“You’ll get sick,” she said, shifting so her umbrella covered me more than her.
“Sick, me? Please. My five-seven powerhouse frame can handle a little rain.” I smirked, jittery, like I’d been electrocuted by a downed power line.
She snorted, then crouched. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Huh. You are tiny.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. Puberty skipped me. Would not recommend.”
My gaze swept over her again—perfectly smooth skin, plump pink lips, beautiful silky hair, not a strand out of place. Her navy dress uniform was completed with knee-high socks like the ones they wore at those rich schools over in Ashbourne Heights.
“How old are you? Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be warming up somewhere cozy, drinking fancy hot chocolate or something?” I asked.
The mystery girl beamed at me. “Fifteen and four days. Maybe I’m looking for adventure. Cozy cafés are overrated. Unless they serve Geraldine’s Chocolates. They’re to die for.”
They also cost an arm and a leg. But clearly that didn’t matter to her.
“Four days, huh?”
“Every bit counts.”
“Well, happy belated birthday then.”
She grinned. I shivered again, my heart thundering louder than the storm. This time, it wasn’t because I was cold.
“I’m…Elise. On a spring break class trip from New York City. And you?”
“Elise.” I tested her name on my tongue. Tasting it. Savoring it. It was sweet, just like her.
“I’m Kian. Kian Leste.”
The tempest had raged that day, but I didn’t feel a drop. She stood there for two hours with me, warming me with her presence, lighting a fire in my chest.
No one had ever stood between me and the weather before.
And no one had ever since.
Chapter 14: BRIDE IN CHAINS
Present: Anderson Estate, New York City
My hand shakes asI brush out my hair in the back parlor facing the rose garden.
A pale version of me reflects in the mirror—large eyes, dark circles underneath, bloodless cheeks. A simple white sheath dress I pulled from a closet—Mom’s old dress.
When I was little, I’d look through photos of my parents’ wedding. The great Linus Anderson’s arranged marriage with Joanna Milton was the social event of the year, splashed across the newspapers and covered by all media outlets.
They weren’t in love then. Dad married Mom because our family used to believe in some curse about the wife of the eldest son dying an untimely death should they fall in love. It was ridiculous, but with a string of unfortunate deaths over the years and the superstitious lot of old-money folks, I never questioned it.
Mom died when I was a baby. Dad fell completely apart, or so I was told. They were in love then. It surprised everyone.
But it never surprised me.
I could see it when I looked at their photos. The way Dad smiled at Mom in her stunning wedding dress with the long cathedral train, how she snuck a glance at him when they were cutting their three-tiered cake, a shy smile on her face. Perhaps it wasn’t love at that moment, but the signs were there.
It was romantic. It was fated.
