Trillion(23)

I nod. I’ve briefed him about it before, never going into too much detail. Most people aren’t familiar with it. There are hundreds of variations, some more severe than others. It’s complex and unique to each person. The details of Emmeline’s condition tend to cause yawns and glazed eyes to anyone who isn’t close to her—which is almost everyone. I tend to give CliffsNotes.

“I know some people who might be able to help her,” he says.

“She’s already seen every specialist in the Chicago area. And there’s no cure for MD. We can only make sure she’s comfortable, able to breathe, that sort of thing.”

“This person’s an old friend of mine from Princeton. He’s a neurologist. Actually specializes in muscular dystrophy. Runs a medical research center in Michigan … I’ll give him a call first thing tomorrow. See what he says.”

“I don’t know if our insurance would cover that ... it barely covers everything as it is.” Just yesterday we got a bill from the pharmacy for five hundred dollars. Emmeline’s insurance magically decided that one of her medications was no longer necessary.

“This wouldn’t cost you a thing. I’d take care of any expenses.”

“Really?” I sit up. “You would do that for her?”

He gathers my hand in his and brings it to his lips. “I’d do anything for you, Soph.”

I want to know why, but for some reason I can’t bring myself to ask. This whole thing is too good to be true to begin with, and I’m afraid if I start questioning things, it’ll all go away.

I love this bubble we’re in—whatever it is. It’s like I’ve stepped into an alternate reality where all the things that once kept me up at night disappear when we’re together.

If Nolan Ames is a drug, I’m one-hundred percent addicted.





Sixteen





Sophie



Present



I can’t say that I’ve ever imagined what it would be like to live in a palace. And now that I’m here, in Westcott’s castle-sized estate just outside the city, I can’t say that I’d likely enjoy it. I inventory my surroundings. This is probably the first—and last—time I’ll set foot inside the world-renowned Westcott mansion.

Dark mahogany walls envelop me.

Glossy black floors swallow me whole.

Chandeliers the size of a car drip from the ceilings of every room.

Ice-cold marble covers the sprawling kitchen, accented with industrial stainless steel appliances that give me frostbite just looking at them.

On the way in, boxwoods manicured into pointed shapes lined the perimeter of the property along with an endless wrought-iron fence. The exterior was coated in limestone and brick—virtually impenetrable. This place is a medieval fortress. It practically screams, “Stay the hell away.”

I can’t wrap my head around anyone calling this a home …

… I also can’t wrap my head around Trey raising a family in this dark monstrosity.

“This is what you wanted to show me?” I ask as he leads me down a new hallway.

“Almost.”

We stroll side by side, our footsteps echoing in sync. There’s no life here besides a handful of full-time staff I spotted in the kitchen on our way in. I counted two gardeners outside. A woman dusting velvet drapes the color of ripe plums in the study. Another polishing silver in the dining room, humming a haunting tune. I’m sure there are more probably hidden away in one of his hundreds of rooms.

A dusty draft sends a chill down my neck.

That day in the break room, one of the girls said his home was outdated.

There’s nothing outdated about this place. Unfamiliar maybe, to the average person. Slightly depressing color scheme. But with its antiques and timeless finishes, it borders a fine line between past and present. It’s like a living museum—only I don’t know that a lot of actual living happens here.

Trey notoriously spends the majority of his waking hours in the office.

We round a corner, entering another unending hallway, this one with oil paintings lined along the walls, one after another, and dimmed crystal pendants hanging in three-foot intervals from the barrel ceiling.

I could fit my entire apartment in one of his halls.

We turn yet another corner, this time met with a set of switchback stairs … the left side going up, the other side going down.

“This way,” he says, pointing to the right.

Eight steps later, we reach a wide wooden door with a keycode lock. He punches in eight digits and waits for a chime before the door swings open.

“Welcome,” he says before turning to me, “to my sanctuary.”

To be completely honest, I thought he was taking me to his estate in an attempt to impress me—but now I’m confused.

“No one else has ever stepped foot in here besides me,” he says. “You’re the first.”

He closes the door behind us, and the lights automatically dim to a warm, rosy hue. A wall of pure Himalayan salt fills the opposite side of the room, and soft, tranquil music begins to pipe from hidden speakers. On the floor rests an arrangement of silk and satin pillows in deep variations of natural blues and earthen grays.

“Not what you were expecting,” he says, perceptive. “Which is exactly why I wanted to bring you here.”