six months. Detached. Paranoid. He installed new security systems in his account, changed passwords, and canceled several key transactions at the last moment. I thought it was stress, age. I understand now: fear. He was afraid. Whom? Reynolds?

Victor Reynolds. This is a shark that my father was once friends with, and then quarreled to the nines. Conflict over a merger five years ago. Reynolds lost, lost millions. My father then went to the shining month, calling him "a failed gambler." But in the last year, he mentioned Reynolds ' name again. Casually, with a certain ... mixture of respect and fear. "Victor has long arms, Travis. And an elephant's memory."

I find my father's old notebook in his desk drawer. Not a diary, but a battered notebook. I'm flipping through it. Business notes, phone numbers… And on the last pages — only numbers. Dates and amounts. And the initials "V. R.". Last entry: "Compensation? Is it too late?"

Compensation. For what? For that deal? Or for something else?

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Unknown phone number. I answer, already expecting the worst.

"Mr. Campbell. This is Carter. From the Valhalla Agency. "The voice of the private investigator I hired three days ago, after my first conversation with Baker. It sounds forced. "What do you have?" "On your instructions ... I started making requests regarding the transfer. And about Mr. Reynolds." "And?" Pause. "I got a call. From an unofficial number linked to Reynolds ' office. Politely asked "not to dig in this direction." They said it was in my best interests. " A chill runs down my spine. "I'm a professional, Mr. Campbell. But I work alone. And they have ... resources. I continue, but be careful. They know you've hired someone. And... I took a cursory look at your guest. George Smith. " I freeze. "What's wrong with him?" Too clean. But there are rumors. In certain circles. That he was running... delicate errands for Reynolds. Not for business purposes. Personal data. A kind of "conflict resolution specialist". Often where women are involved. ""Settling?" - my heart starts beating faster. "Or creating conflicts. It depends on what the client needs." The picture begins to take shape. A horrifying, disgusting picture. Reynolds wants revenge, or money,or everything. My father may have been trying to buy me off. And George ... George is a tool. Embed yourself. Observe. Push. To destroy. How does the destruction of the family begin? From its most vulnerable points.

With Ashley.

The thought burns like a hot iron. I jump up and go back to the bar, but I don't pour it. I just squeeze the edges of the bar until my knuckles are white. He was already getting close to her. Message. It's already working. "Pain is a gift." He plays on her trauma, on her loneliness, on that strange, fragile force that breaks through her ice. He sees her as the perfect victim. Pure, proud, broken by grief. And my ... my weakness.

Because he's right. She's my weakness. And always has been.

Suddenly, with the force of a blow, a memory hits. Not what you need right now. Not about the case. About her.

She was fourteen. I'm fifteen. Summer. She fell off her horse in a distant pasture. Not seriously, but I was scared and rubbed my hand. I found her there, sitting on the ground with a bloody hand pressed to her chest. She wasn't crying. She stared off into the distance, her lips trembling. I went over and took that hand, so small and fragile in mine. He wiped the blood away with his handkerchief and wrapped it tightly in bandages. She didn't resist. Then she looked up at me. And there was no arrogance in them, no ice wall that she had already begun to build. There was only a childish, helpless credulity. And gratitude. At that moment, I felt something sharp, warm and absolutely forbidden. The desire is not just to protect. The desire to ... possess. Hide it from the world. Make those eyes look only at me.

I dismissed the thought then, as you might dismiss a venomous snake. Locked her in the darkest basement of his soul. And he's been building a wall between us ever since. Out of annoyance, out of severity, out of ostentatious indifference. Better hate than... this. Better ice than that consuming fire.

But now the ice is melting. With a bang. And the fire begins to break out. Mixing with another fire-rage and fear for her.

I pick up the phone again. I dial the security number. Robert should be there.

"Robert. Travis. Step up surveillance. Especially in the east wing and at the gate. And check out todaylogs's internal camera logs. Around the gallery after seven in the evening. Someone might have gotten in. Or be inside. "" Understood, sir. It will be done."

I hang up the phone. Getting in... a shadow in the hallway. Footprints in the attic. It's not Reynolds. This is someone else's more elegant, more despicable work. George? He's capable of that. Ingratiate yourself, and then watch from the dark. Have fun.

I need to see her. Make sure she's in her room. Locked up. Safe.

I leave the office. The corridors are empty. They're booming. Only my footsteps resound loudly under the high arches. I go to her wing. I pass by the gallery. I'm stopping now. I stare into the darkness. Nothing. But there's a faint smell in the air — not our perfume, not floor wax. Cheap tobacco. And something else... the metallic, cold smell of fear. Her fear.

