“Alexis, let’s get on the plane now. We have to get to London.”

* * *

Victorija Dred was charming, and Amelia’s apprehension soon dissipated. Amelia looked around the expensive restaurant and said, “This is a beautiful place.”

The intimate, exclusive eatery had a line of people waiting at the door, but Victorija seemed to have the same sort of influence as Byron, and they simply walked past those waiting and were taken to the best table in the house, overlooking a roof garden.

Victorija topped up Amelia’s champagne glass, and smiled. “A beautiful woman deserves only the best.”

She felt her cheeks heat up, and said, “Hardly.”

Victorija covered Amelia’s hand with hers, and said sincerely, “Believe me, Mademoiselle Honey, you are a truly special woman.”

“It’s hard to believe that.”

“I know someone has broken your heart. Like I said before, I recognize every shade of pain. Tell me about your hurt, Amelia. Maybe I can help banish it?”

When Amelia gazed in Victorija’s eyes, she saw something she recognized. A familiarity that made her feel safe to talk. “I was in a relationship for six months, and—”

The waiter chose that moment to bring their starters to the table. Victorija gave him a fierce glare and looked him in his eyes. “Thank you, waiter, you may go now.”

“I will go now,” he repeated.

Amelia looked up sharply from the salad the waiter had just delivered.

Had she seen compulsion before with Byron? Victorija wondered. That was something she’d need to be more careful about.

“Everything all right, Amelia?”

“Yes, everything’s lovely.” She picked up her fork and started to eat. Victorija had to relax her and get her to talk again with ease. Oddly, she didn’t want to compel Amelia to talk, which was very unlike her. There was something in Victorija that wanted Amelia to open up to her willingly.

“Amelia, you must believe that I understand heartache and pain. If you don’t talk about it, and exorcise it, it can fester in your soul and turn you into a cold-hearted, angry, uncompassionate dark soul.” Like me, she added silently.

Victorija was not unintelligent. She knew the life and pain that shaped her, and Amelia was reminding her of a very short time in her young life when she did feel, before she learned to bury that pain so deep it would never see light again. The memory of feeling was faded black-and-white, and led to places she didn’t want to remember.

Amelia put down her cutlery and took a drink of champagne. “It’s hard. I haven’t even told my uncle what happened. I was in love, and she told me she loved me, but then—”

“Then what?” Victorija asked.

“She left me. I woke up the next morning and she was gone, leaving me just a letter. Saying our lives were incompatible.”