“Ten minutes,” Arthur continues, cell phone extended like an offering. “That’s all it will take.”
I turn to face Cillian, searching his eyes for the determination I saw in the dining room. It’s still there, but now clouded with conflict. The businessman battling the son battling the partner. I know which version of himself he’s trying to be for me, but thirty years of conditioning doesn’t dissolve in a single act of defiance.
“Go,” I murmur, making the decision for him. “I’ll be in the car.”
It is a small mercy, but one he earned. I haven’t forgotten Arthur’s clumsy attempts to help the conversation earlier. The gesture was faint, but it was there. He is flawed, certainly. But unlike his wife, he is not a lost cause.
Cillian’s jaw tightens. “Very well.”
He follows his father toward the study, before disappearing around the corner. I fully intend to wait for him in the safety of the car, when Mary’s voice slips in behind me.
“Star. What perfect timing. I was hoping for a moment alone with you.”
I turn slowly, schooling my features into neutrality as I face her. Mary stands three feet away, her posture perfect, her smile practiced to the precise degree of polite interest. Nothing in her demeanor suggests the woman who just watched her carefully constructed world collapse in the dining room.
“I’m waiting for Cillian,” I say, having no interest in listening to whatever she wants to say.
“Of course, dear.” Her smile doesn’t waver. “But surely you can spare a few minutes for a little chat while Arthur discusses boring financial matters with Cillian? Woman to woman?”
I consider refusing, walking outside to wait in the cold car rather than follow her deeper into this house. But the confidence in her eyes makes me hesitate. Mary isn’t a woman who accepts defeat. She’s regrouping, not retreating.
“Just a quick chat,” she adds, already turning as if my agreement is inevitable. “In my office. More comfortable than standing in hallways, don’t you think?”
I follow her against my better judgment, drawn by a need to understand what she’s planning. My heels click as we move away from the foyer, into a long corridor I haven’t seen before. The walls are lined with portraits staring down with the same assessing gaze Mary has. Their eyes seem to track our movement.
Not a single face smiles.
“The family gallery,” Mary explains without turning back. “Every generation since 1892. Arthur’s great-grandfather built this house, you know. Quite the visionary. He started with nothing and built an empire.”
I say nothing, watching her perfectly coiffed silver hair bobbing slightly with each step. The emerald silk of her blouse catches the light from wall sconces, making her glow with artificial warmth against the shadowed hallway.
“It’s quite a legacy to uphold,” she continues when my silence extends too long. “Not everyone is equipped for that kind of responsibility.”
We reach a heavy door at the corridor’s end. The door swings open to reveal her private office—a space as impersonal and cold as its owner.
Marble surfaces gleam under recessed lighting. A massive mahogany desk dominates the center, its surface bare except for a sleek laptop and a single folder. Leather-bound ledgers line built-in shelves, their spines uniformly aligned.
What strikes me most is the complete absence of personal touches. No photographs, no mementos, nothing to suggest the office belongs to a woman with family rather than a corporate machine. Even Cillian’s sterile workspace in the city has my painting hanging above his desk.
“Please, sit,” Mary gestures to a straight-backed chair positioned across from her desk. It looks deliberately uncomfortable.
I perch on its edge as Mary circles her desk with unhurried confidence. She settles into her leather chair—throne-like in its proportions—and swivels to face me. For a moment, she simply observes, her blue eyes cataloguing every detail of my appearance with clinical detachment.
“Now then,” she says, folding her hands on the desk’s polished surface. “I think it’s time you and I had an honest conversation about my son’s future.”
My mouth goes dry. Mary watches my discomfort grow, patient as a spider allowing its prey to exhaust itself before moving in.
I’ve never felt more alone.
“I’ve been following your little gallery project with interest,” Mary begins, the word “little” carrying enough condescension to fill the room. Her fingers tap once against the desk’s polished surface before reaching for a leather folder I hadn’t noticed. “Quite charming, in its way. Accessible.” She manages to make accessibility sound like a terminal disease, something to be pitied rather than celebrated.
I say nothing, watching her manicured fingers. She slides it toward me.
“Open it,” she instructs.
My fingers feel numb as I reach for the folder. Inside, are documents printed on heavy paper. They’re financial statements, investment portfolios, trust agreements. Cillian’s name appears throughout, alongside figures with more zeros than I’ve ever seen. Gallery funding proposals. Real estate investments. Stock holdings. My eyes catch on a familiar name. The Klein Gallery where my upcoming show is scheduled. I see percentages, ownership stakes, funding arrangements.
“What is this?” I ask, though the answer is already forming like ice in my stomach.
