Page 89 of The Tower

I jump. “Sorry. Yes. You’re right. It’s fine. I’m just hungry. It’s making me bitchy.”

“Then please, by all means, keep digging in. Shawarma is like the music that soothes the savage beast.”

He shoots me a boyish grin.

I roll my eyes, glad we seem to be back on even footing. “What did the lawyers say?”

He pushes aside his plate as he leans forward, elbows on the table. “From what we’ve been able to learn, your father intends to put a lot of stock in your inability to be out in the world without your meds or supervision.”

“He’s the one who made me this way!”

He puts his hand over mine. “I know,” he says. “And we’ll let the court know that, too. But as for what he’s planning, we have confirmation that he’s compiling footage from your various public appearances, and he’ll have witnesses testify that you were medicated at each one. Household staff who saw you take the meds and psychologists who will analyze your facial expressions and movements to testify that the footage shows that you were relying on medications to help you cope at each particular event.”

I hug myself, hating every moment of this. And hating my father most of all. It’s like being in a dark corner of hell, and he’s the devil.

“He intends to use the footage of you running from your own engagement as evidence of paranoia resulting from not taking your meds. And we suspect he’ll have household staff testify, too. Some will quit out of loyalty to you, but some will undoubtedly lie—either because they’re being bribed or because they’re terrified of your father.

“Bastard,” I say. “How are we supposed to counter that? He’s the one who dosed me up before any event, so it’s not as if we can find footage where I’m at some party completely drug-free.

He slides off his stool, then pulls a bottle of Chardonnay out of the wine fridge. He lifts it in question, and I nod. Right now, I’ll happily take the entire bottle, but he’s probably only offering me a glass.

“The hearing is about your ability to cope now,” he says as he pours for us both. “Not yesterday or last week or last year. So we’re going to get you out there. In public. Stable, confident, unmedicated. But it has to be somewhere your father can’t get to you.” He nods toward the entryway. “That’s why we’re going out tonight.”

I follow his glance and see a garment bag hanging on the coat rack near the door.

“And we’re going where exactly?”

“Grimm Tower. The roof.”

I gape at him. “Are you out of your mind? We’re going back to the helipad?”

“That’s not part of the agenda, though it would give our position extra punch if we arrive that way. Good thinking.”

I just throw my hands up, not sure what bizarro world I’ve been tossed into.

“Half the roof is an event space,” he says, obviously seeing my frustration. “Alexander is hosting a charity function tonight.”

“I thought you hated your brothers,” I say, reaching for a piece of pita.

“Half-brothers,” he says. “The half being something they remind me of daily. And yes. I despise the lot of them—except for Leo. But that doesn’t mean Alex and Elliott can’t be of use.”

“What about Gabriel? Did you like him?”

Something flickers in Liam’s eyes. “He was as horrible as my father,” Grimm says. His answer doesn’t surprise me. I’ve heard plenty of tales about what a beast Gabriel Grimm was.

“Still,” Grimm continues, “as much as I hated him, I wouldn’t wish dying in a blaze on anyone.”

“Will your father be there tonight?”

Liam holds my gaze steadily. “No. We’re keeping it out of the press, but Elias Grimm has been in a coma for almost a year. Alex has been running the company. The story tonight will be that Elias is traveling.”

I lean back, shocked. Not because of Elias Grimm’s coma, but because Liam Grimm has just handed me insider information that could affect stock prices and business deals.

His mouth quirks into a smile, and I realize that he understands exactly what I’m thinking. “We have to trust each other.”

I nod, and our eyes meet, the moment stretching between us, fragile and unexpected.

I break it before whatever this is gets too deep under my skin. “I’ll watch for photo ops,” I say, “but I need you close, just in case my phobias act up.”