Chapter 33
[ 506 words ]
Chapter 33:
He reached the heavy double doors leading to the drawing room. Just as his hand reached for the brass knob, the door was yanked open from the inside.
A suffocating wave of cloying, expensive perfume washed over him.
Harper Romero stood in the doorway. She was dressed in a custom-fitted, burgundy evening gown that looked more appropriate for a red-carpet gala than a family dinner. Her blonde hair was styled in perfect, cascading waves, and her lips were painted a glossy crimson.
Her face instantly contorted into a mask of exaggerated, sickly-sweet delight.
𝘓at𝖾𝘴𝗍 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝗉𝘵𝖾𝗿ѕ 𝗼n g𝘢lnovе𝘭s.𝘤𝗼𝘮
“Jarrod!” Harper squealed, her voice high and grating.
She threw her arms open and lunged forward, aiming to wrap them around his neck. She pouted her red lips, complaining loudly. “You have been ignoring us for months! I missed my big brother so much!”
Jarrod didn’t break his stride. His reflexes, honed by years of combat, reacted instantly.
He shifted his weight and smoothly angled his torso to the side. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible movement, but it was enough.
Harper’s arms closed around empty air. She stumbled slightly, her manicured hands only managing to brush the very edge of his suit sleeve.
Jarrod stopped and looked down at her. His expression was a wall of solid ice.
“The Department of Defense schedule does not revolve around socialite afternoon tea parties, Harper,” Jarrod said. His voice was low, flat, and completely devoid of affection.
Harper’s overly bright smile instantly shattered. Her hands hung awkwardly in the air. For a fraction of a second, the carefully constructed facade of the sweet, loving sister dropped, revealing a flash of pure, venomous hatred in her pale blue eyes.
Jarrod didn’t care. He stepped past her, leaving her standing frozen in the doorway, and walked into the drawing room.
The room was a suffocating display of wealth. Persian rugs covered the hardwood floors, and heavy velvet curtains blocked out the night.
Sitting on a plush, cream-colored velvet sofa was Cornelia Romero.
His stepmother wore an immaculate Chanel tweed suit. Her posture was rigidly perfect, her hands delicately holding a bone china teacup. Her face, preserved by countless expensive procedures, was pulled into a flawless, utterly fake smile.
She slowly lowered the teacup to its saucer. The porcelain clinked sharply in the quiet room.
“Jarrod,” Cornelia said. Her voice was smooth, but it carried the unmistakable, condescending edge of a reprimand. “You are becoming increasingly careless with your manners. To keep your grandfather waiting for a summoned dinner is unacceptable.”
Jarrod didn’t stop walking. He moved to a single leather armchair opposite the sofa and sat down. He crossed his long legs at the knee, resting his left arm casually on the armrest. He kept his injured right arm perfectly still.
He looked at her, a dark, mocking smirk playing on his lips.
“The traffic on the Beltway doesn’t magically part just because someone has the Romero last name, Cornelia,” Jarrod drawled, his tone dripping with cold sarcasm.
The temperature in the room plummeted.
Cornelia’s perfectly painted lips tightened into a thin, furious line. She gripped the arm of the sofa, her knuckles turning white.
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