Chapter 5
Emma discovered that dating Adrian Voss was considerably more complicated than working for him.
At work, there were rules.
Meetings began on time.
Contracts had deadlines.
Interpreters rotated according to a schedule Emma had created herself.
Executives were expected to face Adrian when speaking.
Nobody touched her without permission.
Nobody spoke for Adrian without being asked.
Nobody called her his voice.
The last rule had appeared after a visiting investor made the mistake during a quarterly meeting.
“She’s basically your voice, then,” the man had said with a laugh.
Emma had not even finished translating before Adrian raised one hand.
No.
The investor blinked.
Emma interpreted.
“He says no.”
“I only meant—”
Adrian continued signing.
“She interprets my language. My voice is mine.”
The room became very quiet.
Emma had loved him a little more after that.
Dating had no handbook.
That was the problem.
Three weeks after their first dinner, Adrian invited her to his Lake Forest house on a Saturday afternoon.
Not for work.
He emphasized that repeatedly.
No laptop.
No contracts.
No employees.
No emergency meetings.
Emma arrived carrying a grocery bag.
Adrian opened the door, looked at the bag, then at her.
She signed.
Dinner.
He glanced inside.
His expression became suspicious.
“What?”
He pulled out a box of pasta.
Then canned tomatoes.
Then garlic.
Then cheap supermarket parmesan.
Emma folded her arms.
“Don’t make that face.”
He signed.
What face?
“That billionaire discovering ordinary groceries exist face.”
I know groceries exist.
“You looked personally betrayed by the cheese.”
It is not cheese.
“It says parmesan.”
It lies.
She laughed and pushed past him.
“You said I could choose dinner.”
Restaurant.
“You said dinner.”
Restaurant implied.
“Then you should have hired a lawyer before asking me.”
He stared at her for a second.
Then smiled.
The smile still affected her more than it should have.
Emma had grown used to Adrian’s face when he was negotiating.
Cold.
Measured.
Almost unnervingly still.
His smile belonged to another man entirely.
One she suspected had existed long before his father taught him that vulnerability was a weakness and Nolan taught him that dependence was shameful.
They cooked together.
Or Emma cooked while Adrian interfered.
He chopped garlic with the precision of a surgeon.
She accused him of making every piece identical because control issues had infected his vegetables.
He retaliated by moving the wineglass she kept placing dangerously close to the edge of the counter.
She moved it back.
He moved it again.
She moved it back.
The fourth time, he simply took it away.
“Dictator.”
Alive dictator.
“Coward.”
Dry floor.
“You’re impossible.”
You came voluntarily.
That stopped her.
Not because the sentence was romantic.
Because Adrian seemed to realize what he had signed immediately afterward.
His expression shifted.
Emma looked at his hands.
Voluntarily.
Choice.
That word again.
Always between them.
Always important.
She crossed the kitchen and kissed him.
It was not their first kiss.
That had happened twelve days earlier in an elevator after Emma spent twenty minutes arguing that a multimillion-dollar accessibility budget should include captioned internal training videos even when legally unnecessary.
Adrian had stared at her.
Then kissed her halfway between floors seventeen and eighteen.
The elevator had reached the lobby before either remembered where they were.
This kiss was slower.
Warmer.
Adrian placed one hand at her waist but did not pull her closer until she moved first.
Emma had never noticed how many kinds of questions a person could ask without speaking.
Can I touch you?
Can I stay?
Is this all right?
Are you sure?
Adrian asked them constantly.
It made answering easy.
The pasta burned.
Emma smelled it first.
“Oh, damn it.”
She pulled away and rushed toward the stove.
Adrian looked offended.
“You distracted me.”
You kissed me.
“You were standing provocatively.”
I was chopping garlic.
“Exactly.”
He shook his head.
They ate slightly burned pasta at the enormous dining table Emma still hated.
Adrian noticed her staring at the empty chairs.
What?
“This room.”
Bad?
“Too big.”
He looked around.
His father had designed it for thirty people.
Business dinners.
Deals.
Men who wanted to be impressed by chandeliers and marble.
Emma remembered the first night she had entered that room.
Black dress.
Cheap shoes.
Four thousand dollars promised for one evening.
Frank’s lie.
Nolan’s hands between Adrian’s language and the rest of the world.
Her own fear.
“Do you ever use it now?” she asked.
Rarely.
“Good.”
Why?
“Bad memories.”
He watched her.
Then signed something unexpectedly gentle.
We can change the room.
Emma looked at him.
“You don’t need to renovate your house because I had one horrible night here.”
Not because of you.
He looked around again.
Because I had fourteen years of horrible nights here.
The answer erased her joke.
Emma reached across the table.
Adrian took her hand.
For several minutes they sat there without conversation.
Then the doorbell flashed.
Adrian frowned.
The security display near the kitchen showed a man at the front gate.
Older.
