“I extended the invitation to Mrs. Vitale. You have a home to go to,” Mr. Sinclair replied, his emphasis cool yet resolute, a reminder of boundaries he was determined to enforce.
“But?” Oliver’s hesitant interruption hung in the air, his reluctance to leave me clear in the way his hand tightened around mine.
“Good night, Mr. Thorpe,” Mr. Sinclair said with renewed firmness, his eyes boring into Oliver as he waved his hand toward the open door.
Oliver hesitated, a mix of frustration and anxiety tightening his features. He slowly backed away, reluctantly letting my hand slip from his grasp. “Yeah, sure,” he said, his voice strained. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Savy. Maybe we can hang out then.”
Before I could utter a word, Oliver vanished into the darkness outside, the soft thud of the closing door muffled bythe plush runner beneath my feet. The faint echo resonated up the marble walls, leaving a hush that felt both grand and lonely. Mr. Sinclair turned to me; his smile was measured, the kind that revealed nothing and everything at once. He gestured elegantly toward the sweeping staircase, the faint glint of his cufflinks catching the chandelier’s light. “Please follow me. I’ll show you to your room—you must be tired from your journey. Everything you need has been provided. But if I’ve overlooked something, I hope you’ll let me know.” His voice, warm and authoritative, lingered in the charged stillness between us.
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and followed his lead. My shoes sank into the thick, silken carpet, hush-soft compared to the occasional sharp tap of Mr. Sinclair’s polished loafers on exposed marble. The air was cool, almost crisp, tinged with the faint aroma of lavender polish and aged wood, mixed with a subtler note—something citrus and clean, perhaps from freshly laundered linens. Each breath deepened my sense of displacement. The house, breathtaking in its symmetry, seemed curiously untouched. Every surface shimmered as if recently dusted, yet nothing felt lived-in. No muddy footprints, no stray cup on a side table, not even a stack of mail. It was a showplace, meticulously arranged to evoke a life I doubted was truly here. On the walls: no candid photographs or mementos, only grand oil portraits and gilded frames, silent witnesses to a legacy more curated than remembered. The hush, broken only by the distant hum of a grandfather clock, was oppressive in its perfection.
As we began to climb the staircase, the cool mahogany banister smooth beneath my palm, my gaze was caught by a painting mid-landing—a Monet, luminous even in the subdued light. My footsteps faltered, the faint echo bouncing back from the marble risers. The painting’s brushstrokes shimmered with color, but beneath the vibrancy was a melancholy that grippedme. For a moment, the scent of furniture wax mingled with something else—rain on stone, a memory rising unbidden.
“How long have you lived here?” My voice was barely louder than a whisper, my eyes locked on the Monet. Something in its blurred edges and soft light reminded me of an afternoon I spent with Roxy at the Knoxville Art Museum, shortly before she died. I wanted to look away, but instead, my throat tightened and my chest ached, tears threatening for reasons I couldn’t fully explain.
Mr. Sinclair paused beside me. “It’s Monet,” he said, his words gentle, his gaze lingering on the painting as if it, too, held a secret.
“I know,” I murmured, my words trembling from somewhere deep. “Monet was always a favorite of my mother’s—and mine too. She used to say his paintings felt like memories.” I let my fingertips hover near the frame, craving the comfort of touch but not daring to mar its perfection. “They make me miss her,” I admitted, my vulnerability raw in the refined silence.
He looked at me then, something unguarded flickering in his eyes—a shadow of his own sorrow, swiftly masked by composure. “Monet reminds us,” he said quietly, “that beauty and grief aren’t so different. Sometimes, they’re the same thing.” For a heartbeat, we stood side by side, bound by the hush, the brush of polished air, and all the things neither of us were ready to say.
“Please,” Mr. Sinclair said softly, his voice almost a suggestion rather than a command as he guided me down a corridor. His hand hovered near the small of my back—a polite distance, but close enough that I caught the faintest tremor in his fingers. At a pair of imposing double doors, he paused, seeming to steel himself before he swung them open. The doors whispered against the thick rug. He moved aside, his postureformal but his eyes searching my face for a reaction as I stepped inside—and I almost forgot to breathe.
“Oh... wow.” The words slipped out, thin and reverent, as I turned in a slow circle. The room was a sanctuary of pale velvet and gilded edges—a four-poster bed draped with shimmering fabric, the kind of linens that begged to be touched. The faint scent of jasmine and something warmer—amber, maybe—hung in the air, mingling with the clean sweetness of freshly pressed sheets. My fingers trailed along the edge of a carved dresser, the wood cool and glassy beneath my skin, grounding me amid so much luxury.
