The funerals feel like a lifetime ago. We’d started at Mom’s. Hers was small. That didn’t surprise me. Even when I lived with her, she’d never had many friends. What surprised me was the tears that spilled from me. I thought all I could feel for her was anger.
That was followed by an argument with Madison. I didn’t want her to go to Louis’s funeral. We'd fought about it, sharp words about respect and closure and things fourteen-year-olds shouldn't have to understand.
I'd lost that argument. Will probably lose most of them.
What do I know about raising a fourteen-year-old? I can barely keep a plant alive.
"You're doing the thing again," Madison says.
"What thing?"
"That line." She points between her eyebrows. "Right there."
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. She's right. I run my thumb along it, muttering, “I'm fine.”
What the hell am I getting myself into? Three months living with Thorne Blackstone.
Madison was right, my boss, Bill at Huntsman & Fellows, nearly shit himself when the name Blackstone was mentioned. Working remotely was not an issue.
Dad was considerably less thrilled. “The Blackstones will take and take until you have nothing left to give,” he’d said, his voice thick with decades-old resentment. “No wonder your mother lasted with Louis all those years. They were cut from the same cloth. Selfish to the core. She chose him over us without a second thought, just like he kept her hidden away from his real family. You need to get away from them. That family is as destructive as the bourbon they make.”
I’d heard variations of this bitterness my whole life. Dad might have stopped drinking before it killed him, but the wounds left by Mom never healed. And I get it. His wife had abandoned him.
She’s the mother who left me behind for a new family with a wealthy man. And now I am walking straight into the lion’s den.
The black Rolls-Royce that Thorne and Lillianna got into after the disastrous meeting isn’t sitting outside. But this isn’t the kind of house where the cars sit outside. No, he probably owns twenty cars that he never drives, and they’re parked in a massive garage that’s along the side or back of this monstrosity.
Which means he’s inside. Waiting. Or more likely, off in one of the wings of this antebellum palace, planning to ignore us for the next three months. Good.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
“Are we going in?” Madison asks. “Or are we just going to sit here?”
“Give me a second.”
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.” I’m terrified. And I’m angry. I’m about to spend three months living with a man whose taste is burned into my memory, pretending we’re strangers. Pretending I don’t want to strangle him.
“You’re definitely nervous,” she says. “Your knuckles are white.”
I force myself to release the steering wheel and turn off the car, twisting to face her. “Aren’t you nervous? You have to know they aren’t happy to welcome us into their home.”
“I’m used to not being wanted around.” She sounds unaffected, but I catch the tightness around her young eyes.
She's used to being unwanted. My heart squeezes tight. How many times had I let months go by without calling? How many birthdays had I only acknowledged just a card and a guilt-fueled Amazon gift card? I'd told myself I was busy, that Madison had Mom, that it was complicated. But the truth was simpler and uglier: I hadn't wanted to see what Mom had chosen over me. And Madison had paid the price for my avoidance.
My throat is tight with unsaid apologies when the massive front door opens. But it’s not Thorne who emerges. It’s a woman in her fifties wearing dark slacks and a crisp white button-down. She’s clearly staff. Behind her, Lillianna Blackstone appears dressed in athletic wear, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Madison and I exit the car at the same time. The humid Kentucky air has my blouse sticking to my skin within minutes. My heart hammers against my ribs, and not from the heat, but from knowing Thorne is somewhere inside. That eventually I’ll have to see him. Speak to him. Pretend that night on the train didn’t rewire something fundamental in my brain chemistry.
“Ms. West, Ms. Payne,” the older woman greets us with professional warmth. “Welcome. I’m Patricia, the house manager. I’ll get your luggage.”
“Oh, that’s not—” I start, but Patricia is already moving toward the trunk with practiced efficiency, telling us to head inside.
Unsure what to do, I listen. Inside, Lillianna stands in a foyer that's all gleaming marble and soft neutrals. Her expression iscarefully neutral. You know, the expression of someone whose family is being blackmailed.
“Madison, Ivy,” she says. Not warm, not cold. Just polite.