Gray coat.
Silver hair.
Standing beside a black sedan.
Adrian’s entire body became still.
Emma noticed immediately.
“Who is he?”
Adrian did not answer.
The gate camera zoomed automatically.
The man lifted his face.
He was perhaps sixty-five.
Elegant.
Tall.
Nothing visibly threatening about him.
But Adrian’s fingers had tightened around Emma’s hand.
“Adrian.”
He finally signed.
Samuel Cross.
Emma knew the name.
Everyone in Chicago logistics knew the name.
Cross Atlantic Holdings controlled ports, warehouses, trucking contracts, and private freight corridors across three states. Samuel Cross had once been one of Victor Voss’s closest business partners.
Officially, the relationship had ended fifteen years earlier.
Unofficially, rumor said Victor and Cross had nearly killed each other over control of the freight corridor running between Chicago and Detroit.
“Why is he here?”
Adrian looked toward the screen.
Because my father is dead.
“That happened fourteen years ago.”
Exactly.
The doorbell flashed again.
Emma stood.
“Are you going to let him in?”
No.
“Okay.”
Adrian looked surprised.
“What?”
You are not going to argue?
“You said no.”
He studied her.
Emma shrugged.
“See? I occasionally respect boundaries.”
Occasionally.
She kicked him lightly beneath the table.
The intercom flashed.
A message appeared on the security screen.
MR. CROSS SAYS HE HAS SOMETHING BELONGING TO YOUR FATHER.
Adrian’s expression hardened.
Another message.
HE SAYS IT CONCERNS NOLAN PIERCE.
Emma’s stomach tightened.
The peaceful afternoon disappeared.
Adrian stood.
“Still no?” she asked.
He hesitated.
Then shook his head.
Open gate.
Five minutes later Samuel Cross entered the dining room.
He looked exactly like the sort of man who had spent forty years learning how much silence could make other people nervous.
His eyes went immediately to Adrian.
Then to Emma.
Recognition appeared.
“Miss Carter.”
Emma did not correct him.
Her surname was Carter, but he had said it like a fact collected from a file.
Adrian signed.
Emma translated.
“He says you have five minutes.”
Cross’s gaze remained on Adrian.
“Does she need to translate everything?”
Emma felt Adrian’s hand move.
“Yes,” she voiced. “And he says you should look at him when you speak.”
Cross did.
Interesting.
No annoyance.
No awkwardness.
Just adjustment.
“I knew your father before you were born,” Cross said.
Adrian showed no reaction.
“He was a difficult man.”
Emma translated.
“I was a difficult man too.”
Another translation.
“We did things that seemed necessary at the time.”
Adrian signed.
Emma’s voice sharpened.
“He says people usually say that immediately before describing something unforgivable.”
Cross smiled faintly.
“You sound like your mother.”
Adrian froze.
Emma almost missed the next sign.
You knew her?
“Very well.”
Something changed in the room.
Adrian’s mother was rarely discussed.
Elena Voss had died when Adrian was sixteen.
An aneurysm.
Sudden.
Her photographs lived inside the locked drawer in Adrian’s office.
Emma had never pushed.
Cross reached inside his coat.
Adrian’s security officer stepped forward.
Cross stopped.
“Paper.”
The officer searched him before allowing him to continue.
Cross removed a sealed envelope.
Old.
Yellowed at the edges.
Elena was written across the front in faded blue ink.
Adrian stared at it.
Cross placed it on the table.
“Your father gave this to me twenty-two years ago.”
Adrian did not touch it.
Why?
“He said if anything happened to him, I should destroy it.”
That made no sense.
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because Victor Voss rarely asked someone to destroy something unless it could destroy him first.”
Emma’s skin prickled.
Cross looked at her.
“Nolan Pierce wasn’t the beginning of your problem.”
Emma translated.
Adrian’s eyes narrowed.
Cross continued.
“Nolan learned what he did by watching someone else.”
Who?
Cross pushed the envelope closer.
“Your father.”
Silence filled the room.
Emma translated despite the fact Adrian had read Cross’s lips.
Adrian picked up the envelope.
Cross looked toward the doorway.
“My five minutes are nearly finished.”
Adrian signed.
Why now?
Cross stopped.
For the first time, his confidence faded.
“Because two days ago someone broke into my office looking for that envelope.”
Emma’s heart began beating faster.
Adrian signed.
Nolan is in federal custody.
“I know.”
Then who?
Cross looked directly at him.
“I don’t know.”
That was the first answer that sounded like fear.
He reached for his coat.
“One more thing.”
Adrian waited.
“Your father didn’t trust interpreters.”
Adrian’s face went cold.
Cross glanced at Emma.
“He trusted records.”
“What kind of records?” Emma asked.
“Video.”
Adrian’s eyes snapped toward him.
Cross continued.
“Your father recorded nearly every important meeting conducted inside this house.”