Mr. Sinclair’s tone gentled, a subtle warmth threading through his formality. “To your left, there’s a private bath. And over here”—he gestured to a sunlit nook with two armchairs and a delicate lamp—“a small sitting room if you need a quiet moment.” He hesitated, as if reluctant to break the hush of the moment. “If you ever find yourself restless in the night... there’s an intercom in each room. Press the button and Charles will answer. I swear, the man hardly ever sleeps—sometimes I wonder if he’s part of the house itself,” he added with a fleeting smile, something almost fond sparking in his tired eyes.
The urge to hold on to that sliver of warmth made my next words tumble out faster than I intended. “I saw you once,” I blurted, my gaze dropping to the intricate rug as I twisted the silver ring on my finger.
He turned, a crease forming between his brows. “You did?” His voice was quieter, uncertain—a rare, unguarded moment.
I swallowed, feeling the pressure of old memories building in my chest. “When I was little, back in East Tennessee. I lived at a motorcycle club with my adoptive father.” The words felt foreign in this refined space. “You came to see him. You were looking for your son. I remember you standing by the door, your face... itwas so sad. I never forgot.” My hands curled at my sides, bracing for his response. “Did you—did you ever find him?”
He flinched—just barely, but enough that I saw the ripple of pain before he masked it. For a long moment, the silence between us bloomed heavy and raw, the scent of jasmine suddenly too sweet, almost cloying. He drew himself up, clearing his throat. “No,” he said at last, voice ragged at the edges. Then, softer, “I’m... sorry.” His gaze skittered away, eyes shining with something unshed, and he turned sharply.
He left in a rush of footsteps and the whisper of the door closing behind him. I stood there, heart thudding, throat tight, surrounded by all the trappings of comfort that suddenly felt cold and echoing. My eyes stung—not just with sympathy for him, but with the ache of my own memory. It was as if the room itself held its breath, waiting for someone to return.
I woke the next morning with my heart pounding, tangled in a nest of pearl-gray sheets that felt too soft, too foreign beneath my fingers. The heavy velvet drapes filtered pale winter sunlight into the room, scattering golden flecks across gilt moldings and the mirror’s edge. The faint, lingering scent of jasmine clung to the air, mixing with the familiar, metallic tang of the city drifting in through a cracked window. For a moment, I lay still, tracing the rise and fall of my own breath—a fragile reminder of the night before.
My hand wandered over my face, the skin cool in the morning chill, and stopped at the silver band nestled beside the diamond on my finger. Massimo had slipped it there—a gestureheavy with promises and secrets I wasn’t sure I deserved. The diamond caught the light, but it was the silver that pressed against my skin, anchoring me to him and to everything uncertain. As my chest tightened with doubt, I wondered if he even cared that I was gone.
Turning my head, I saw the phone’s glossy surface, begging for connection. I reached for it, fingers trembling, and dialed home. I chewed my thumbnail, counting each ring in time with my heartbeat.
Distant clattering and a dog barking burst through the receiver, followed by Stella’s unmistakable bellow: “Shut up, you ingrate! Some of us are tryin’ to talk on the phone!” I could practically see Digger ducking for cover, and it made me smile. “Hello?” she barked, her voice shifting in an instant to expectant warmth.
“Stella,” I said, letting my voice fill with relief and longing.
“Oh, baby girl!” she chirped, her voice lighting up like Christmas morning. “If you were any more missed here, we’d have to put your face on a milk carton. How’ve you been? I keep meanin’ to call, but you know, Digger tried to fry the turkey again, and we still haven’t gotten the grease outta the carpet. How’s that fancy school treatin’ you? You learnin’ anything useful, or just how to sound smarter than the rest of us?”
“Yeah,” I managed, blinking back tears. “I just miss you.” The words tasted bittersweet, heavy with everything I couldn’t say.
“Aw, baby girl. You know we miss you like crazy. If I could, I’d send Digger up on his bike, but you know he’d get lost somewhere between here and the first gas station. With all that snow, he’d probably end up building a snowman and call it a day. But we’ll figure something out, I promise.”
“No,” I sighed, letting the ache settle in my bones, “I just wanted to hear your voice.” My fingers pressed the silver band,wishing I could explain everything I was feeling. “Have you heard from Jackson?”
“Well, he and Karlyn finally made California home—bet they’re already calling themselves beach bums. Savage’s the Prez now, but you know who’s really running this circus. I just give ‘em the look and it’s all over.” She snorted, and I could picture her, arms crossed, daring anyone to argue.
I laughed, wiping at my eyes. “Yes, ma’am, nobody beats the Stella stare.”
