Chapter 148
Chapter 148:
Two stories up, on a private balcony reserved for the highest tier of donors, Atticus Kensington—cousin to the comatose heir Julian—leaned against the railing. He was bored. It was a bone-deep, genetic boredom that came from twenty-seven years of managing a dynasty that wasn’t technically his to rule. He swirled the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler, watching the vortex it created.
He looked down.
His gaze swept over the manicured hedges of the terrace, past the decorative heat lamps, and landed on a silhouette standing alone in the dark.
She turned her head slightly into the wind. The light from the ballroom spilled out, catching the profile of her face. The sharp line of her jaw. The way her hair, dark and heavy, whipped across her cheekbone.
Atticus felt a thud in his chest.
It wasn’t the flutter of attraction. He knew that feeling; it was pleasant, warm, easily dismissed. This was different. This was a violent, physical impact, like missing a step on a staircase in the dark. It was a resonance that vibrated through his ribcage, a frequency he hadn’t known he was tuned to receive.
He gripped the cold iron railing. His knuckles turned white.
He didn’t know who she was. He couldn’t see her eyes. But the shape of her—the way she held her shoulders, the tilt of her head—felt like a memory he had forgotten to have.
“You look like you’re plotting a murder, or a hostile takeover p>
Harper Yates appeared at his elbow, holding two fresh scotches. She looked impeccable in gold silk, her expression amused but guarded.
Atticus didn’t look at her. He didn’t blink. “Who is that p>
Harper followed his line of sight. She squinted into the darkness below. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips.
“The girl in green? That is Aurora Vance. And before you ask—yes, she is out of your league p>
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“Vance,” Atticus repeated. The name tasted like ash. It meant nothing to him. It was a common name, a flat name. It didn’t explain why his heart was hammering against his sternum with a rhythm that felt like a warning code.
“She’s… complicated,” Harper said, her tone shifting to one of fierce protection. She took a sip of her drink, her eyes sharp. “Brilliant. Dangerous. Elias Thorne is currently circling her like a wolf guarding its mate. Why p>
“I don’t know,” Atticus whispered. His voice was hoarse.
He felt a biological pull. It was irrational. It was the kind of instinct that made birds migrate or wolves howl. He needed to be closer. He needed to see her face without the distortion of distance and darkness. It wasn’t a want; it was a compulsion, as undeniable as gravity.
He set his drink on the wide stone ledge, abandoning the fifty-year-old scotch without a second thought. He turned toward the glass doors.
“Atticus?” Harper stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Where are you going? The auction starts in ten minutes. Your grandmother expects you to bid on the Fabergé egg p>
“I need to meet her,” Atticus said. He tried to step around Harper, his movements jerky, uncoordinated.
“You can’t just storm down there,” Harper hissed, grabbing his forearm. Her grip was firm. “Social protocols, Atticus. You don’t approach a woman like Aurora Vance with that look in your eyes. You look… unhinged p>
“I feel unhinged,” he snapped. He shook her off. “Move, Harper p>
He took a step.