Page 43 of Beautiful Villain
Atlas didn’t rise to it.“Isn’t she?”he asked mildly.“Archie intends to marry her.You’re sheltering her.And whether you like it or not, you’re both using her to your advantage.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again.
“Don’t insult me by pretending the thought didn’t cross your mind,” Atlas went on.“Trading her for Provence.Ending an eighteen-month stalemate in one clean stroke.”
That was another thing about Atlas Cavalho—he saw three moves ahead while the rest of us were still congratulating ourselves for not tripping over the first.
My silence answered him.
I couldn’t honestly claim the idea hadn’t occurred to me.The moment I learned who she was, the calculus had begun.I had in my hand a pressure point that would knock Archie off balance and out of the bidding for the most valuable territory either of us had ever chased.
That had been the plan.
Maybe, somewhere along the way—after listening to her, after watching how she held herself together—I’d softened.Maybe she’d complicated things.But the truth was ugly and unavoidable: my primary objective hadn’t changed.I wanted Provence.And Mikayla Gregory had become the complication in that equation, whether I liked it or not.
Atlas watched my face as the realization settled.
“So,” he said quietly, “ask yourself this—who do you think actually loses if you play this wrong?You came to me for advice,” he continued.“Which tells me you already know this meeting has to happen.”
“I do.”
“Archie Popovich knows he can’t touch you without declaring open war.And he’s not ready for that.Not yet.”
“And if he is?”I asked.
Atlas smiled then—and there was nothing but certainty in the tight curl of his lips.
“Then it won’t matter what you decide,” he said.“Because he won’t be going to war with you.He’ll be going to war withus.”
That was the difference between Atlas and every other man in the room.When he saidus, he meant it.
It wasn’t sentimentally or for show.If Atlas was in your corner, he was all in.He built foundations so solid that when conflict came—and it always inevitably did—there was nowhere for his enemies to stand.
When I left his house that night, his hand clasped my shoulder in a grip that carried more weight than any oath.
“Whatever happens, cousin,” he’d said, “know that I’m in your corner.”
That was why I went to Atlas.
16
Mikayla
Ididn’t realize how badly I needed the shower until I was under it.
The water hit my shoulders and everything inside me sagged, tension bleeding out through my skin.I stood there longer than necessary before I started scrubbing, letting the steam fog the glass and blur the edges of the morning.I scrubbed my hair, my arms, the places that still ached—not just from bruises, but from holding myself together for so long.
For a few minutes, it worked.
Then the water temperature shifted.
A warning chill made me frown and reach for the tap.I twisted it, waited.The pipes groaned in protest, then—without ceremony—the water went cold.Not lukewarm.Cold.
I hissed and jumped back, wrapping my arms around myself.
“Of course,” I muttered.“Because why wouldn’t today also include plumbing trauma.”
I turned the tap again.Nothing happened.The water kept running, icy and relentless, like it had made a decision.
