Chapter 27: Underlying Surface

Not since morning had the wind died. Screaming at the Beaumont estate's stone walls, it shook the windows and bent the trees in fierce compliance. Inside, the storm reflected the weight building under Scarlet Langston's skin. Barefoot on chilly marble, she walked her chamber like a caged animal, the journal clutched tightly against her palm. Pages dog-ended, ink smudged by restless fingers, it felt less like a relic today and more like a loaded weapon. She had not gone to sleep.

Every word her mother had penned echoed in her skull the messages, the cautions, the facts buried in writing and suffering. Every page, every memory, every shadow now slithering across the Beaumont mansion was a venom carried by Wyatt Lockwood. But the window of time for terror was closed. Scarlet ripped open her closet and moved across the room in three fast steps. She slid a deep green silk top into fitting black pants, tugged on them, and coiled her hair into a loose knot at her nape of her neck. Not cosmetics. none of masks. Let him witness her fury right now. She grabbed the journal and left the room, her heels clicking on the polished floor with deliberate speed. Though every corridor she went echoed the past, today she was not haunted. She is hunting today.

Tucker was in the classroom researching. Clearly he was. The double doors opened to show him seated behind the large mahogany desk, engrossed in papers and reports, gaze locked on the figures defining empires. His tie was off, his sleeves rolled, a half-full bourbon glass next to him. Warm colors from the flames washed over his sharp angles of face. Though even kings bled when truth hit bone, he looked every inch the corporate king. Scarlet unlocked the doors without calling for anyone else. Tucker looked down. "You have been brooding since the supper," he said, glancing at a file. You should work on your subtlety. You should also practice listening, she said sharply. That brought him to raise his head. Their eyes caught across the distance hers; fire; ice.

She moved nearer and dropped the diary on the desk. Leather on wood sounded like a shot. Tucker gave a frown and looked down. "What is this?." He didn't move. She opened her arms. "Go forward, Tucker." Show you are not terrified of the truth. He grabbed for the diary gently and opened it. On the first page his fingers stopped. Elena Langston. He blinked then turned another way. And another. He turned stiller the more he read. He then hit the first reference to his father's name. And something shifted. Scarlet saw it in the little tremble of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes, the pulse that sprang at his throat. “What is this? He said once more, but this time his voice was scratchy. "My mother's journal," Scar said, her voice more pointed now. Everything Wyatt did.

Every threat. Each manipulation. Every time he sought to wipe us out. Another page Tucker turned. and still another. Then ceased. Right there was his father's fixation. The blossoms. The notes. the compulsion. The campaign of pressure to split Scarlet's family apart. His control drives Scar away from Tucker. His resentment of the Langstons sprang from a damaged ego and poisonous fixation rather than from commerce. "I had no idea," Tucker answered softly. No, you were not interested in learning. He turned sharply and looked up. "Don't let this fall on me." Neither am you. But today you understand why I left.

Why was I unable to inform you? Why did I feel so afraid? His hands closed around the borders of the diary. "He misled me." He convinced me over all these years that you deceived me. “And I felt you’d never forgive me,” she replied cruelly. “So I ran.” “You let me detest you.” She stepped back and said, "And you did it so wonderfully." Did not you? You paraded your resentment like a badge. You pulled me into this marriage out of spite.” Rising from his seat, Tucker moved slowly, the journal sliding closed in his fingers. Scarlet looked at him, heart thumping. Do you still find truth in all he says? "I never know what to believe anymore." Think the truth. Again, his jaw flexed. Approaching her, he moved around the desk carrying the journal in one hand. He measured his steps, his eyes wild. You believe that this transforms everything? " She remarked, "It does." He stopped about one foot away from her. His hand reopened the journal, gaze darting over one specific page her mother had written. The one that finished with the words: Scarlet won't be safe if Wyatt finds out. The hearth cracked with more fire. He once more turned to face her. "This." His speech stopped. His gaze once more turned to the paper. She noticed it then as well. Something deeper than wrath. Something approaching loss. “This,” he murmured, as if the word shamed him, “changes everything.” Scarlet’s breath caught. The journal slid from his fingertips, falling open on the floor between them. And Tucker Beaumont looked less than perfect for the first time since their wedding. He seemed damaged.

Scarlet wanted to walk approach him. to contact his face. To say anything that would help him to stop the agony coursed across his body. But the door creamed open once again before she could get going. And Estelle showed up, face pallid. Mr. Beaumont, someone is here to see you. Tucker turned not away from Scarlet. "Who is that? " Estelle hesitated. "An Mr. Michael Richards." Scarlet's gut fell empty. She gave Tucker a quick glance. He was already withdrawing, nodding once. "Send he in." Estelle started to turn to leave. Still, Scarlett moved first. She spoke a brief "I'll go." Let him first talk to me.

Tucker frowned. " Scarlet" Her voice urgent, she replied, "I need answers." And I believe he carries them. Her pulse throbbing in her ears, she passed Tucker without waiting. Because whatever transpired. The surface just started to show cracks. The passage appeared to be longer than normal, and every step Scarlet made resonated off the marble with startling accuracy. As she descended the stairs, her breath moved short and shallow in her chest; the weight of the journal's disclosures still rested on her shoulders. Though it was little compared to the developing tempest inside her, the storm outside kept roaring at the mansion. Michael Richards waited in the drawing room a man who always seemed neither quite foreign nor totally welcome.

Michael held himself in his early fifties with a subtle threat veiled in polished elegance. His steel-gray suit hugged a slim body more like a calculating strategist than a corporate baron, and his silver hair was trimmed clean. Standing next to the fireplace, he filled a glass of scotch from the sideboard as like he owned the space; the smell of smoke and old wood enveloped him like another customized layer. He turned exactly as Scar arrived, his eyes piercing and inscrutable. You have grown into her face, he remarked. Scarlet paused just inside the threshold. Excuse me? ”