“Something clearly has,” she says softly.
I nod even though she can’t see me. “I can feel it. I don’t know what it is yet. But it’s shifting.”
Our footman returns silently beside me and sets down a silver tray with a fresh selection of pastries. I smile in thanks and pour another cup of coffee.
I motion for him to sit on the chair next to me, and notice with appreciation that he's brought a pen and notepad to take notes.
“Are you able to come over this evening to plan?” I ask eagerly, taking a slow sip.
Dale laughs, low and delighted. “You always know how to make a girl feel honored. Of course I can.”
“Good,” I murmur. “Because this party is going to be seriously important.”
Within the hour, Dale is here.
By the time the footman returns with a fresh pot of coffee and a tray of those little lemon biscuits I like, Dale is already breezing through the French doors like she owns the place. She’s wearing oversized black sunglasses, a striped sweater knotted over her shoulders, and the kind of linen pants that only look effortless when they cost something obscene. She kisses both my cheeks, calls the estate château chic, and drops her Chanel tote onto the lounge chair beside me like we’re poolside at Hotel du Cap.
“Darling,” she says, settling in and grabbing a biscuit without waiting for permission. “Tell me everything. Guest count. Theme. Do we want live music or someone depressingly European with a violin?”
I laugh and pour her a cup of coffee. “Something decadent but not obvious. Less ballroom, more open-air indulgence. I want everyone to think we’ve lost our minds a little.”
“You already have,” she says, nodding approvingly. “Perfect. Let’s start with the list.”
We fall into an easy rhythm—names, champagne orders, what kind of flowers look expensive but not bridal. Dale has a wayof making everything feel manageable and fabulous at the same time. She works fast, edits faster, and within forty minutes, we’ve sketched out a blueprint that feels just wild enough.
But I’m only half-listening now.
She’s sipping her second coffee and typing something into her flip phone when I ask her. Lightly. Casually.
It’s been gnawing at me, and I need to know. She couldn't have shared a connection with my brother that I don’t know about. I need to know anything she shared with him, and who they were to each other. I can’t know they may have been together and not be privy to the details.
“So,” I say, eyes on my notes, “you and Ford?”
She freezes for a beat—just long enough for me to catch it—then sets her cup down gently.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she says without looking up.
I smile. “Was it ever real?”
I don’t doubt that it was. But it’s hard to imagine my brother with only one woman.
Dale exhales, leans back in the chair, and tilts her head toward the sky, as if deciding how much truth I’m allowed.
“It wasn’t a game,” she says finally. “Not to me.”
That surprises me. I blink. “But to him?”
She shrugs. “He’s a Huntington-Russell. Everything is a game to you.”
That lands heavier than I expected. I nod slowly, pretending to return to my list, but my brain’s already cataloguing the edge in her voice, the flicker of something real beneath the polished exterior.
“I think the two of you would have made a terrifying couple,” I say breezily.
Dale smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says. “Let’s not talk of him. It’s too painful.”
Hayden Herron
