But as I cross the threshold into the House of Capricorn, the glow from Elise’s presence fades, and whatever peace I gained vanishes under the weight of Landon’s dealings with Oliver.

The revelation that he’s Jerome’s accountant adds another twist to my already tangled feelings for Oliver Whitney.

Is he helping my brother take Jerome down? Or is he playing both sides? I pause in the sitting room and consider what I know about the man who taunts me every night with his voyeuristic tendencies.

His composure rarely slips, but it did when he told me about Talitha. In that moment, pain bled through the cool detachment he wears like armor.

Is it possible he’s an ally?

A shadow shifts in the kitchen doorway, drawing me from my thoughts, and I find him standing in the lit entrance. His gaze trails over my blond locks before landing on the shaped lines of my brows. I tuck a curled strand behind one ear, and his attention catches on the gleam of my polished nails.

“Exquisite color.”

I glance at the glossy paint, my ring glinting from the recessed lighting that keeps those paintings on display.

“The tech recommended it. She called it Scarlet Midnight.”

“I know.” He shoots me a secretive smile, and a flush spreads across my collarbone.

“Dinner’s waiting,” he adds, his tone carrying that edge of command I can never seem to resist.

As I step past him, he presses a hand to my lower back. That simple contact shouldn’t affect me like it does, but my body betrays me, and I lean into his touch without thinking.

We sit side by side this time. He’s taken the head of the table, and I’m to his right, no longer at the opposite end. Tonight’s dinner is pasta, tossed in a creamy sauce with grilled vegetables. I twirl a bite on my fork and bring it to my lips.

Loaded silence hangs between us. I’m acutely aware of all the things we don’t talk about—things that have been building in the dark for the past three weeks, even with a chaperone snoring nearby.

Astrid didn’t accompany me to the village today, which only highlights her absence now.

“Where’s the babysitter?”

“Dismissed,” he says, pouring two glasses of white wine.

“Dismissed as in…?”

“Gone for good.” He hands me a glass. “You’ve been behaving.”

I arch a disbelieving brow. “Have I, now?”

“Yes.” He unknots his tie and pulls it free, right at the dinner table. “You returned to your studio yesterday, and today, you went to the spa with Elise. I’m proud of you.”

There’s an unmistakable note of innuendo in his voice, despite his words masquerading as concern for my mental health.