“She should hate me. I threatened her family.”
“You did.” There’s no point in sugarcoating it. “But she’s also trying to be decent about it. That counts for something.”
She hunches her shoulders as if making herself smaller. The calculating blackmailer from the conference room has vanished, leaving behind a kid whose mother just died and who has nowhere else to go.
“What else was I supposed to do?” she demands. “Let you drag me to New York? Live in some city where I don't know anyone? Where everything reminds me that I'm the leftover daughter nobody wanted?"
"That's not—"
"It is, though. You didn't want me before Mom died. You never visited. Never called. And now you're stuck with me because there's no one else."
The accusation stings because it's partially true.
"And the Blackstones?" Madison continues. "They want to pretend I don’t exist. Dad probably felt the same. So yeah, I'm using what I have.” She turns away from me. “Mom loved him. My dad. Louis. She loved him her whole life, even though he never chose us. Even though we were always the secret. And I hated her for it.”
The guilt in her voice is palpable, but it's mixed with something harder. Angrier. The poor girl has lost so much. Sure, I lost my mother too, but I let go of her when she cast aside Dad and me.
Yet neither of us is free. We're both leftovers from the same mess, just sorted into different piles.
"I hated her for settling. Accepting and being willing to be someone's secret was acceptable. For loving a man who couldn't even acknowledge his daughter in public.” Madison's voice cracks. "And now she's gone and I can't tell her that. Can't tell her I hated watching her wait for him. Can't tell her she deserved better. Can't tell her anything."
She swipes at her face with both hands. "And I hate that I'm still so mad at her when she's dead. What kind of shitty daughter does that?"
"The kind who's been hurt," I say quietly. "The kind who watched her mother accept less than she deserved."
"I don't want Blackstone money. I just want them to see me. To let me stay in Kentucky. To be part of a family.” Her voice cracks. "Is that so wrong?"
I step toward her and wrap my arms around her in a loose hug. She doesn't fall into it, but doesn't push me away. “No. That's not wrong at all. But, honey, I am your family.”
“I don’t want to leave,” she whispers
“I’m sorry. I like it here too,” I say into her hair, only half lying. Sure, the last years here were awful, but there are good memories too. “But I can’t leave my job.”
“I know.” She sniffles, pulling from my hug. Then seems to shake off her sadness. “That’s a problem we’ll worry about in three months. Right now, let’s unpack and make sure we’re not late for King Bourbon’s dinner.”
I laugh. “Okay, I’ll meet you downstairs.”
She disappears into her room, and I’m alone in my room. I move to the windows and press my palm against the glass, looking down at the pool. My focus shifts to the woods beyond. The late afternoon sun gives everything a golden glow.
A thud sounds from above.
I freeze, my hand still on the window. What was that?
A shuffle, thud. Footsteps. Definitely footsteps. Pacing back and forth, the rhythm sharp and agitated.
Is there a third damn level? My heart kicks up. I slip out of my room and down the hallway. Another staircase I hadn’t noticed before curves upward at the far end, narrower than the grand double staircases in the foyer. Servant stairs, maybe? Or just another way to navigate this labyrinth?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I climb the steps. When I reach the top, I stop dead.
Above me is a massive stained glass dome, all deep blues and golds and crimsons cast colored shadows across the hardwood floor. The late afternoon sun filters through, painting everything in jewel tones. It’s breathtaking—the kind of architectural detail that belongs in a cathedral, not a private home.
But it’s what’s beyond the dome that makes my breath catch.
The entire third floor is open concept, one enormous space encased in glass on three sides. An office. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the estate. And in the Kentucky heat, with all this glass and all three levels of this estate, the constant battle to heat and cool a space built for show rather than sense is obscene. Wasteful.
Then I see him. My stomach drops like I’ve missed a step on the stairs.
Thorne stands at a massive desk, phone pressed to his ear, his back to me. He’s shed his jacket from earlier, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, and even from here I can see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid set of his spine. The memory of those shoulders under my hands—smooth skin over hard muscle—flashes through my mind unbidden.
