Chapter 61
Edward POV
The sunlight sliced through skyline as I guided my car through early traffic. Anna sat beside me, pressed against the passenger door as if those extra inches might shield her from me. The light caught in her hair, transforming last night's tangles into something almost radiant—a silent reminder of our night together.
My mind circled back to our agreement. Two years as my private companion in exchange for Helen's protection and care. Not exactly how I'd planned to bring her back into my life, but it would work. I'd always been practical that way—finding solutions where others saw only problems. The fact that this particular solution benefited me so personally was merely... convenient.
Last night's events played through my mind again. Vera had been sitting in my living room, all careful vulnerability and practiced grace, when Rebecca had called her. The manufactured concern in Vera's voice as she relayed seeing Anna enter The Plaza with Matthew Quinn still echoed in my ears.
Something about her eagerness to deliver the news had struck me as calculated, but the jealousy that surged through me had overwhelmed any suspicion.
I'd immediately had my driver take me there but hesitated outside the hotel. What right did I have to storm in and confront Anna or Matthew? None, technically. Yet the thought of her with Quinn had awakened something dark and possessive that I wasn't particularly proud of—a visceral need to claim what I still, somehow, considered mine.
Then she'd appeared, stumbling through those revolving doors, her eyes finding mine with an instinctive recognition that had satisfied something primal in me. What followed in my house had only confirmed what I already knew—Anna belonged with me, regardless of what our divorce papers said. The way her body responded to mine, even in her altered state, told me what her words refused to admit.
I glanced at her now, noting how deliberately she avoided my gaze, the slight tension in her shoulders betraying her discomfort. The contract would keep her physically present, but winning back anything more would require a different approach. Not that I was admitting, even to myself, that I wanted more than just her body in my bed.
Did I? The question surfaced unbidden. What exactly was I hoping to achieve with this arrangement? Protection and pleasure seemed straightforward enough, but the relief I'd felt when she'd agreed suggested something deeper, something I wasn't ready to examine too closely.
As we crossed the bridge into Brooklyn, the landscape changed. Less polished, more authentic. I noticed Anna's posture subtly relaxing as we entered her neighborhood.
I pulled up outside a building in Williamsburg. Not rundown, but conspicuously lacking the security features I considered essential. No doorman, no security cameras that I could see. The thought of Anna walking these streets alone at night made my jaw tighten.
"This is it," she said flatly, her first words since we'd left my apartment.
I followed her up three flights of stairs, watching as she quickened her pace ahead of me. The worn carpet runner muffled our footsteps, and the hallway carried that distinct blend of old building smells—wood polish, faint cooking aromas, and the indefinable scent of history. She fumbled with her keys, pushing the door open to reveal a small but surprisingly bright one-bedroom apartment.
Art books filled the shelves, sketches pinned to a corkboard above a desk, and a drawing table occupied the corner by the largest window. I recognized layout sketches for her graphic novel series.
Anna dropped her bag on the counter dividing the kitchen from the living area and turned to face me, arms crossed defensively.
"You've seen it now. No other men hiding in the closet. Can you leave?" Her tone was light, but her eyes remained guarded.
I ignored her request, moving further into her space, drawn to a stack of sketches on her couch. Before she could stop me, I picked up the top page, curious about what had captured her creative attention since our separation.
"Don't touch those!" She darted forward, snatching the page from my hand, her fingers briefly brushing mine.
I raised an eyebrow, amused by her reaction. "What's wrong? Drawing unflattering caricatures of me again? Afraid I'll sue for defamation?"
She rolled her eyes, tucking the sketch behind her. "Don't flatter yourself. I've never drawn you. That was all in your head."
The lie was so obvious I almost laughed. The male lead in her series had shared too many of my mannerisms to be coincidental.
I'd recognized myself immediately in those pages, though the character's emotional vulnerability bore little resemblance to the man I presented to the world. Had Anna seen something in me that I'd taken pains to conceal, or was it merely wishful thinking on her part?
"Is that so?" I couldn't help but smile. "Because I seem to recall your main character sharing some very specific habits with me. Though you didn't do my jawline justice."
Anna's expression shifted from annoyance to disbelief. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"
"What for?"
"I think you might have late-stage narcissism. Terminal, probably."
I laughed, genuinely amused by her sharp tongue.
She set the sketches aside, her posture stiffening. "I need to shower. I want to wash off the..." She paused, her cheeks coloring slightly. "The alcohol smell. And other things. You can leave now."
I leaned against her wall, making no move toward the door. "Make sure you wash thoroughly. Makes you more pleasant to touch in bed."
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "You're such an asshole," she muttered, barely audible.
Instead of being offended, I found myself strangely pleased. At least anger was an emotion.
I'd rather have her fury than her absence, her contempt than her emptiness. The realization should have alarmed me—this wasn't how I operated, wasn't how I maintained control of my life and business. I didn't chase; I was pursued. I didn't yearn; I acquired. Yet here I was, practically baiting her for a reaction.
"The door's that way," she said, more firmly this time. "I need some time alone."
I finally pushed away from the wall, making my way to the door, but stopped before opening it. A thought occurred to me—last night, in our passion, neither of us had considered protection. The possibility of pregnancy hung between us, unspoken but significant.
"Don't forget to take something," I said, my voice softer than I'd intended. "After what happened last night... I don't think either of us wants any complications right now."
She nodded stiffly, avoiding my eyes. "I'll go to the pharmacy after my shower."
"Call me if you need anything." I opened the door, pausing for a moment. "I mean it, Anna."
Back in my car, I immediately dialed James. "I need you to arrange for Helen Wilson to be transferred to a more secure private care facility. Make sure the transfer information doesn't leak." I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, remembering the vulnerability in Anna's eyes. "And find out exactly what happened at The Plaza last night. I want to know who drugged Anna and why."
As I drove away, the morning sunlight caught in my rearview mirror, momentarily blinding me. Something about Anna's apartment had unsettled me—not its modest size or location, but the obvious care she'd taken to make it her own. A space where she answered to no one. The realization left me with an unfamiliar hollow feeling in my chest.
Had I ever really known Anna? Even during our marriage, I'd seen her through the lens of what I needed her to be—a suitable wife, a Parker daughter, a solution to my inheritance problem.
I'd never bothered to discover what she wanted, what she dreamed of, what made her come alive. Her apartment revealed more about her in five minutes than I'd learned in our entire marriage.
I'd secured her presence in my life for the next two years through our arrangement. But as I merged back into Manhattan traffic, I wondered if having her body while her mind remained walled off would be enough.
No, I decided, accelerating smoothly past a slow-moving taxi. It wouldn't be.
And for the first time in longer than I cared to admit, I wasn't entirely sure what would. The uncertainty was foreign and deeply uncomfortable—I was a man who dealt in certainties, in calculated risks with predictable outcomes. Anna had become the variable I couldn't quite solve for, the equation that refused to balance.
Maybe that was precisely why I couldn't let her go.