Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
How can he not see his part in this? He treated me like he treated Lucy. When I turned to Oliver on our wedding day, he helped me when he could’ve kicked me out of the car! I pushed at the hotel elevator when he would have left me alone.
He must’ve thought I deserved it.
I’m no longer jealous of Lucy. It’s no comfort when I feel hurt, when I see this for what it is. What happened with his sister must’ve crushed him, whether he sent her away or not. But people who try to end their own lives aren’t in their right state of mind—it’s called a crisis for a reason. Oliver isn’t to blame. Except maybe in his own mind. I have to find him—tell him I know. That I understand, and that it changes nothing.
My phone vibrates, and I look down, realizing it’s still in my hand. The number is unfamiliar but brings my mind back to Nora. My stomach coils tightly as I make my way to the side of the room to open it. I thought the last few minutes were a lot to take in, to process, but this makes my head hurt. Makes my heart feel chilled. Screenshot after screenshot, some with notes scrawled in a childish hand, others with roughly drawn arrows and highlighted text.
As the party swirls on around me, as people drink, and eat, and laugh, I stare at my phone until I’m sure of what I’m seeing. A web of offshore holding companies with assets valued at over three hundred million, largely in real estate, ultimately own Atterir Limited. The same company who fenced off Nora’s place. From reams of documents, with lawyers, accountants, and corporate entities named, to what looks like information pulled from a data leak, I find the answer I most dread. The ultimate owner’s name.
No. No.
This isn’t the man my heart softened for.
Chapter 44
EVIE
Am I the stupidest woman in the world?
Could he just not help himself? I can’t believe it—I want to believe none of it, to put it down to coincidence and the ramblings of a teenage would-be anarchist.
My stomach knots as I set out to find Oliver. I need to hear him deny it, to listen as he explains why he didn’t tell me about Lucy. I need to hear that he loves me, that this isn’t some sick kind of payback.
As I move from room to room, my skin feels as though it’s burning, yet my blood feels like ice water as it pumps through my veins. There’s no sign of him in the ballroom, or any of the places where people gather. In the long gallery, outsize portraits of Mandy’s ancestors witness me freeze.
“A little bird says,” a woman’s voice trills.
I don’t recognize the plummy accent, but my stomach still sinks. A journalist?
“Who’d bid on that?” asks a second female voice.
My gaze shifts left, and I take in the tables running along the wall; this is where the silent auction is being held. I edge my way to the nearest lot as though interested, though my aim is to listen in. A plastic stand holds the details of one of the auction lots, blank tickets scattered across the table to detail bids for . . . a balloon ride over Northaby. I move to the end of the table, edging closer to the voices as I pretend to consider bidding on an ugly painting this time.
“Haven’t you been keeping abreast of the news?” the first voice demands.
“That thing in Whitehall?”
“No one is interested in the government, Caro. I’m talking about the feud between Oliver Deubel and that slice of naughty, Mitchell Atherton. His love rival.” She draws the latter out salaciously, not giving a damn who might be listening. “It’s all been rather scandalous, not that I usually follow such things.”
“No, of course not.” Her companion doesn’t sound convinced or much interested.
“A love triangle, I gather.”
I’m pleased someone is enjoying my drama-filled existence.
“Who’s the lucky girl?”
“Screw her! It’s the other two I’m interested in. Oliver especially.”
“Oliver . . .” The second woman draws out his name as though rifling through a mental Rolodex. “Oh! That wicked-looking dark-haired beast? The one with the eyes!”
Yes, bitch, he has two of them.
“Yes, that’s the one. He looks like he could break a girl in two.”
“And make you say thank you.”
I turn my head, but I can’t see who’s speaking for a stupid statue and the crowd of people milling around in their stupid evening wear.
“But what has a bird to do with it?”
The first woman tsks. “Just look at lot sixty-eight.”
“‘Tea at Claridge’s and then a night in the West End with the Earl of Bellsand.’”
“God, not that one.”
Sounds like a good time to me.
“It must’ve been lot sixty-nine,” she adds with a smutty snicker. “A Little Bird is the awful gossip column I’ve been following. It’s been bleating on about him being head over heels in love with some American vet. It sounds as though they’ve been tweeting up the wrong tree, so to speak, because take a look what’s on offer.”