Prologue
Fern
He zipped up his pants, fastening the black leather belt around his waist. He was beautiful. The epitome of a clean-cut man. Blond hair gelled back from his face, clean shaven, bright blue eyes, defined muscles rippling under his shirt. He lifted his suit jacket from the back of the chair as I tightened the sheets around my naked body.
“When will I see you again?” I asked, trying not to sound as needy and pathetic as I felt.
“I don’t know, Fe. I’m in court all week and you know I’m working long hours trying to get partner.”
I sighed and closed my eyes.
The bed dipped as he sat next to me, stroking his pointer finger down my arm, making my skin break out in goosebumps. “Hey, no sad face. It will give you wrinkles.”
I opened my eyes, waiting for the laugh that followed his joke, but there was nothing; his face set in its usual serious expression.
“I’m eighteen. I don’t have wrinkles.”
“It’s never too late to think about these things, Fe. Your looks won’t last forever. Right, I have to go. Are you sure your parents or sister aren’t home?”
I bit down on my bottom lip and shook my head. “Coast is clear, as always.” James pressed a brief kiss to my forehead. “I hate all this sneaking around. I don’t understand why we can’t just tell them.”
This time, the sigh that sounded wasn’t mine. James stood quickly, slipping his dress shoes onto his feet. “How many times? I’m ten years older than you. People wouldn’t understand what we have. Let’s just keep this to ourselves until I make partner and then I can give you everything you deserve. No one will mind about our age gap when I have a ring on your finger. Until then, this has to stay between us. Please, Fe. Don’t spoil things. Don’t make this hard for me. I need you too much to let people come between us.”
I went to open my mouth; to tell him I didn’t care what people thought, that our love was all that mattered, but I didn’t say a word. I did what I always seemed to do around James Horten; I closed my mouth and toed the line because his affection was much nicer than his anger.
“Okay, honey.”
“Good girl.” I shuddered, but not because I liked the praise; it made my skin crawl. “I’ll talk to you in the week. Love you.”
“I love you too.”
And with that he walked out, leaving me alone, confused and horny as hell, because, not for the first time, our afternoon tryst hadn’t involved him making me come.
“Fern, you look stunning, little sister.”
I stared in the mirror at the black, embossed, floor length cocktail dress, along with my hair tied into a harsh bun at the nape of my neck and the thick make up I had on. I looked so unlike myself. I felt like my mum had used me as her own personal Barbie doll, desperate to make me ‘fit in’ with the crowd of people she’d invited tonight to celebrate my older sister Elise’s twenty-sixth birthday.
“What’s going on? I get it’s your birthday, but you’d think the queen was coming with the way Mum is acting.”
Elise stood behind me, staring at our reflections in the mirror. She was the polar opposite of me. While I was curvy, with shoulder length wavy, dirty-blond hair, my sister was tall and slight and her dark hair skimmed her ass. She was demure and quiet; I was loud and craved adventure.
“I shouldn’t tell you,” Elise spoke, her eyes glinting with something I couldn’t explain. “But it’s not just my birthday we’re celebrating tonight… there’s another little surprise, but I’m sworn to secrecy.”
I spun on my heels, staring at her. “Elise, you can’t just tell me that and nothing else. At least give me a clue.”
My sister smiled and placed her left hand on my arm, showing off her perfect manicure. “I can’t, Ferny. I need you to look as shocked as everyone else, but just so you know, I want this… I’ve been waiting for this for as long as I can remember and I’m so happy.”
I took my sister’s hand in mine. “Well, that’s good. If you’re happy, then you know I’m happy for you.”
She kissed my cheek before sweeping out of the room. “Guests are arriving. Don’t be long.”
Two hours later, I had mingled, eaten too many canapes, and was on my third glass of champagne. My feet hurt, my face ached from faking a smile and I was bored listening to people I didn’t really know tell me about their single sons and nephews who would love to take me on a date.
Just when I was thinking about declaring I had a headache so I could go and shower the muck off my face, my dad moved to the front of the room, clapping his hands, silencing everyone.
My dad—or Judge John Richards—was a formidable man. Tall, white haired, glasses that sat on the end of his nose, making you feel like he was judging you from the moment he met you. And he probably was.
My dad was firm, emotionless, dominating, and at times, cruel. I was a problem to manage rather than a daughter to care about. Mum was a bit better, but in the Richard’s household, the women did what they needed to do to keep the men happy. It’s how we were raised.
