**CHAPTER 2** **DRED** Denial washes over me like a thick fog as I find myself outside the grand Grace mansion, teetering on the edge of a crisis that threatens to unravel my entire existence. The irony isn’t lost on me. Here I am, drawn in by an insatiable curiosity, yearning to uncover the layers that surround Lucy beyond our brief library encounters. And let’s not forget my unexplainable desire to delve deeper into the enigmatic world of Connor. My presence here, despite the looming storm of my reality, provides a temporary respite from the chaos I dread to face. I scan the sprawling property around me, and it's breathtaking—far beyond anything I could’ve imagined. Though the towering rooflines and turrets, yes, actual turrets, are shrouded by pristine gardens, their regal presence grips me. I can practically hear Victor and Everly gasping with delight; I need to capture this moment with a few discreet snapshots. However, my exploration is hindered by the imposing ten-foot wrought-iron fence that encloses the estate. Standing before the ornate gates, I can’t help but feel like a humble peasant standing outside a royal court, hoping for a glimpse of the queen’s grandeur. Lucy is significant—not just to Connor, but to me as well. With a steadying breath, I press the intercom button, and a voice—one that is not Connor’s—eases through the device. “Grace Manor, how may I assist you?” “Hi, uh, I’m Dred—Mildred Reformer,” I reply, opting to use my proper name. “I’m from the Toronto Central Library, here with Lucy’s books.” It sounds ridiculous even as I say it. “Oh wonderful!” His tone brightens. “She’s expecting you. I’ll meet you at the front door.” I glance up at the camera that undoubtedly captures every awkward inch of me. “Sure thing.” The gates swing open, and I slip through before they can fully part. The winding interlock driveway stretches ahead, leading me toward the mansion with its elegant façade looming above. I can’t resist capturing images of the enchanting gardens that line my path. As the house comes into full view, it feels surreal—like stepping into a storybook realm. My chance to snap another photo dissipates, however, as a sharply dressed man awaits me at the front door. His gray brows crinkle as he looks beyond me, eyeing the luxurious cars parked nearby. “Were you dropped off, Ms. Reformer?” he inquires, his tone laced with concern. “No, I took the bus.” His frown deepens. “I would have come down to pick you up.” “It’s a lovely night, and your gardens... well, they’re stunning.” I gesture vaguely at my feet. “These work just fine.” He emits a soft sound, waving me inside. “Come in. I’ll fetch Mr. Grace.” I step into the massive foyer, overwhelmed by its opulence—a vast expanse that feels more museum than home. The ceilings soar at least twelve feet high, adorned with artistic trim that rivals any gallery. Mosaic tiles form intricate patterns beneath my feet, and ornate wallpaper whispers secrets from the past. In the heart of this grandeur rests a table trimmed with carved scenes and crowned by a majestic vase overflowing with vibrant blossoms. My previous notions of Connor’s wealth have never fully grasped this level of luxury. I now understand why my best friend Flip cultivates such animosity toward him. While Flip has clawed his way up the financial ladder, Connor has lounged at the summit all his life. This realization shifts my perception of Connor’s place in the hockey realm as well. He plays for passion rather than necessity, yet it twists him into a figure of scorn and disdain in many eyes. Except for Callie—she sees beyond the bravado. Perhaps Lexi does too. Footsteps from the arched doorway pull my attention, and my stomach clenches as Connor struts in, covered in anger and arrogance—the art of it all making his broad shoulders square and his brow an angry line. Based on our earlier chats, he’s no more unbreakable than the rest of us. “Cedrick mentioned you took public transit,” Connor greets, sharp and terse. “Uh, yeah. I came straight from work,” I respond. Calling my car ‘Betty’ wouldn’t help my credibility—it’s a beater that sometimes refuses to start, making the bus the more logical choice. “I would have had a car pick you up,” he counters, his frown intensifying. “The bus was already coming this way,” I reply, bracing for him to dismiss me. He tilts his head, his expression shifting slightly. “Does your best friend know you’re here?” “Of course not.” Flip would’ve insisted on being my bodyguard. Connor’s nostrils flare in annoyance. He spins on his heel, gesturing for me to follow him down the hall. “Meems is eagerly waiting for you, and apparently, she’s very excited.” “That makes one of you,” I mutter under my breath. Connor may be quiet at Callie’s games, but this brusqueness puzzles me—an unexpected shift in demeanor fueled by the unfamiliar atmosphere or the company we keep. I attempt to examine the intricate woodwork around us, yet he strides on