“Including you?”
“Especially me.” He stares into his wineglass. “I was never the son he wanted. I was too awkward, too interested in the wrong things. He wanted someone he could mold into a proper Whitman heir—someone who’d go into finance or law, marry the right girl, produce the right grandchildren. Instead, he got me.”
“A tech genius with two PhDs who put up the capital fortwocompanies that are worth billions?”
“A disappointment who’d rather write code than attend galas to make the family look good.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Nothing I’ve ever done has been good enough. The company, the money, none of it matters. I’m still the weird kid who couldn’t make eye contact at dinner parties.”
I set down my wine and turn to face him fully. “Logan. You’re not that kid anymore.”
“I know. But when I’m around them, it doesn’t feel that way.” He meets my eyes, and the rawness there makes my heart ache. “That’s what I’m afraid of, Audrey. Not that they’ll hurt you—though they’ll try—but that you’ll see me the way I am around them. Small. Defensive. Nothing like the person I want to be.”
“Hey.” I cup his face in my hands, making him look at me. “I’ve seen you at your most vulnerable. I’ve seen you fumble and stumble and blurt out confessions you weren’t ready to make. And I’m still here. Your parents don’t scare me.”
“They should.”
“Maybe. But I’m not going anywhere.” I press a kiss to his forehead. “We do this together. Whatever happens down there, we'll face it together. I’m in this for the long haul. OK?”
He closes his eyes and leans into my touch. “OK.”
We access the main house through a door that opens onto the first floor’s landing—a grand staircase with a stained-glasswindow swallowing the last of the day’s light and painting fractured color over the polished wood. The house is silent except for the echo of my boots on the runner. Every surface glistens. Every angle is intimidating. It feels like an architectural thesis statement.Look who we are. Look what we have.Even the air is temperature-controlled for maximum discomfort.
Logan doesn’t hesitate, but his shoulders round as we descend. I want to put a hand on his back, steady him, but I suspect that would be the equivalent of blowing a kazoo at a military parade. I follow him because he knows the way and because his whole body says,Don’t leave me alone at the front.
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, he laces his fingers with mine and leads me to the formal dining room. It’s exactly as intimidating as I imagined.
The room is all dark wood and crystal chandeliers, with a table long enough to seat twenty and place settings that have more forks than I know how to use. Portraits line the walls—generations of Whitmans staring down with identical expressions of mild disapproval.
Caroline Whitman is already seated when we arrive, dressed in something elegant and understated. She’s beautiful in that preserved way that speaks of good genetics and better dermatologists, with silver-blonde hair swept into a perfect chignon and eyes that assess me like I’m a piece of furniture she’s considering purchasing.
“Logan, darling.” She offers her cheek for a kiss that barely makes contact. “How lovely that you could join us.”
“Mother.” Logan’s voice is carefully neutral. “This is Audrey. Audrey, my mother, Caroline.”
“Mrs. Whitman.” I extend my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
She takes it with the kind of limp grip that suggests she’s never had to shake hands with anyone who actually matters. “Audrey. Yes, Logan mentioned you. You’re the scientist.”
“Biomedical engineer, actually.”
“Mmm.” She releases my hand. “How... practical.”
Before I can respond, a door opens, and Edmund Whitman enters. He’s tall, silver-haired, and carries himself with the easy confidence of a man who’s never been told no. He looks like Logan might in thirty years, if Logan spent those decades being disappointed in everyone around him.
“You must be Audrey.” He doesn’t offer his hand, just looks me over with a small, assessing smile. “Logan has been quite secretive about you. I was beginning to think he’d invented a girlfriend to get his mother off his back.”
“I’m very real, I assure you.”
“So I see.” His gaze lingers a moment too long, cataloging everything—my dress, my shoes, the way I’m standing. “Well. Shall we sit? Maria has prepared lamb.”
We take our seats, Logan and I on one side, his parents on the other. The table is wide enough that it feels like we’re in separate rooms. A uniformed server appears to pour wine, and I resist the urge to down my entire glass in one go.
“So, Audrey.” Caroline unfolds her napkin with practiced precision. “Logan tells me your family is in the automotive industry.”
“My father and brothers own an auto repair shop in Bridgeport.”
“How industrious.” The word drips with condescension. “And your mother?”
“She passed away when I was six.”
