Twisted Love (Twisted #1)(68)

“Of course.” I rubbed my thumb over the wound on my hand. “Looking forward to it.”





*



After my uncle left, I spent an hour in the home gym working off my frustrations, but something niggled at me.

Something Ivan said and the way he’d said it…

I’m the CEO, so she didn’t have much choice.

Why the hell was my uncle checking in on me, and why did he want to know my schedule so bad he’d threaten Carolina for the information? She was a good assistant, and she wouldn’t divulge the information unless she had to.

I turned off the shower and dried myself, my mind running through the possibilities. I hadn’t gotten this far in life without listening to my instincts, so I got dressed, pulled on a pair of leather gloves, and returned to my uncle’s office. He had hidden security cameras in there, but the top-of-the-line jammer I’d bought off the black market took care of them in no time.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but after an hour of searching—including for false drawers and secret compartments—I didn’t find it. Same went for his bedroom.

Perhaps I was being paranoid.

My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since my coffee and bagel at breakfast. It was now near sunset.

I gave up on my uncle’s private quarters and walked toward the kitchen. Ivan had hired a housekeeper who came by twice a week to clean up, but otherwise, he had no staff; he was too paranoid about corporate spies, whom he claimed could pop up anywhere.

Don’t trust anyone, Alex . It’s always the people you least expect who’ll stab you in the back.

At the last minute, I veered toward the library, my uncle’s favorite room in the house. The soaring, two-story room looked like something out of an English manor, with its Tiffany stained glass lamps and wall of mahogany shelves groaning beneath the weight of leather-bound tomes. Soft Oriental rugs muffled the sound of my footsteps as I walked around the room, examining the shelves. I hoped whatever I was looking for wasn’t hidden in a fake book—there were thousands of books in here.

Knowing my uncle, though, he wouldn’t choose any book. He’d choose something with significance.

I checked the sections for his favorite authors. Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Taras Shevchenko, Leo Tolstoy, Alexander Dovzhenko…he had a soft spot for Russian and Ukrainian classics. Said they grounded him in his roots.

But no, all the books were real.

My eyes flitted over the rest of the library and landed on the limited-edition chess set in the corner. The pieces were still arranged in the same pattern from our last game.

While I examined the set and the surrounding area for anything that could give credence to my suspicions, I knocked against the table, and a pawn tumbled to the floor.

I cursed under my breath and bent to pick it up. As I did, my eyes snagged on the outlet beneath the table. It was a simple, ordinary outlet, except…

My gaze traveled to the left.

There was another outlet, less than a foot away. The U.S. National Electrical Code stipulated outlets must be positioned no more than six feet apart measured along the floor line, but it was rare to see two so close together.

I paused, listening for any noises—the purr of my uncle’s Mercedes pulling into the driveway, the thud of his footsteps against the parquet floors.

Nothing.

I fished a heavy-duty paper clip from the library’s writing desk and crawled under the chess table, bending the clip until it was straight. I jiggled the screw in the middle of the outlet, feeling ridiculous, but my instincts screamed at me to continue.

Just when I was about to give up, the outlet popped open, revealing a stash of papers in the wall.

Fake outlet. Of course.

My heart thudded as I reached for the papers—right as an engine roared in the distance.

My uncle was home.

I unfolded the documents—letters, written in two familiar sets of handwriting.

I speed-read them, unable to believe my eyes.

I’d expected corporate politics. Boardroom foul play. I wouldn’t have been surprised if my uncle tried to hold on to his CEO position, even though I was supposed to take over soon. But this ? This, I never saw coming.

The puzzle pieces in my brain clicked into place, and a strange cocktail of betrayal, fury, and relief knotted in my gut. Betrayal and fury over the revelation; relief that—

The front door banged open. Footsteps, coming closer.

I shoved the letters into the wall, folding them the way I’d found them, and screwed the outlet cover back on. I crawled out from beneath the table, placed the pawn in the same position it’d been in before I knocked it over, and pocketed both the paper clip and my gloves, which were sleek enough that they didn’t create a visible bulge in my pants.

I plucked The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas—one of my favorite books—off the shelf on my way to the door.

“Alex,” my uncle said when he saw me in the hall. He chuckled. “Dumas again? You can’t get enough of that book.”

I smiled. “No, I can’t.”

All the while, my blood raged.





32





Ava





He was late.

I tapped my fingers on the table, trying not to check the time on my phone. Again.