with long, determined steps, urgency palpable in the tightness of his form. It feels as though he’s battling discomfort, using this duty to push aside personal inclinations. He leads me up a massive spiral staircase, and I can’t help but let my gaze stray to the sculpted curves of his backside—there’s no denying it looks amazing. He halts at the first door, and his eyes flicker to mine, momentarily troubled. “Meems? Can I come in?” His knuckles tap delicately against the door. “Of course!” Her cheerful voice greets us. He opens the door. “I brought you your librarian.” He gestures for me to enter. “And I have your books,” I chime in as I glide past him. Connor’s gaze lingers like a silent observer, cataloging my presence. The room bursts with colors, with cathedral ceilings and exquisite woodwork, plush carpets, and elegant high-backed chairs almost pulling me into a bygone era. However, it’s the vivacious woman perched gracefully in a deep green chair that sparks warmth within my chest and brings a genuine smile to my face. Lucy stands, gripping the edges of her chair, determination shining in her eyes. “Connor! You’re supposed to be resting!” he warns, rushing across the room to assist her. “Resting is all I’ve done for the past week,” she brushes him off, her radiant smile fixating on me. “Dred, I’m so thrilled you’re here.” “I’m glad I could come see you,” I respond, relief flooding through me at her vitality. “You have a beautiful home.” “My late husband had a taste for the grand,” she says, crossing herself with an air of fond nostalgia. “May he rest in peace.” She extends her hand, and I wrap mine gently around hers, feeling the weight of Connor’s gaze. “Connor mentioned you’ve been unwell. Are you feeling better?” I scan her face, noting her fatigue, which and I can’t determine if it’s the enormity of the space or if she has indeed shrunk since our last meeting. “I’m fine. Just old. Little things feel bigger when you get to my age.” Her grip tightens. “Come, sit.” She motions to the chair across from her. “Connor, dear, please have Cedrick bring us tea, will you?” “It’s already on the way,” he replies, nonchalant. “Of course it is.” Her expression softens as she gazes at him, love radiating between them. As a small grin curls at Connor’s lips, I realize that someone adores him deeply, and this devotion somehow unfolds another layer of his character. Angry and hardened, yet tender and warm with Meems and Lucy—a captivating contradiction. There’s more to Connor than the tattoos concealed beneath his shirt, the fierce ice play, and the hard exterior he presents to the world. This is a man who cares immensely—so much that he opened up a piece of himself to me for the one who remains cherished in his life. With a mischievous twinkle, Meems interjects, “Now that you’ve visited Dred at the library, you can ask her on a date.” I almost choke, the implication flooding my cheeks with warmth. If tea had been served, I surely would have sprayed it everywhere. Connor’s cheeks flush, and he rubs the back of his neck, cutting in before I can stammer a response. “Meems, don’t meddle.” “I’ve told him all about you,” Meems adds, casting a playful wink. “You’re not playing matchmaker,” Connor grumbles, irritation lining his tone. Lucy clicks her tongue. “You need a partner before I pass to the other side.” “Well, it looks like you’ll have to live forever, then, since that’s unlikely to happen,” he retorts, inspecting his fingernails—a blend of defiance and desperate hope. Whenever Lucy visits the library, she enthuses about her grandson. Yet, I now realize this is the first time she’s never spoken his name or shared what he does. Her intentions to introduce us one day seem laced with irony given that he happens to be my best friend’s most despised teammate. A woman arrives, wheeling in a tray of silver tea service followed by a man laden with food that smells heavenly. They pour our tea and bow before withdrawing from the room. This situation feels akin to stepping into "The Twilight Zone." I extract the new books from my bag, offering them to Lucy. Her eyes light up with delight. “Is this the one with the highland warriors who travel back in time?” “It is! Just came back this afternoon. It’s… rather steamy.” A mischievous wink escapes my lips. “I think you’ll love it.” “I’m certain I will.” “I’m sure I won’t,” Connor mutters, rolling his eyes. “It’s educational, dear,” Lucy counters, her smile crinkling warmly. “You mean it’s embarrassing,” he retorts, the corners of his mouth twitching in annoyance. “Connor reads to me at night sometimes,” Meems interjects, her gaze twinkling with mischief. I suppress a laugh, imagining morose Connor reading spicy romance novels to his posh grandma. “Some have audiobooks,” I offer, stifling a grin. “Meems delights in my discomfort,” Connor replies dryly, his posture visibly tightening. “And Connor pretends to hate the books, but he never says no to reading