She was here. And not alone.

I quicken my pace. I walk over to her door. I'm listening. Silence. It's too quiet. I knock. Quiet at first, then louder.

"Ashley?"

There was no answer, not a rustle.

Panic, sharp and unfamiliar, clenches in my throat. I'm trying out a pen. The door isn't locked. I'm coming in.

The room is empty. The light is not on. Her mourning dress is neatly folded on the bed, like a discarded skin. She's not here.

Where? Where could she have gone after... after what happened at the gallery?

And then it hits me. She didn't run to hide. She went where I told her not to go. Where she knew there was a war going on.

I turn around and almost run back. Go to your office. Toward the center of the storm.

The door to the office is ajar. The light inside is on. I freeze in the doorway.

She's sitting in my chair at the desk. Not in hers, but in my chair. In front of her, the same papers I just picked up from the floor are neatly laid out. She studies the bank statement. In the dimness of the room, her face is lit only by a desk lamp. Her cheeks are pale, and there are dark shadows under her eyes. The ink marks are smudged, but she hasn't erased them. And there's something wild, almost rebellious about it. The mask is finally reset.

She looks up at me. There is no fear or challenge in them. There is a tired, crystal clarity.

"Did you hear that?" she asks softly. Refers to the steps in the gallery.

"I felt it," I say, walking in and closing the door. "Are you okay?"

She waves her hand dismissively, like she's waving away a mosquito. "Panic attack. It's nothing. And this is... " - she taps the paper with numbers on it with her finger. "It's not nothing. Do you think he paid Reynolds?"

I walk over and put my hands on the other side of the table. We're like two generals working on a battle map. "I think he tried. But it seems that the amount was not enough for Reynolds. He wanted everything. Or ... wanted more than money. ""For example? "" Pleasure. The pleasure of breaking your father. She nods, as if that's the only logical thing in the world. "And George? His vanguard?"

Her straightforwardness is disarming. "His scalpel," I correct. - Fine, precise. Aimed at the most vulnerable spot. " She looks at me. "Me. ""Us," I correct again. Because it's true. If he destroys her, he will destroy me. There's a heavy silence in the room. The lamp casts our interlocking shadows on the wall. They seem huge, monstrous.

"What are we going to do?" "her question isn't childish. It's a matter of equality.

"Play," I say. "But according to our rules. He wants us to be afraid, to make mistakes. We won't. We'll be cold. Like you did at the funeral today. ""I wasn't cold," she grins silently. — I was empty. "" That's enough. At first. Tomorrow I will start an official investigation of the loss of money through our lawyers. Open. Scandalous. I'll make Reynolds nervous. "You'll be the bait." She doesn't blink. "For George." He'll try to contact you again. Be polite. Reserved. Interested, but not overly so. Pull out information. About Reynolds. About what he knows about his father. "" What if he tries to... get close?" Everything in me tightens into a tight, painful knot. "Then you will retreat. Immediately. This isn't a discussion, Ashley." Walks around the table. She comes so close to me that I can feel the warmth of her body, the smell of her skin — a mixture of her perfume and the chilling fear that still lingers around her. "Who are you to give me orders, Travis?" Her voice is a whisper, but it's steely. "My brother? My supervisor? Or just a scared boy who breaks ashtrays when the world goes to hell? " Her words are a blow to the naked nervous tissue. I grab her arm above the elbow. It doesn't hurt. Firmly. "I'm the one who's trying to save you. "Maybe I don't need your tutelage," she doesn't try to pull away. Her eyes are bright in the half-light. "Maybe I need... an ally." The air between us is electric again, like before a thunderstorm. I can feel her pulse beating under my fingers. Fast, lively. In this touch is our whole history: children's quarrels, silent support, the wall of alienation... and the dark, forbidden things that are now breaking through all the cracks. "Allies don't kiss," I say, my voice hoarse.** "Who says so?" she breathes the word on my lips.

And I forget. I forget about Reynolds, the money, the debts, the ghosts. There is only her. Her challenge. Her pain. Our common madness.

My phone vibrates on the table, falling to the floor with a thud. Call. Reality bursts back in like an icy shower.

I let go of her hand and take a step back. I'm breathing like I ran a marathon. She moves away too, her face covered again, but her cheeks are flushed.

I pick up the phone. Unknown phone number. I pick up the phone. "Travis?" the voice on the other side is young, mocking, and familiar to the point of nausea. George. "I hear you're in trouble. I want to help. See you later?" Like old friends."

I look at Ashley. She hears everything. Her eyes narrow.

The game has begun. For real.