“Miss Bryan!”
I stop dead in my tracks.
My spine straightens like I’ve been summoned by the headmistress of some Victorian boarding school. I turn, slowly, one brow lifted. “Yes?”
Mrs. Holt doesn’t move, but there’s something sharp in her posture. Intentional. Calculating. “Won’t you accompany me? I still need to find Leo a gift.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Her eyes sweep over me like I’m a particularly interesting artifact at an auction. “You have taste. And insight into what my son might actually like. Humor me.”
And for one heartbeat—one irrational, gut-driven heartbeat—I think, this woman is about to buy me. Not with money, but with access. With answers.
So I follow.
I walk beside the Ice Queen of Newport down Bellevue Avenue, her heels clicking in rhythm with my boots. People notice. A woman holding two bags and a latte stops mid-sip. A couple of teenage girls pretend to take selfies but aim their cameras at us instead. I see the texts already forming.
Queen and King reconciling in time for Christmas?
We browse a high-end leather shop, then a cologne boutique. She asks no questions. I offer no comments. When the awkward silence starts to ache, she lifts her gloved hand, and her chauffeur steps forward to collect her growing pile of bags.
Then she makes a sharp left into a swanky little sushi lounge and wine bar without waiting to see if I’ll follow.
“Sit,” she says, not unkindly, gesturing to a velvet-lined booth as she shrugs out of her coat.
I sit.
She waves down the server, rattles off an order like she owns the place, and finally looks at me as though she’s ready to talk.
“He likes you. A lot,” she says plainly, smoothing a napkin across her lap. “I owe you an apology, I suppose.”
I arch a brow. “Yousuppose?”
Her lips twitch, and for the briefest second, I swear she nearly smiles. “I wasn’t kind. I don’t take kindly to mess, Miss Bryan. And you walked into our lives like a hurricane.”
“I didn’t walk in. I was dragged,” I snap before I can stop myself. “By a past I didn’t ask for and a boy who wouldn't let me go.”
She considers that, then nods. “And yet here you are. Still standing.”
I want to ask what this is—some weird peace offering? Some twisted version ofthank you for not ruining my son?
Instead, I press my palms to the table and say quietly, “I’m not a project. I’m not a scandal. I’m not someone you get to judge because I don’t fit into your curated image.”
She lifts her glass. “And yet, Jade Bryan, you may be the most real thing that’s ever walked into our world.”
My mouth goes dry.
For once, I don’t have a comeback.
Only more questions.
Mrs. Holt sips her wine with that same cool elegance, but there’s something softer in her eyes now. A hint of curiosity, maybe even… respect?
I toy with my chopsticks, not really hungry but needing to keep my hands busy. “I was supposed to play D1 soccer.”
Her eyes shift to me, interested. “Were you?”
“Yeah.” I exhale slowly. “I worked my ass off for it. Two-a-days, club leagues, state championships. I had offers lined up before everything went sideways.”