them,” Lucy stage-whispers conspiratorially. My heart aches at the warmth threading through both their faces—a familial love I’m achingly jealous of, and it strikes me harder than I care to admit. Even the Terror has a soft spot. Lucy’s eyes sparkle with curiosity. “Tell me all the juicy library gossip. How are those saucy twins? Did Victor get the A he was hoping for on his English essay? Is Everly staying out of trouble?” “Who are Victor and Everly?” Connor interjects, unable to restrain himself from the conversation. This is probably the most he’s spoken at one time. “They’re teens from the group home just a few blocks from the library. My favorites,” I fill in, turning back to Lucy. “Victor did get his A, which isn’t surprising, and Everly made it through last week without losing any privileges." This has become our ritual. When Lucy arrives, I always pause to share library tales over weak coffee before diving into book discussions. Her genuine interest in the community programs I’ve developed never fails to warm my heart. Connor claims a seat in one of the chairs, choosing to listen quietly—intently—observing our exchange. As I recount the previous week’s happenings, we chat about recent books, allowing the conversation to flow smoothly as we finish our tea. After setting my empty cup down, a pang of hesitation stirs within me. “I should probably head home now so you can relax for the evening.” “Would you mind reading me a chapter before you go? Connor tends to skip the spicy bits,” she whispers conspiratorially. “Your heart is too precious to risk with excessive spice, Meems,” Connor shoots back without missing a beat. Catching his gaze, I chuckle at the rosy color dusting his cheeks. “Sure, I can read to you. Would you like to start with the highland warriors?” “Oh, please! They sound fun.” “So fun.” I nestle into my chair, focusing on Lucy as I read, attempting to ignore the weight of Connor’s watchful eyes. Before long, Lucy succumbs to sleep, her head tilting dreamily. Gently, I tuck her book ribbon between the pages. “Will she be out long?” I ask, glancing over at Connor. “She might be done for the evening,” he replies thoughtfully. “I’ll move her if she doesn’t wake up.” He adjusts her footrest and reclines her chair, placing a pillow tenderly beside her cheek. A soft kiss on her temple reveals a depth of affection that catches in my throat. Trailing after him, I sneer at the ache of sadness and affection intertwining in my heart. I’ve built a real connection with Lucy—it feels precious, filling the void I’ve known for too long. Conversations have ranged from literary delights to her late husband’s legacy, punctuated by unvoiced protections surrounding our ties to the Terror. I drift between admiration for her strength and her sense of protection for Connor. Yet, as soon as we step into the hallway, I finally gather the courage to ask the question nagging at the back of my mind. “How did Lucy’s appointment go today?” He pauses just before the stairs, turning to face me, the steel of his resolve unmistakable. “She needs surgery.” “What kind?” My heart sinks. “The kind that could grant her another decade,” he mutters, running a hand along his bottom lip. “But she’s not strong enough for it right now. The doctors are worried she might never be.” A gasp escapes me, raw pain lancing through my chest. “What does that mean?” His jaw tightens, yet his gaze holds mine firmly. “She needs a heart valve replacement. Without the surgery, I could lose her in less than a year.” The reality hits me like a harsh gust of wind—there’s an answer to her woes, a chance to keep Lucy with us, but it remains just out of reach. I ache for Connor, recognizing the despair etched across his face, but amidst my troubles, I feel a different kind of turmoil. Lucy has become a surrogate grandmother—a bond I could least expect yet value deeply. In a gentle gesture, I reach out, covering his calloused palm with mine. His fingers tremble but don't retreat. “I’m so sorry.” The truth of our shared pain feels heavy in my throat; tears brim for his suffering, our connection, our losses. “Dred, you didn’t weaken her heart,” Connor responds, confusion mingling with compassion. I draw back, rifling through my bag for a tissue—a futile attempt to mask the emotional mess breaching the surface. But then, as I rummage, a piece of paper slips from my grasp, fluttering aimlessly to the ground. Before I can grasp it, Connor snatches it up, his brows knitting together as he scans the document—the one from my landlord. “You’re in trouble,” he states with finality, his tone a mix of concern and authority. I hurriedly snatch the letter from his grip, shoving it into my purse. “It’s a misunderstanding. I’ll figure it out.” A wave of panic grips me as I hurry down the spiral staircase, a longing for a fairy godmother’s intervention tugging at the edges of my mind. Yet, reality comes with no fairy tales; every gift arrives with a cost.