“Talon.” My mother’s voice grates.
I turn around slowly.
She's standing by the wine fountain, one hand braced on her hip, a glass of white wine in the other. Her smile is tight enough to crack porcelain. Her eyes, however, are anything but soft.
“Where did she go?” she demands.
I shrug, keeping my expression loose. “Headache. She needed to leave.”
Mom’s mouth hardens. “She left. In the middle of her father’s engagement celebration. How thoughtful.”
“She didn’t feel well.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “It happens.”
“She could have pushed through,” she says. “Everyone is here. She’s supposed to be representing the family. Instead, she walks out like a sulky child.”
I feel my jaw tighten before I can stop it. “She’s not a child.”
“Then she should act like an adult,” she snaps, her voice low enough that the words do not carry back into the party. “And I’m sure Chad is in there making excuses for her. Do you have any idea how that looks for him, Talon, having his daughter bail on such an important night?”
“She’s been working her ass off,” I shoot back. “School. TA work. She has a life outside this house. Not everyone can float around drinking wine and micromanaging linen choices.”
Mom’s eyes narrow.
There it is. That dangerous little flash that says I have just hit a nerve.
“Watch your tone,” she says.
I feel a bubble of laughter push up my throat, bitter and amused. “Or what? You send me back across the country and revoke my caviar privileges? I’m an adult, and you can’t send me away that easily now.”
Her mouth presses flat. “You have no idea how difficult you are making this.”
“Me?” I huff. “I’m not the one throwing a surprise engagement gala like it’s a royal coronation, then getting pissed when someone’s body taps out.”
She takes a step down toward me, heels clicking on the stone.
“You are so quick to defend her,” Mom says. “You barely know her.”
I think about Penelope. Her mouth. Her eyes. Her irritation. Her softness. The way she handled a flogger at Velvet like she was born with it in her hand, then turned around and graded my sociology assignment like I was the only idiot in the room.
I swallow. “I know enough.”
My mom’s expression curdles. “You’re disgusting. She’s going to be your sister.”
“Step,” I grind out.
“She’ll leave you like all the other whores. Poor Talon with another broken heart.”
I laugh once. “You’d need to believe I have one first.”
She stares at me for a beat, then lets out a short, humorless breath. “Come along, I don’t want guests thinking my son is a spoiled, ungrateful bitch like Penelope.”
The last thing I want to do is go back in there with all those fake smiles and carefully arranged floral centerpieces. I want to punch something. Or find Penelope and let her yell at me until she feels better. Or peel my mother’s secrets off her like old wallpaper and see what rots underneath.
But I follow her inside. For now.
The servers are clearing plates, bringing out desserts that look like they took a team and a blueprint to assemble. Chad is at the far end of the room talking to some guy in a suit with a tan that has clearly never seen real sunlight.
“Talon, sweetheart, smile,” Mom hisses through her teeth. “You look like someone died.”