Emma looked around.
The chandeliers.
Dark wood.
Marble.
Old walls.
A dining room built to intimidate.
“Recorded how?”
“Cameras.”
Emma felt cold.
Cross looked upward.
“Some of them may still be here.”
Adrian rose so quickly his chair struck the floor.
Cross did not flinch.
Adrian signed.
Where?
“I don’t know.”
Lie.
“I’m not lying.”
Adrian moved around the table.
Emma had seen him angry.
She had seen him furious.
This was different.
This was personal.
Cross stepped back.
“Victor never told me where the archive was. He only showed me pieces of it.”
What pieces?
Cross looked toward Emma again.
“Meetings.”
“What meetings?”
“People speaking freely because they thought the deaf teenager upstairs couldn’t hear them.”
Adrian stopped moving.
Emma’s stomach dropped.
Cross’s expression changed.
Not sympathy.
Something heavier.
Regret.
“Your father understood something Nolan later understood very well.”
Emma already knew.
Adrian’s face said he did too.
Cross spoke quietly.
“People reveal terrible things when they believe the person they’re hurting cannot hear them.”
Adrian looked at the walls.
The house.
His childhood home.
For years, people had treated his deafness as isolation.
Victor Voss may have turned that assumption into surveillance.
Cross walked toward the door.
Emma stopped him.
“Why did someone want the envelope?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who knew you had it?”
“Victor.”
“He’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“Nolan?”
Cross paused.
“Possibly.”
“Anyone else?”
Another pause.
Cross’s hesitation was small.
But Emma saw it.
“Who?” she asked.
He looked at Adrian.
“Your uncle.”
Adrian’s face changed completely.
Emma had never heard him mention an uncle.
Cross noticed her surprise.
“That’s what I thought.”
He opened the door.
Emma glanced at Adrian.
His hands remained at his sides.
Not moving.
Not speaking.
Cross stepped into the hall.
Then looked back once.
“Ask him about Gabriel Voss.”
The door closed.
Emma waited.
Adrian continued staring at the envelope.
“Adrian.”
Nothing.
She moved into his line of sight.
“Who is Gabriel?”
He finally raised his hands.
Slowly.
Carefully.
My father’s younger brother.
“Where is he?”
Adrian looked toward the dark windows.
For fifteen years?
“Yes.”
He signed the answer.
Dead.
Emma looked toward the door Samuel Cross had just used.
Then back at the envelope.
“Well,” she whispered.
Adrian met her eyes.
Emma lifted her hands.
Apparently not.
They opened the envelope together.
Inside were three things.
A photograph.
A key.
And a note.
The photograph showed Victor Voss twenty-five years younger, standing beside another man who looked enough like him to be unmistakably family.
Gabriel.
Between them stood Elena Voss.
Adrian’s mother.
All three were smiling.
On the back, someone had written:
LAKE GENEVA, 1998.
The key was brass.
Old.
Number 17 engraved into it.
The note contained one sentence.
IF ADRIAN EVER LEARNS THE TRUTH, GIVE HIM THE ROOM WHERE WE STOPPED BEING BROTHERS.
Emma read it twice.
Then looked at Adrian.
He had gone pale.
“Do you know what Room 17 is?”
No.
“Lake Geneva?”
His eyes stayed on the photograph.
My parents had a summer house there.
“Still own it?”
Sold after my mother died.
“To whom?”
Adrian turned toward her.
His expression was hard again.
But beneath it was something Emma had rarely seen.
Fear.
He signed.
Gabriel.
Emma slowly sat down.
Outside, snow began falling over the lake.
Inside the house, the burned pasta remained untouched on the table.
The afternoon that had begun with cheap parmesan and a kiss had become something else entirely.
Emma looked at the old photograph again.
Victor.
Elena.
Gabriel.
Three people connected by a history Adrian had never been told.
She thought of Nolan rewriting Adrian’s words.
Of Frank assigning a price to her life.
Of all the ways power grew when one person controlled what another person was allowed to know.
Then she looked at Adrian.
“You want to go to Lake Geneva.”
He nodded.
“When?”
His answer was immediate.
Tomorrow.
Emma stood.
Adrian watched her.
“You’re about to tell me I don’t have to come.”
He paused.
Then signed.
You do not.
“I know.”
She picked up the photograph.
“And I’m coming anyway.”
His gaze softened.
Emma added,
“My choice.”
Adrian looked at her for a long second.
Then took her hand.
Always.
But as Emma looked again at Gabriel Voss smiling beside Adrian’s mother, one thought would not leave her.
The photograph was twenty-eight years old.
According to everything Adrian believed, Gabriel had died thirteen years later.
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According to Samuel Cross, that death might have been a lie.
And somewhere in Lake Geneva, behind a door numbered seventeen, a dead man had been waiting fifteen years for Adrian Voss to discover why.
