Page 2 of Shattered Throne
My grandmother sat on my leather sofa. Ankles crossed. Teacup balanced on its saucer with the precision of a woman who had never spilled anything in her life. Her silver hair was swept into its usual elegant chignon. Her eyes moved slowly from the redhead's smeared lipstick to my half-open shirt. Then she lifted her teacup and took a delicate sip.
"Xavier." Her voice was pleasant. Conversational. "How lovely of you to finally come home."
Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.
I released B-something and stepped back, running a hand through my hair. "Grandmother. This is... unexpected."
"Is it?" Her gaze flicked to the redhead again, appraising and dismissing her in a single glance. "I've been calling for three weeks. You've been avoiding me for three weeks. I'd say this was entirely predictable."
The redhead tugged at her dress, which had ridden up during our elevator activities. "Xavier? Who is this?"
"My grandmother."
"Your..." She blinked, looked at the elegant woman on the couch, then back at me. "Okay. That's... not what I expected."
Neither did I. I should've known better. Eleanor Dubois didn't tolerate being ignored. I'd just hoped that if I avoided her long enough, she'd find someone else to torment. Sebastian, maybe. Or Isabelle. Someone who actually cared about family legacy and responsibility and all those other words she loved to throw around.
"Look," I said, moving toward the redhead, lowering my voice, "why don't we raincheck this? I'll call you tomorrow, and we can pick up where we left off."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're serious."
"Absolutely."
"Actually." My grandmother's voice cut through our conversation like a knife through silk. "I'm quite comfortable here. I could sit on this couch all night if necessary." She smiled. It wasn't a kind smile. "Please, don't let me interrupt."
The redhead stared at her. Then at me. I could see her running the calculations: was I worth this? A penthouse and a pretty face versus a grandmother who apparently had no concept of boundaries or appropriate timing.
I already knew the answer.
"Right." She grabbed her clutch from where it had fallen near the door. "This has been... memorable."
"I'll make it up to you."
"Will you?" She paused at the threshold, hand on the doorframe. Then she crossed back to me, grabbed my face with both hands, and kissed me. Deep. Thorough. When she pulled back, her lipstick was smeared across both our mouths.
"Don't lose my number, Xavier." Her hand trailed down my chest, fingertips catching on my belt buckle. "I expect a call."
Then she was gone.
I stood there, shirt half-open, lipstick on my face, and slowly turned to face my grandmother.
She set down her teacup. "Well." She folded her hands in her lap. "I see your taste hasn't improved."
I crossed to the bar cart in the corner. I bypassed the wine, the vodka, the gin, and went straight for the whiskey. Whatever my grandmother was about to say, I was going to need something stronger than tea to survive it.
"Did you need something? Or did you just break into my apartment to judge my love life?"
"I didn't break in. I have a key."
"I never gave you a key."
"No." She picked up her teacup again. "You didn't."
Of course. Because Eleanor Dubois didn't need permission to access anything. She simply decided she wanted something, and the universe rearranged itself accordingly. I poured two fingers of Macallan and drained half of it in one swallow.
"You've been avoiding me," she said.
"I've been busy."
