The cord of tension inside me snapped. I didn’t kiss her. I just rested my forehead against hers, our breaths syncing, keeping this fragile, impossible truth contained between us.
“Okay,” I breathed. “Okay.”
Chapter 15
Elara
It had only been three days since I’d last seen Julian. He was off in Europe somewhere on business, and I couldn't stop thinking about him. Where was he? When would I see him next? I knew he was back in the states.
Since my birthday—since the roof, the cake, and the ghost of my mother’s voice—I’d set three words loose into the universe. I couldn’t believe I’d admitted I loved him. I wasn't even sure I did until I heard myself say it. Then I realized the truth had been there for years; my body knew it, even if my mind had protested.
Not even a summons to Grandpa Lionel’s estate could get Julian off my mind. And that was saying a lot, because Lionel Ashworth was the original architect of the empire. He didn’t involve himself in day-to-day operations anymore, but his word was still law.
Luckily, he liked me. I drove there with the "Ashworth Three." The mistress had been left at home, and I was instructed not to mention her. As soon as we walked in, his gravelly voice boomed, “Elara, my dear. Come give an old man a kiss.”
Grandpa Lionel held court at a table that seated twenty. He was in his eighties, with eyes like sharp gunmetal. He smelled of bay rum and fine cigars. He held my hand, his grip surprisingly strong. “You look tired. They working you too hard at that lace-and-satin factory?”
“It keeps me busy, Grandpa, but I’m fine,” I said. He was the only one who ever asked if I was tired—not just if the work was done.
“Sit next to me.” He waved away Alastair. “I want to talk to my favorite daughter-in-law.”
Alistair’s smile tightened, but he obeyed. Grandpa Lionel had never liked Alastair’s mother. He’d told me once he wanted his son to marry my mother instead. He always got a goofy grin when he talked about her; she had been a maid in his house when she was sixteen, and he said she took his breath away.
During dinner, Grandpa Lionel ignored his own son and grandson. “The Q3 numbers,” he said, pointing a bony finger at me. “That was your restructuring. Saved the retail division. My idiot son was ready to sell it for scraps.” He patted my hand. “Your mother would be proud of you. Running the show while this one,” he glared at Alastair, “was off collecting passport stamps.”
Then, he produced a velvet case. Inside was a breathtaking necklace—a cascade of emeralds and diamonds.
“Belonged to my mother,” he said. “It should go to a woman of substance, not just blood.” Before I could protest, he fastened it around my neck. The jewels lay cold and heavy—a king’s favor.
Alistair’s face was a mask of rage. I could smell the resentment in the room. Being the beloved outsider was a curse, but I’d be lying if I said I didn't like being the one he chose.
The silence was broken when the dining room doors swung open. Brielle walked in.
She wasn’t dressed for a family dinner; she was in a flowing bohemian dress that highlighted her bump. The room froze.
“Who,” Grandpa Lionel asked in a dangerous calm, “is this?”
Brielle stepped forward, emboldened by stupidity. “My name is Brielle. Alastair and I are in love. I’m carrying his child. I’m tired of being a secret.”
Alistair shot to his feet. “Brielle, what are you doing? I told you to stay home!”
His trust fund was as good as gone. I had to fight the urge to laugh.
“Explain yourself,” Lionel commanded.
Alastair spluttered. “It’s complicated, Grandfather. Elara and I have an understanding...”
“You got another woman pregnant,” Grandpa Lionel finished. “While married to the woman who holds your family’s legacy together.” He looked at me. “Elara, my dear girl. Why are you still here?”
“Obligation,” I whispered.
He slammed his palm on the table. “Obligation be damned! They let this happen? They let you be disrespected like this?” He began to cough, a ragged sound, until the butler provided his medication.
When he could speak again, his fury was cold. “You,” he pointed at Alastair, “have disgraced this family.” Then he turned to me. “Elara, you will divorce him tomorrow. I’ll have my lawyers draw up the papers. He’ll get nothing from the trust. And I am rewriting my will tonight. Everything that was to go to him—the shares, the properties—it goes to you.”
The declaration was a seismic shift. Alastair looked gutted.
“Thank you, Grandpa,” I stood up, the emeralds feeling their true weight. “But hurting yourself in anger isn't necessary.”
