Chapter Four
Camilla
Whispers.
Coy looks.
Pity.
I try to ignore everything as I make my way to the dining room. Warren told me to meet him for brunch today. He said last night that he has a surprise waiting for me, one involving my fate.
I know he wants to return me. He claims I’m broken because I can’t procreate, and now he wants a new bride. He thinks the program lied to him, but my fertility was tested as part of my bridal preparations. And I was—at that time—fertile.
I suppress a sigh and turn a corner toward the main hall. The whispers from the staff are louder today, likely because of how much I bled last night. I shiver, my body still sore from last night’s events.
Hopefully, Warren won’t notice. Otherwise, he’ll exploit my pain for his benefit and just make it that much worse.
The whispers grow into voices, conversation flowing freely below as I reach the grand staircase. I freeze at the top, confused by the chaos flooding the foyer by the front double doors.
Several pairs of eyes look my way, everyone pausing to gift me with more of those pitying stares.
Annoyance bristles inside me.
Last night wasn’t the worst of my experience. Why are they all looking at me like a dead woman walking? Do they know what surprise awaits me in the dining hall?
My jaw clenches.
Well. There’s only one way to find out.
I lift my chin and force a regal air as I descend, not bothering to acknowledge anyone around me. It’s how I survive. How I keep moving forward. How I put up with Warren and his cruelty.
The Elite Bride program taught me how to force a smile and maintain an elegant air outside of the bedroom. And how to accept the kinky complexities of my husband and his friends.
That doesn’t mean I enjoy it.
On the contrary, I loathe every minute.
But it’s my fate. There is no alternative for one of my upbringing.
I pivot at the bottom of the stairs, ignoring all the commotion, and start toward the dining hall, only to halt as a deep voice says my name. Goose bumps pebble along my arms, my body aching at the memories of last night.
Grayson Thompson presses his palm to my lower back, the move proprietary and knowing and completely inappropriate in front of the staff. But he’s never cared about appearances. Just like Warren. They’re old friends. And they share a lot… including me.
“Where are you wandering off to, Cami?” he asks against my ear as his touch moves to my hips.
“Brunch with Warren,” I reply.
He freezes against my back. “You haven’t heard yet?”
I frown. “Heard what?”
He spins me in his arms, causing my five-inch heels to catch against the marble floor. I right myself by grabbing his suit jacket, my balance threatened by the abrupt movement.
Ow, I think, annoyed.
Then I meet his simmering gaze, his intensity causing my lungs to stop working. And not in a good way. What is it? I want to ask him.
Except a group of police officers choose that moment to enter the house without knocking. “What’s going on?” I whisper, my brow furrowing as one of the cops catches my attention. His kind brown eyes narrow at the hold Grayson has on me, and he moves our way with an authority that makes my knees lock together.
“Mrs. Graves,” he greets with a tip of his chin. “I was just on my way to find you.”
“That won’t be needed,” Grayson interjects. “I’ll talk to her.”
“I’m afraid that’s not our protocol, Mr. Thompson,” the male replies, his voice a deep baritone that brooks no argument.
But Grayson isn’t one to adhere to rules or propriety. Instead, he folds me into his arms as though we’re long-lost lovers and levels a look at the dark-haired officer. “Warren would have preferred a friend break the news to her, not a stranger. So if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be in his office.” He grabs me by the elbow and tugs me along with him, until two more cops step into his path.
“Problem, Quinn?” one of them asks, the question directed over my shoulder to the cop behind me.
“Not one I can’t handle,” he replies, stepping around me with danger in his eyes. “I recommend releasing her, Gray. Unless you want to be arrested for interfering with an investigation.”
The informal use of Grayson’s name suggests these two know each other. But I’ve never seen this cop before in my life. Nor do I understand what’s happening.
“Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” I ask.
Grayson flashes me a look of annoyance. But I’ve only been taught to bow to him in the bedroom, not in the grand foyer of my husband’s house.
“There’s been an accident,” Officer Quinn says softly. “And I need to ask you a few questions about it.” His gaze leaves mine for Grayson. “So if you could please remove your hands from Mrs. Graves, I would appreciate it.”
“She’s going to need a friend.”
“And she’ll have one,” the cop replies. “You’re more than welcome to wait here.” He holds out his hand. “If you’ll follow me, Mrs. Graves.”
I swallow, but Grayson releases me, his aggression a brand against my skin. Somehow I know I’ll pay for this later.
However, I’m more concerned with the present. “What kind of accident?” I ask the officer as he leads me through the foyer, down a corridor, and then turns into a sitting area that’s only two doors away from the dining hall. Warren refers to this room as his cigar room, which is evidenced by the subtle aroma of tobacco in the air.
The doors at the back of the room are open, revealing the wraparound balcony that overlooks the courtyard below. But the space is otherwise vacant, and the officer shuts the hallway door, leaving us alone in here.
“Warren’s dead,” he says without any introduction or calming words to lead me into the news.
I gasp in response. “He’s dead? How?”
“Car accident,” he explains, slipping his hands into
