“Thank you for having us,” I reply. Oh my God, this is so awkward. I’m talking like we’re guests, not staying here under duress. Everything in me wants to climb back in the rental and get the hell out of Kentucky. But my sister has no one but me.
“Okay, let’s just point at the elephant in the room,” Lillianna says. “We’re being forced to host the person blackmailing my family. But it would be rude to have Patricia show you around. So I’ll do it.” She pauses and smiles. This might even be genuine. “Consider it Southern hospitality under duress.”
Surprised laughter escapes me.
“Where’s Thorne?” Madison asks, looking around.
“My brother doesn’t share my sense of hospitality, forced or otherwise. He’s in his office, probably brooding.” Lillianna gestures toward the house. “You might run into him eventually. Or not. The house is big enough to avoid people when you want to.”
The subtext is clear: And he wants to avoid you. And why does my dumb heart dip in disappointment?
We follow Lillianna inside, and despite the tension, I can’t help but be impressed. The entryway opens into a massive great room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a pool and the woods beyond. Everything is natural light and clean lines, expensive but not ostentatious.
“Oh, a pool!” Madison bounces a little before hiding her fourteen-year-old glee.
For the first time since we arrived, genuine happiness crosses Lillianna’s face. “Do you like to swim?” she asks.
Madison nods. “I’m on the swim team at school.”
“It’s a favorite pastime of Thorne’s as well. Mine too. He has a pool on the lower level for the colder months.”
Well, we all have that in common. I love the workout and weightlessness of the water. But I keep that to myself, making a mental note to find the indoor pool.
“Kitchen’s through there,” Lillianna says, pointing. “Help yourself to anything. The fridge and pantry are always stocked. If you need something specific, tell Patricia and she’ll get it.”
I look around for Patricia. It seems she has already disappeared with our luggage, moving with the efficiency of someone who’s worked here for years.
“We don’t want to be any trouble,” I start.
“Too late for that.” Lillianna’s tone is matter-of-fact, not cruel. Just honest. “Come on, I’ll show you your rooms.”
I trail behind Lillianna as we leave the kitchen, Madison staying close to my side, her earlier excitement about the pool now tempered by the weight of where we are. The hallway opens up, and suddenly we’re standing in an entryway that makes me stop mid-step.
“Holy shit,” I breathe before I can stop myself.
“Language,” Madison quips, echoing my words from earlier. I look at her genuine grin and can’t help matching it.
The space soars two stories high, all cream marble and gold accents that scream money. A massive, dripping-with-crystals chandelier hangs from an ornate coffered ceiling like something out of a palace. The thing probably costs more than my annual salary. Maybe two years’ salary.
In the center of the circular foyer sits a round mahogany table with a vase of white peonies so perfect they look fake. The flowers probably aren’t, though. Everything here is real, expensive, and designed to remind you exactly whose house you’re standing in.
A double staircase curves up on either side of us, the banisters gleaming dark wood, each step carpeted in plush neutral tones. The steps sweep upward symmetrically, meeting at a landingframed by three arched windows that flood the space with natural light.
This isn’t a home. It’s a statement. I have more money than you’ll ever see. I have power. Don’t forget it.
“The bedrooms are upstairs,” Lillianna says, already heading toward the right staircase.
I follow, my hand sliding along the cool, smooth banister, Madison’s footsteps quiet behind me on the carpeted treads.
Lillianna stops at the first door. “Madison, this is your room.”
She opens it to reveal a bedroom that's bigger than most people’s homes. There’s a king bed, a sitting area, and French doors leading to a private balcony. Through the windows, I can see the woods stretching out beyond the property line.
“The bathroom’s through there,” Lillianna points. “Walk-in closet there. Your luggage should already be there.”
“This is... wow,” Madison breathes.
“It’s the guest room,” Lillianna says with a shrug. “Nothing special by Blackstone standards.” But there’s something in her tone—not quite kind, but not cruel either, like she’s trying to find the line between hostage and host.
