Blake offers me his arm. I take it, letting him guide me up the marble steps where other guests are arriving in clusters of wealth and corruption. I recognize faces from the news, from my father's political events, and from Wintervale society pages.
They recognize me, too. I feel their stares and hear the whispers that follow us like ghosts.
That's the senator's daughter.
Is that the Delano boy with her?
Edmund invited her personally. This should be interesting.
Blake's hand tightens fractionally on mine. He hears them too, processes the attention, calculates how to use it or neutralize it.
Inside, the estate is like an over-the-top Christmas movie set. I thought the insanely rich were supposed to love minimalism. Not this place. The decor is excessive, ornate, and designed to make guests feel small and grateful for the privilege of being here.
There are crystal chandeliers that cost more than most of the homes in this town. There’s art on the walls that should be in a museum. Servers in formal wear are carrying champagne and canapés, their faces carefully neutral despite serving people who view them as animate furniture.
I spot Helena immediately holding court near the windows, surrounded by women I now recognize as Frost Society members. She catches my eye and gives the slightest nod.
I don’t see Silas or any other Delano, for that matter, except the one on my arm. I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing.
“Is your grandfather not invited to events like this?” I whisper to Blake.
“He’s always invited but never attends. Nonno hates these things.”
"Peyton Quinn." Edmund Kingsley's voice cuts through the ambient noise like a blade through silk.
I turn to face my great-uncle for the first time. He's exactly what old money looks like when it's been allowed to age without consequence—tall, silver-haired, with the kind of posture that says he's never had to bow to anyone in his eighty-plus years. His tuxedo is bespoke, his cufflinks are probably heirlooms, and his smile is warm but absolutely devoid of genuine emotion.
"Mr. Kingsley." I don't extend my hand or offer deference or respect he hasn't earned. "Thank you for the invitation."
"Please, call me Edmund. We're family, after all." The words sound poisonous in his mouth, like he's mocking the very concept. "I've been eager to meet you. Your mother spoke of you often."
The lie is so casual and so perfectly delivered that for a moment I almost believe him. I stare into his eyes, looking for a piece of me, and almost forget that this man participated in the erasure of my mother from the family history and possibly signed off on her murder.
Almost believe.
“Really?” I keep my voice light, curious, like the senator's daughter who knows how to play these games. “I’m wondering how that could be if you never acknowledged her existence?”
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or recognition that I'm not going to make this easy. Good, I hope I'm everything he didn't expect.
"Your companion?” Edmund's gaze shifts to Blake, and his expression hardens fractionally. "Blake Delano, I heard you'd returned to Wintervale. Your grandfather speaks very highly of you."
"I'm sure he does." Blake's voice is flat, controlled, giving nothing away.
“Your uncle not so much.” He smirks.
Blake silently shrugs like he doesn’t give a fuck.
“Family business can be so complicated. Loyalties, obligations, the weight of legacy." Edmund's smile sharpens. "But I'm sure you understand that better than most."
Every word that comes out of his mouth seems like it’s wrapped in passive-aggressive pleasantries. A reminder from Edmund for us to know exactly where we stand in the pecking order of things.
"I understand that family is who you choose," Blake says. "Not who shares your blood."
"How very modern of you. I wish you’d had that mindset when you ran Miss Quinn’s DNA tests yesterday.”
Shot’s fired.
“Speaking of DNA,” Edmund turns back to me. "Peyton, I'd love a moment of your time. Privately. There are things we should discuss before the evening progresses."
