Princess for brother

CHAPTER 4. THROUGH THE WALLS (Travis)

She left, taking with her a charge of static electricity that clicked in the air for a few more minutes. I was left standing in the middle of the office, feeling the adrenaline slowly recede, leaving a sticky, sickening fatigue in its wake. And shame.

I almost crossed the line. He found her weakness, her fear, andinstead of protecting her, he took advantage of the moment. He'd become the monster he'd sworn to protect her from. "Who are you to give me orders?" her words stung. The warden. That's how she sees me. And hell, maybe she's right.

But now is not the time for self-flagellation. George made a move. The needle is inserted. Now the poison will start spreading. I need an antidote. We need a plan.

I sit back down at my desk, pushing aside the financial statements. They are important, but security is critical right now. I pick up the internal phone and dial Robert's number. He answers almost immediately, his voice crisp as if it's not three in the morning.

"Sir. "" Robert. Have you watched the recordings?" "I watched it. The perimeter is clear. No one came to the gate after six in the evening. But internal cameras... In the east wing, on the second floor, near the gallery, there is a blind spot. Two cameras failed in the logs from 19: 03 to 19: 07. Just when Miss Ashley was there." Not a coincidence. "Failure? Or disabling it?" "Technically-a failure in recording. But to have two cameras at the same time... Unlikely. External interference is more likely. Signal suppression. Professional work. "" So someone was inside. And he knew the location of the cameras." Thoughts are racing, forming a terrifying logical chain. George? Maybe. But this kind of work requires skills and equipment. From him? Maybe he's not acting alone. Reynolds could provide resources. So the pressure is already here, in the walls of the house. Not just phone threats. Physical presence.

"We need more internal control," I say, feeling my stomach tighten. "Quiet. Don't let on that we know." "Already put two of my men on night rounds. From the former ones. They are not noticeable. And, sir... I took the liberty of checking out something else. On your instructions about Smith." "His car was seen this afternoon five miles from here, at a private airfield in Cranfield. He arrived on a private jet. Not on a commercial flight. The registration of the plane leads to an offshore company, which, in turn, is connected to the Reynolds holding company." The picture took shape, taking on a clear, frightening shape. George didn't just "drop in." It was sent. Purposefully. And it has its backsides.

Good. Meet him at the Brownieson the High Street tomorrow at eleven. I need you to be there for me. Invisible. "" Got it. I'll be in the audience as a client. With a microphone. If anything... "" If anything — act on the situation. But without too much fuss. So far. ""Consistent." I hang up. My hands are shaking again, but this time not from rage, but from cold concentration. The enemy is smart, prepared, and already inside the perimeter. We're playing chess, and he seems to have already placed the pieces on our side of the board.

I try to read the papers again, but the numbers are dancing in front of my eyes. Instead, I see her face in the semi-darkness of the office. Her challenge. "Maybe I need an ally." She's right. We can no longer pretend to be brother and sister in the classical sense. Too many lies have accumulated. Too much left unsaid. We must be partners. Otherwise, we'll lose.

This realization is both comforting and terrifying. Partnering with her will be different. More dangerous than any fight with Reynolds. Because it will require absolute honesty. And absolute trust. And I'm not sure I can do either. Not with her.

One o'clock in the morning. The palace is in a state of sleep that I don't want. I get up and leave the office. I need air. Or you just need to make sure she's in her room. That she was asleep. That she was safe, if only for a few hours.

I climb the stairs to her wing. The corridor is dark, except for the night light on duty at the end. There's a crack of light at her door. She's not sleeping.

I freeze, listening. Not a sound. Just silence. But the light speaks volumes. She's awake. Thinks. Afraid. Preparing.

The hand reaches for the handle by itself. I stop myself. Stay out of it. Give her some space. But my legs won't work. I knock softly.

"Ashley?"

Pause. Then her voice, muffled but clear, " Come in."

I open the door. She's not in bed. She is sitting in a deep armchair by the window, wrapped in a dark blanket. There is a single candle burning on a nearby table. And there is... a fan. Antique, made of ivory. I recognize it at a glance — it's a level of antiques that you can't buy in a gift shop. It looks like it just fell out of someone's hand.

"What is it?" my voice sounds hoarse.

She doesn't turn, but stares out the dark window where we're both reflected — she in the chair, me in the doorway, ghosts in the glass.

"A gift. For the upcoming performance. " - she says it evenly, without emotion. "From George. The messenger must have slipped it under the door."

I go over and pick up my fan. The bone is cold and smooth, almost alive. I unfold it. The scenes evoke something familiar... "Sardanapal". A king watching everything he loved being destroyed. The last, theatrical, decadent gesture.

