Chapter 8 No.8

"Mr. Eaton requests your presence at dinner," Mrs. Sterling said through the door.

It wasn't a request. It was a summons.

Ainsley went downstairs in the bathrobe. She didn't have anything else, and she was past the point of caring about etiquette.

The dining room was a cavern. A long mahogany table stretched out under a crystal chandelier.

Carson sat at the head. He was wearing a fresh shirt, his dark glasses reflecting the candlelight.

There were only two settings. No Victoria. No Kirstie.

Ainsley sat down at his right. The scrape of the chair was loud.

They ate in silence for five minutes. The only sound was the clink of silver against china.

"Preston is bringing a new agreement tomorrow," Carson said. He didn't stop cutting his steak.

"I told you," Ainsley said, stabbing a potato. "I'm not signing."

He turned his face toward Ainsley. "If you don't sign, I will cut off every credit card. I will freeze your accounts. You will be destitute."

Ainsley shrugged, then remembered he couldn't see it. "I'm used to being broke. I was a student on a scholarship. I can survive on ramen."

Carson paused. "You don't remember the shopping sprees? The jewelry?"

"No."

"Convenient."

"Why do you hate me, Carson?" Ainsley asked. "Really? Besides what Kirstie whispers in your ear."

"Because you sold me out," he said. His voice was ice. "You sold my location to the paparazzi the day I came home from the surgery. You put a price tag on my blindness."

"That doesn't make sense," Ainsley said. "If I married you for money, why would I risk the golden goose for a tabloid payout? How much does a photo go for? Five grand? Being Mrs. Eaton is worth millions. It's bad business."

Carson stopped chewing. He looked... confused.

He reached for his wine glass.

The server had placed it about two inches further right than usual.

His hand was moving fast. He was going to knock it over. Red wine on a white tablecloth. A mess. Humiliation.

Without thinking, Ainsley reached out.

She didn't grab the glass. Her hand moved to intercept his, her fingers gently brushing the back of his hand just before he made contact with the glass.

His fingers brushed hers.

The contact was electric. A jolt went up her arm.

Carson recoiled as if Ainsley had burned him. He pulled his hand back, his face flushing.

"Careful," Ainsley said quietly. "Your glass is just to your right."

Carson froze. The air in the room grew heavy.

"To my right," he repeated. His voice was flat, analytical.

Ainsley stared at her hand. "Yes. A little further."

He reached out again, slowly this time, his fingers finding the stem perfectly.

He turned his face toward Ainsley again. He looked like he was trying to see through the darkness.

"Kirstie said you were clumsy," he murmured. "Careless."

"Maybe Kirstie is wrong," Ainsley said. "About a lot of things."

He didn't answer. He found the glass, took a sip, and set it down perfectly.

"Finish your dinner," he said. But the anger was gone from his voice. Replaced by something else. Curiosity.

Ainsley went back to her room that night with her mind racing.

She knelt on the floor and pulled a dusty suitcase from under the bed. It was old. It had a sticker on it that said Queens.

She opened it. Inside were clothes that looked like hers-jeans, hoodies. And at the bottom, a leather-bound journal.

It was locked.