Eden
Her father was meditating again. That’s what he called it, “meditating,” as if Eden couldn’t possibly comprehend the scope of what it actually was. As if staring blankly into space was somehow important when he did it.
He’d been “meditating” for most of her life; nearly all of her childhood and most of what felt significant of her adulthood. He had been “meditating” when she told him about Tristan Caine, thinking finally something would awaken the great James Wessex from his pickling, pointless sleep and force him to see what he was missing. The inadequacy of Tristan—who had apparently also been “meditating” throughout most of their relationship—choosing not to see what Eden did (or whom) when his back was turned. Choosing, then, not to see Eden, which was often challenging in a fun way, like constructing a careful mirage. It was fun for a while, being good enough for someone with tastes so discerning he spent most of his time staring moodily at everything offensive within his line of sight.
But then Eden realized that she was trying to impress someone so clearly beneath her, and it hadn’t mattered anyway. The sex was rousingly good and they got on like a house on fire when they chose to, when they were both feeling up for a laugh or a spirited debate, and if she had to spend twelve hours locked in a room with someone she’d want it to be Tristan, only Tristan.
None of which could change the fact that all he’d ever wanted from her was her name.
She backed out of her father’s study and returned to the video call she’d left open in the living room. “He’s busy,” she said crisply, though she could tell by the unchanged expression on Nothazai’s face that this was the answer he’d expected—and worse, that this answer was the nail in an unspoken coffin. Another reminder, after all, that Eden Wessex was no substitute for her father. Selene Nova could breezily wander the streets of London putting stockholders at ease while her father’s corporation underwent global investigation for fraud, but Eden was only James Wessex’s messenger. Not the inheritor to his crown.
“There’s still no sign of Tristan Caine,” Nothazai said, which was not the first time Eden had heard it. “And until he steps out from the premises of the Society’s archives, he is unlikely to be a worthwhile target. In the meantime, as we said, it’s best to focus on the empath.”
“You can’t just stop looking for Tristan. You know how my father feels about this.” Eden worked very hard to keep her voice free of feminine hysterics. “And what about the telepath?”
Parisa Kamali looked like the type of woman Tristan might be fucking. Like Selene Nova, chic as all hell while the world burned at her feet. If Parisa Kamali wasn’t currently employing some diabolical form of subterfuge against all of them, Eden would eat her hat.
“We’re doing everything in our power to apprehend Miss Kamali, same as all the others,” Nothazai said with unfathomable patience, hitting Eden’s sensibilities like the dulcet tones of a nursery school teacher trying to defuse a tantrum. “But based on her actions thus far, we do not consider her to be our primary concern.”
“Is that a joke?” Eden did everything in her power not to gape at him. “None of your people have ever been able to lay a hand on her despite her obviously going about her life as normal, and you think that’s a coincidence because … why? Because she’s a woman? Because she looks blatantly fuckable every time she leaves the house?”
Almost immediately, Eden had the sense that Parisa had found her way in and was watching Eden at that very moment, laughing to herself. Eden didn’t know exactly what it was she found so infuriating about Parisa, but it seemed … familiar, as if all the men who considered Eden a lovely little bauble with no thoughts in her head would be equally incapable of registering Parisa as a threat. (Also, Parisa had been photographed wearing a dress that Eden herself owned, and Eden could not stop seeing Tristan fuck her in it.)
“Miss Wessex, please.” Now Nothazai’s tone had transitioned to openly patronizing. “Tell your father that if he wishes to alter the course of our investigation, he is welcome to speak with me at any time. In the meantime, I don’t want you to be late,” he added, with a pointed glance at Eden’s ascot-related sartorial effects, which included a hat she’d found charming in the salon but now considered a complete humiliation.
Sit down, little girl. Enjoy your feathers and jewels, fuck your father’s secretary and see if he notices, if he even cares. Oh, so a man broke your stupid self-sabotaging heart by lacking the decency to be fussed about the knowledge that you’d cheated? Darling, that’s because he never loved you, are you really such a hopeless fool? Anyway, he’s very important and you’re not at all, go play with your ponies now with the other silly girls in stupid hats. Run along then, sweetheart, go on.
“Have you considered,” Eden seethed, “that the empath’s agenda seems unrelated to the Novas’ corporate gains? That the politics he appears to be influencing have to do with personal autonomy and human rights”—things that he, as a man, already had—“rather than anything remotely profitable to him or his family? So perhaps it’s the naturalist you need to be looking at,” Eden spat, “unless you really think the empath aspires to some dystopian world domination that he could more easily achieve from inside the Nova boardroom?”
She had lost him, she knew that much. Nothazai was smiling without any indication of having followed her train of thought. “We’ll continue monitoring the naturalist, of course. Local authorities do have files on all six potential initiates. Oh, and by the way, I understand congratulations are in order,” Nothazai added, his eyes drifting down to her hand.
Fucking Christ. “I’m not engaged,” Eden snapped. “It’s just a fucking tabloid!” Which, like any tabloid, saw only what she wanted it to see. A rich heiress about town, cavorting with a handsome man and pretending that was power.
What was power, really, if nobody would listen to her? If they’d pay a fee to take her picture, to make her into a fantasy that she could curate but never actually own, then did it matter how sharp her teeth were, or how invisibly her heart could break?
The telepath was the dangerous one. Eden knew it, could read it on the wall, interpreting it with the same perfect clarity with which she had manipulated headlines ever since her breasts came in early at twelve. She and Parisa Kamali almost certainly drew from the same skillset, which meant forget Callum Nova, forget Atlas Blakely, forget the presence of powerful men who all shared the same weakness. What had Parisa Kamali done to compromise Nothazai, Eden wondered, knowing it was something. Eden had had enough affairs of her own to understand how cheaply men like him could be bought.
Her own father had his vices. Eternal life, like every other rich man. Unoriginal hubris for which he’d pay any price. What might the equivalent have been for Nothazai, who seemed to want nothing more or less than whatever Atlas Blakely currently had…?
Not that it mattered. The world was not—could not be—as unfair as it seemed. A person could only have so many wins. Tristan would encounter a rupture somewhere, would feel his heart blister in his chest the same way Eden had felt such pain in hers. Let the men play out their doomed fantasies. When they finally asked for too much, let them discover the myriad ways the world could say no. Engagements broken. Eyes closed while meditating.
Fuck it.
Eden Wessex would solve this one on her own.