"He's enjoying himself," I say, squeezing the bone plates so tightly that they're about to crack. "He sees it all as a play. "So it's time to show him that we're bad actors —" she finally turns to me. Her face looks carved from pale marble in the candlelight, but her eyes burn with an inner fire. — I'm not wearing black tomorrow." "He expects mourning. A broken princess. I'll show him something else." "Ashley, don't play his games with him. Keep it simple. She stands up, the blanket falling from her shoulders. She's wearing a loose nightgown, but even the folds of it can't hide the determination that radiates from her entire body. "Noticeable? I've been inconspicuous all my life! The mother was prominent, with her scandals. My father was prominent, with his own money. I was a shadow. A picture on the wall. The painting's off the wall now, Travis. And she has her own colors." The smell of candle wax mingles with her scent-sandalwood and something bitter, wormwood. "He sent this fan as a prop. As a hint of our role-passive victims, doomed to beautiful destruction. "What role will you accept?" I ask, and my voice softens treacherously. "The role of the one who sets fire to the curtain," she says as simply as if she's announcing that it's going to rain tomorrow.

And in that moment, I see the real thing. Not my sister. Not a fragile heiress. Not the victim. I see the same power that broke through in her paintings. Dark, chaotic, dangerous. And I understand that all this time, trying to control it, I was trying to put this particular force in a cage. And that only made it worse.

"All right," I say. Not because I agree, but because I understand that there is no stopping it. "Wear whatever you want." But every word you say, every look you give us — we have to rehearse. "We're already rehearsing," she points her eyes at the fan in my hand. He made the first move, marking out the scenario. Our response should be unexpected. Not by resistance. By acceptance. But with his own. ""How's that? "" He's waiting for the tension between us. Hate or... something else he already seemed to have picked up. We'll show him the union. Gentle, almost... intimate. A brotherly closeness that borders on something more. Let's make him wonder if this is really a game or if we're really crazy. Let's confuse him. He likes to be in control. Break his control. " Her plan is insane. Risky to the point of obscenity. He's playing with fire, the very fire that smolders between us. But there's an ironclad logic to her insanity. George is a manipulator. He makes calculations based on human weaknesses. If we show him not the weakness, but the strange, perverse strength of our alliance, it may unsettle him.

"This is dangerous," I say, but not as a ban, but as a statement. "Everything is dangerous right now. Sitting back is more dangerous." Always right, damn her.

I put the fan back on the table. "So, tomorrow we are close brother and sister, who were united by the tragedy. I am a saddened but collected heir, and you are my support. We stand together against the world. ""And against it," she adds. "He should feel out of place. Not a hunter, but an uninvited guest in our small, closed world. " Our world really became small and closed. And in it, in this hell of suspicion and fear, only the two of us remained. And this knowledge is both searing and a strange, perverse comfort.

"Try to sleep," I say, sounding off-key even to my own ears. "I need to be in shape tomorrow." "And you?" "I'll work again." She nods, not insisting. He returns to the chair and wraps the blanket around himself again. I know she won't be sleeping. And so am I.

I go out and close the door behind me. I lean my forehead against the cold wood of the jamb. There's a whirl in my chest. Fear for her. Anger at him. And that dark, forbidden excitement that stirs at the thought of pretending to be "intimate" with her in public. It won't be an act. It will be a game of truth. The most dangerous game of all.

As I walk back down to my office, I find myself thinking that for the first time in years, I don't feel alone in this house. She's up there with her crazy plan and her burning eyes. We're in the same boat. And this boat is sailing straight into the storm.

In the study, I pour more whiskey, but I don't drink it. Just looking at the dark liquid. Then I open the bottom drawer of my desk, which I haven't checked before. There, under the folders, is a small, flat digital voice recorder. My father sometimes used it for taking notes. I'm turning it on. I scroll through my notes. Most of them are business negotiations. But one... it was dated a week before his death.

I click play.

First — a long silence, heavy breathing. Then my father's voice. It sounds broken, old. Not the domineering baritone voice I'm used to."...If you're listening to this, then I couldn't... So he did it. Victor. He said it would look like an accident... that he would spare the children if I... if I give it all away. But I know him. He won't leave any witnesses. Neither her, nor... Travis, Ashley... excuse me. I've ruined everything. All my life. Love it... take care of each other. And run. Get out of here before you..."

The recording ends with a sharp noise, as if the recorder has been dropped or snatched away.

I sit petrified. The cold that seeps into your bones is no longer metaphorical. It's physical. I can feel it in every joint.

My father knew. I knew they'd be killed. I was afraid they'd kill us, too. He tried to buy it off, but found it useless. And left it... a suicide confession. A cry to the void.

Reynolds didn't just want revenge. He wanted to wipe out our entire family. And it doesn't look like he's finished yet.

George is not just a " conflict resolution specialist." He's the executioner. Sent to finish the job.

I yank the memory card out of the recorder and put it in the inside pocket of my jacket. Proof. Direct, terrifying.

Seven hours to figure out how to play gentle, close-knit family in front of the man who killed our parents and may have come after us.