Chapter 13
“Mr. Emerson sent people to retrieve it last night.” Victor leaned closer and lowered his voice. “They were all Mr. Emerson’s own people, absolutely trustworthy. No one touched the footage inside. You can rest assured, Ms. Gideon.”
The thing she had lost had come back. Harlow could hardly hide her excitement.
“Thank you. Thank you, Victor.”
“You don’t need to thank me. If you want to thank someone, thank Mr. Emerson properly.”
“I will.”
After seeing Victor off, Harlow immediately called Rowan.
“What? Cillian Emerson found it?” Rowan howled from the other end. “No wonder I almost turned that mountain upside down and didn’t find a damn thing.”
“Thank you for your hard work, my dearest Rowan. Come back. I’ll treat you to a feast.”
“Deal.”
Harlow hung up and opened Cillian’s chat.
After adding him in the car yesterday, she had not looked closely at his profile picture. Now, enlarged on her screen, it made her heart miss a beat.
It was a nearly black night sky. A river of green velvet aurora flowed across it, brilliant and vast. Beneath the aurora stood a black silhouette with his back to the camera, a lonely figure placed between heaven and earth.
The northern lights.
He had gone to see the northern lights.
Memory surged like a tide, bitter and sweet, impossible to control.
“If one day you become very rich, what’s the first thing you want to do?”
“Take you to see the northern lights.”
“Why?”
“Because you are the most dazzling light that ever appeared in my life.”
...
Harlow forced herself not to think too much.
It had been six years. Maybe Cillian had forgotten many things from the past. Maybe this was only a coincidence.
She shrank his profile picture back down and quickly typed in the chat.
[Mr. Emerson, I received the camera. Thank you.]
Then she exited the conversation.
Cillian replied very quickly.
[That’s all the thanks I get?]
Harlow thought for a moment.
[I can pay the labor cost for the people Mr. Emerson sent to search for it.]
[What, half the fare again?]
It was only text, but Harlow could feel the resentment through the screen.
[Then what does Mr. Emerson want?]
[Buy me dinner.]
[I’m in the middle of a messy divorce. If someone with bad intentions sees Mr. Emerson and me eating together, it may damage your reputation.]
That was not an excuse. Harlow truly meant it.
Felix had plenty of useless friends in Crestport. If someone really saw her with Cillian, Cillian might have the label of “other man” slapped onto him for good.
Cillian: [Miss Gideon can invite me to your place.]
[Gideon Group is bankrupt, and the family house has already been sold at auction. Right now, I’m staying at a friend’s place with my child. It’s not convenient to bring a man home for dinner.]
That was not an excuse either. It was her current reality.
Once-glorious Miss Gideon had left the Lowell house and now did not even have a home of her own.
Cillian: [Then come to mine.]
[Come to yours? Are you cooking for me? How does that count as me buying you dinner?]
[You cook.] Cillian sent the cold line. [The housekeeper happens to be off tomorrow.]
So after that entire circle, he wanted her to fill in for the housekeeper.
Harlow inhaled deeply.
Fine.
Cooking was cooking. She owed him a big favor.
[All right, Mr. Emerson. Send me what you want to eat, and I’ll prepare the ingredients.]
Cillian was not polite. He sent a full menu.
Harlow took one look and nearly laughed in disbelief. What kind of person was this? Was he ordering a royal banquet from her kitchen?
[Mr. Emerson, don’t overestimate me. I can’t cook everything.]
[Make what you can. It doesn’t need to be much. Enough for two.]
Two people. Fine. Five or six dishes and a soup should be enough.
Before Harlow could reply, Cillian added another message.
[I’ll have the ingredients prepared. With that limping leg of yours, don’t go to the market and become everyone else’s problem.]
[Thank you, Mr. Emerson.]
She sent a dramatic, over-the-top thank-you GIF.
Westbrook Tea House.
Evening sunlight filtered through the wooden blinds, slicing flecks of gold over the polished tea table. Steam curled from the spout of a teapot, while the scent of sandalwood drifted silently through the private room.
At the card table, the game was in full swing.
Cillian sat beside the table, leaning back against the carved wooden chair. A chip flipped soundlessly between his fingers.
Caspian Wren poured tea. The pale tea curved in a clear, elegant stream before he pushed the porcelain cup toward Cillian.
“Cillian, the townhouse you liked has officially closed. It’s all yours now. When are you planning to move in?”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not? Why not now?”
Westbrook Court was only Cillian’s temporary place after returning to the country. The day he moved in, he had said the environment and facilities were average and asked Caspian to help him find a house.
Caspian had shown him plenty of properties during that time. Cillian had been dissatisfied with all of them. Now he had finally liked one townhouse enough to pay a fortune for it, and he was not moving?
Cillian glanced at his phone.
Harlow’s over-the-top thank-you GIF was still looping in the chat.
“I don’t feel like moving anymore.”
Caspian gave him a look. “Do your ideas change flavor every time somebody steeps them, or what?”
The people around the card table laughed.
Cillian did not answer. His phone screen went dark. His thumb pressed the sensor automatically, unlocking it again.
“Also, something’s wrong with you today.” Caspian leaned closer and caught a glimpse of the funny GIF. “Why do you keep checking your phone and texting? Who are you talking to? And who dares send you GIFs?”
Most of the people in Cillian’s phone were clients. His chats were usually simple, clear, and efficient. Under normal circumstances, he did not use stickers.
Even when his friends were joking around, very few people dared to send Cillian Emerson stickers.
“It’s a woman, right?” said the man across from Cillian, eyebrows raised. “Are you dating?”
“You keep unlocking your phone with that look in your eyes. I was the same when I was young and in love.”
“No wonder the human money magnet is losing so badly tonight. Classic. Lucky in love, cursed at cards.”
“Which Crestport heiress is it?”
It was rare to catch Cillian with gossip attached to him. Everyone at the table jumped in, hungry for details.
Cillian was in a decent mood. He pushed away the last few chips in front of him and said dryly, “Tragic that the CIA never hired any of you as consultants.”
Everyone kept prying.
Only Caspian suddenly went quiet.
He replayed the quick glimpse he had caught of the chat window.
Wait.
The woman chatting with Cillian had used a child’s photo as her profile picture.
A child?
