Page 17 of Wicked Elites

“Tearing up at the mere mention of a parent? My family died at the end of my second year of school. I spent my entire third year on the precipice of several breakdowns.”

I sucked in a sharp breath through my teeth. “All of them? How did they die?”

“Plane crash.”

“I’m…” I gulped. No words could convey the depths of my condolences. Losing my parents was devastating, but losing everyone was inconceivable. “I’m sorry.”

He gave me a crooked smile. “Do you know how many people have told me they’re sorry for my loss and not really meant it?”

“I can imagine.”

“I think you can.” He tilted his head to the side. Understanding, not pity, shone in his eyes.

I placed a hand on his bicep. “But I did mean it when I said I was sorry. No one should ever lose family before they’re old enough to cope.”

“Come on.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders that felt like warm comfort and walked me across the gravel courtyard. “Let me drive you home.”

I stared down from his leg brace to his handsome face and marveled at his chiseled jaw and high cheekbones. “How can you operate the pedals if your leg is broken?”

“My jeep is an automatic.” Warmth shone in his eyes.

I smiled back. “Alright.”

He opened the door to a sleek, silver four-by-four with a black interior and a leather scent. I climbed inside and sank into a seat more plush than the sofas at home. After closing the door, the dark-haired guy walked around, got into his seat, and started the engine. That’s when I noticed the cast on his left wrist. My brows rose. How did I miss that before?

After pulling out of the courtyard, he cruised down the driveway. At the end, two lights stood at either side of the open Hessington Hall gates, illuminating the dark, deserted road.

“Do you mind if I ask how you lost your mother?” he asked.

“Car crash,” I murmured. “Dad was driving along the Hard Knott Pass, and a drunk driver plowed into them. Their car tumbled down into Duddon Valley.”

“You lost your father, too?”

Pain lanced through my insides the way it always did when I didn’t clutter my mind with work to numb the grief. Gulping back a sob, I nodded. “They didn’t suffer,” my voice cracked. “I keep telling myself that, and it was an instant death.”

“But it still hurts.”

“Yes.”

He drove down the road, headlights on full beam to light up the way. We fell silent as he navigated the sharp bends, steep gradients, and treacherous turns. I stole a glance at him out of the corner of my eye. The muscles in his jaw flexed with concentration, as though he poured every ounce of effort into the roads. My shoulders relaxed. Something in his determination told me I’d be safe with him.

When we reached a long, downward stretch, I asked, “Were you in the plane crash, too?”

“You mean the casts?” He chuckled. “I drove Father’s Porsche off one of these cliffs.”

I clapped my hand over my mouth to cover a gasp. “By accident?”

“Now you sound like my grandfather. He thinks I have a death wish.”

Up ahead, the road twisted into a hairpin turn. I stayed silent while he steered around the sharp bend, which turned back on itself.

A sad sigh slid from my lips. “Sometimes, I wish I’d been in that car with them.”

“I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I’d boarded that plane,” he murmured.

“Were you going on holiday?”

“The annual general meeting of the family business.”