He smiles, a memory in his gaze. “I knew who your father was, what this house represents. You were in danger. But things turned out fine, didn’t they?”
Yes, they did.
I exhale hard, a silent message moving between us. Sir said HJ was fine—that he'd been praised and given a raise—but I sensed more beneath the surface. I knew Sir was mad at me, but I wasn’t sure whether that mood spread to HJ.
“What did Sir say to you? You had the day off yesterday—you're alive, so that’s good.”
“Joke all you want, but it’s no laughing matter,” HJ counters, lifting his cup. “A raise and death threats—that’s the new Employee of the Month. I read it in a Cosmopolitan.”
I smile and then frown. “Death threats?”
He sets the cup down and taps the rim twice. “He warned me I might die a slow, painful death if I touch you.”
“You already knew that,” I say, gripping the doorframe. Luna skids across my feet, tumbling in an earnest cat fit. I scoop her up, tucking her against my chest.
“He spelled out my final resting place—Stormy River,” HJ continues. “I wonder if I can pick the location,” he says. “He disapproves of… our friendship, our casual familiarity.”
“Will you distance yourself?” I stride across the kitchen, set Luna down, and lift his cup.
I pretend to sip.
Make a point.
We are friends.
Friends share coffee.
He snatches it back. “Mine.” Then sets it down gently. “No, Miss Harlow. I told him I wouldn’t pull away.”
I force a smile. “He was just?—”
“Warning me.” His eyes, warm and unwavering, meet mine. “He said that your safety and happiness come first. I’m to put you above everything. I sensed he meant himself, too.”
“He won’t hurt you. If he does, he hurts me.”
He nods. “And that,” he murmurs, “is something he would never do.” He presses a slender white envelope into my hand. “Another letter. No threats required for this one, I hope.”
I look at it. Stare. Pearl stationery, my name—Fawn Harlow—scrawled in looping ink. My pulse flutters. I recognize the handwriting before I lift the flap.
Eleanor—my foster mother.
Hands trembling, I break the seal. Inside: a silver-foiledchampagne glass and the word Congratulations. I unfold the card:
To the only daughter I ever had, the one I let down,
Congratulations on your wedding. I should have said this when we saw each other. Know that I’m cheering for you, always.
With love, Eleanor.
With love?
My chest tightens.
The one I let down?
I lean against the island, pressing my palm to my sternum as if to soothe the ache that finds my heart. My fingers crease the edge of the card as I think… I thought I’d left her, left the shame behind. The dread. The guilt. Feeling worthless. She was so mean—I think.Wasn’t she?I remember her being so fucking cruel… Yet she fed me, clothed me, gave me a bed and mostly clean sheets.
I ran from her and that house, with the patches of dead grass littered with car wrecks, at eighteen, terrified and pregnant, determined to find my father. Give him the baby so it wouldn’t be… worthless like me. No—I correct myself—like Iusedto be, or at least, like I used to believe I was.
