I’d grown up hearing the mantra, but it never seemed to apply to me. I wasn’t expected to carry on the name in the same way. That weight belonged to the men, my brothers and cousins, and perhaps that was the best thing about being Charlotte Westwood.
I got to watch the chaos unfold while staying just outside it, armed with wit, a sharp tongue, and an appreciation for the absurd. I flipped another page and waited for the argument to burn itself out.
Alex could take care of himself, so I wasn’t worried. This was just another day, another argument, and another reminder that family wasn’t always quiet. Yet, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Alex mumbled something else I couldn’t quite catch. Suddenly, their argument escalated to full-throttle shouting. It was impossible to follow anything past the point where they were probably waving their hands and brandishing their voices like swords.
Nate—Nathaniel James Westwood, the second oldest and self-appointed moral compass—stepped into the parlor on his way to Dad’s study. He froze mid-step, clearly reconsidering whether to dive in when he realized what he was about to interrupt.
Smart move, Nate. Live to argue another day.
He glanced at me with his eyebrows raised. “Enjoying the show?”
“Very much,” I said, tilting my head back in mock admiration. “Front row seats, unlimited popcorn. All I need now is a slushie. Maybe some nachos.”
He smirked and shook his head as he started backing to the door. “Should I rescue you, or…?”
“I think I’ll survive,” I said lightly. “Maybe. Probably. Dad wanted to talk to me, so I’d better say.”
“Famous last words,” he muttered. “Don’t let them wear you down, kiddo. Whatever it’s about, just stand your ground.”
“Don’t I always?” I rolled my eyes, but my chest warmed.
Nate was like this with me, half teasing and half warning, but I knew he meant it. They all loved me, but sometimes, I wondered if they loved me more as a miniature version of themselves. Someone to protect, raise, and teach like they would one of their own kids.
I didn’t mind it, though. I liked the chaos better this way, and besides, their advice was always pretty on point.
“Are you sure?” he asked when he reached the door. Thirty-one years old, wearing a five-thousand-dollar suit, and hestillmanaged to look like a boy who was about to get caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Last chance.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll survive,” I said. “Maybe next time I’ll bring earplugs, though. Save you from having to intervene.”
He chuckled, and somehow, the low, rumbling sound made everything feel calmer despite the shouting voices echoing from the study. “Fair enough, but if Alex starts swinging, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Noted, big brother.”
With a quick salute, he turned and walked away, leaving me in the parlor with the rumble of shouting and the faint scent of lemon and wood polish wafting through the air. Alone again, I lowered my gaze back to the magazine and flipped another page. Then I froze. Even my breath stalled in my lungs.
Right there on the page was none other than Trent Shepard. Wearing Wranglers and a dusty button-down, he’d been photographed leaning against a metal fence with cows in the background like it was a calendar shoot forSexy Ranchers Weekly.
The headline shouted, “Dallas’s Most Eligible Bachelor.”
I skimmed the article, only half reading because my eyes kept wandering back to that face. The piece highlighted his lineage, of course, but I knew their history. His mother was Claira Astor, an heiress and socialite with the kind of maiden name that still made people mutter, “Yes,thatAstor family.”
Trent’s father, Tiberius “Troy” Shepard III, was an oil baron with more money than any one family should have, and that was coming from a freaking Westwood. Trent was the grandson of the original Tiberius who had struck liquid gold in Texas and passed the fortune down like a family heirloom.
The article painted Trent as the man bringing his family’s ranching business into the modern era. They called him strategic, innovative, and sharp as a tack. I was about to read on, maybe even finish the piece, but then the door to Dad’s office slammed open.
Alex stormed out with his phone already pressed to his ear. He came to a screeching halt in front of me. His face was red, green eyes flashing and his free hand clenched in a fist like he was itching to hit something.
“Whatever Dad says to you,” he barked, his voice low but tense. “Don’t listen. We’ll talk later.”
“Why? About what?” I asked, frowning, but he didn’t answer.
He just shot me a glance that was loaded with meaning, then spun on his heel and strode off, muttering into the phone, “How soon can you be back in Chicago?”
I watched him go, my curiosity about Trent Shepard suddenly tangled with a rising pulse of concern about whatever Alex was hiding. I flipped the magazine closed, trapping Trent’s sun-drenched grin inside, and stood up.
With Alex now gone, that meant it was finally my turn inside Dad’s study. I straightened my skirt, my heart hammering a littlenow thattwoof my brothers had essentially warned me not to let Dad wear me down.
