Chapter 22: The Ice Below the Surface

Walking into the ballroom at Tucker's side, Scarlet Langston's fingers softly looped around the bend of his arm. She looked the part to everyone else observing. Regional. Designed. Untouchable. Only Scarlet, though, could sense how tightly his muscles contracted under the fabric of his customized tuxedo. Since the limbo trip, he had not spoken to her once. None of eye contact. Not a little hand squeeze here. Not at all friendly. Just that blasted silence he wore, like a second skin a bone-cutting silence. She held her smile in place and swallowed hard, the one that was courteous enough not to be questioned but not so brilliant it begged conversation. a thin tightrope.

She had learnt to walk over the past few weeks since she had married Tucker Beaumont, the man who had previously been her refuge but now felt like a golden cage surrounded with daggers. “You’ll keep that smile plastered on,” Tucker murmured out of the corner of his lips, not even glancing her way as they proceeded past the crush of guests. “You wanted this house. You got it. Play your part.” “I didn’t ask to be paraded like a trophy,” she replied under her breath, the gentle clink of champagne glasses nearby disguising her words. "You didn't ask," he remarked coldly, pointing her toward a gathering of investors with trained ease. yet you signed.

And in this earth your signature is your soul. They stopped in front of a semicircle of middle-aged men in elegant suits and their lavishly jeweled spouses. Tucker welcomed them with the refined appeal only wealthy men raised could so brilliantly mimic. His comments were caustic and tinged with sarcasm; his chuckle timed exactly. Scarlet saw how readily he fit the strong billionaire, untouchable, magnetic role. She was invisible, albeit still. Tucker turned away every time a visitor tried to bring her into the conversation. He subtly pivoted his shoulder, a casual brush of his arm across her back, pulling the focus from her and back to him. Like a custom-made object for appearances, she seemed to be only an accentuation to his tuxedo. Then, though, arrived the little things. One hand on her waist stayed longer than it ought. The odd brushing of fingertips on her lower back while nobody was around. Possessive; Computated.

Though his words and behavior contradicted each other, she was his property and he intended to remind her of that. Scarlet tensed every time, not sure whether to dissolve under the contradictory force or flee. "You look like a mannequin," a voice said next her. She turned to see Gabrielle Richards staring at her with barely veiled scorn. Tucker's cousin had beautiful statuesque hair pulled into a sleek twist and emerald earrings glistening under the chandeliers. She was honeyblonde. Her smile was poisonous yet lovely. "I guess Tucker was aiming for," Gabrielle said, sipping from her crystal flute. "He always had a flair for items that appeared costly, even if they weren't worth much beneath." Scarlet offered a lovely, almost lazy smile. And yet here you are, still whirling his orbit like a moth to flame.

Has to be quite demanding, Gabrielle. The woman's smile did not waver even as her eyes narrowed. I assign two months for it. You will be out and he will be bored. Maybe he will at last choose someone with a real pedigree. Scarlet leaned in just slightly and spoke softly. " Funny." Last night Tucker did not seem bored. Gabrielle's heart thumping, her face twitched for a half-second just enough to please Scar before she turned aside. Desperate for air, her heels clicked over the floor toward the terrace. The cold night breeze met her like an old friend as soon as she passed the open glass doors. She leaned against the stone railing, letting the breeze tangle her dress an emerald green silk that hung to her curves like a whispered threat. Her hair was messy. The city glittered underneath you.

St. Louis intoxicated on money and power, in all its grandeur. Laughing from the party erupted once again somewhere behind her, but it seemed hollow and far. She had not spotted Tucker after her until she heard his footsteps. “Don’t play games with Gabrielle,” he urged plainly, standing just a few feet away, without even bothering to be nice. With arms crossed and head slanted, she asked, "Why not? She seems to be enjoying them. She has blood. You are not. He aimed toward the city lights. "Do not mix location with proximity." Although Scarlet choked back the words slithering up her tongue, her throat stung. She turned instead to face him. actually looked at.

Tucker came out of another world. Broad shoulders, the lean muscle of a man who fought fights in boardrooms yet carried the marks of far older wars under his fitted suits. His jaw tightened, eyes cold steel under lashes too dark and thick for a guy so nasty. She said gently, "I used to know you." He omitted responding. Just placed a cigarette between his lips and turned on it.

Scarlet detested the fragrance. She thought of how he had stopped once since she coughed every time he smoked. Now, he smoked with casual disobedience. Like every puff was a middle finger to who he used to be. “You’ve changed.” “No,” he responded after a lengthy pull. You just never knew who I really was. She turned away before he could perceive how one sentence broke something inside her. Scarlet was walking barefoot, frock grasped in one hand, champagne glass abandoned somewhere in a corridor later that evening when the gala faded and the visitors left in waves of perfume and laughter. Tucker vanished when the celebration drew to a conclusion.

She discovered herself close to his study, the one area he usually locked while he was not home. Except tonight it was not locked. One was more curious than cautious. She unlocked the door. The room was perfect mahogany, with glass displays containing collector models, leather-bound ledgers, and rare book shelves. The air smelled of tobacco and cedarwood like something holy. She strayed approached the desk and trailed her fingers over the smooth surface. She then caught sight of it. a draw-downer. Small. Quietly cut into the side panel. Locked. But what made her breath catch was the label engraved delicately into the brass. Langston, Scarlett. Her fingers trembled. Why would Tucker have a drawer named after her? He might be hiding something quite different. And why was it locked with such great care? She went for the handle once more, but it would not move. She imagined she heard footsteps in the corridor behind her. Scarlet swung rapidly. Zero. Her heartbeat would not slow down though. In the drawer, what the devil was? And why did her whole life seem to have simply slanted on its axis?