I sighed and dragged my laptop closer across the table, flipping it open with more confidence than I felt. “Let’s just see if I can find it.”
For a few seconds, I almost managed to convince myself that this was purely for informational purposes. Research into areas I would be avoiding rather than actively planning a visit to, but a quick search later, I learned that the coverage on the Westwoods was excessive around here.
I found a lot more than just idle information. Instead, I clicked through links with mild disbelief, skimming articles, headlines, and photographs of them that felt more like features on royalty than a family I was inconveniently connected to.
Their current focus seemed to be on Jesse, his face plastered across every corner of the internet. Now I understood his comment about going on a date with a mayor’s daughter. I squinted at the screen, unable to comprehend that the public could possibly have this level of interest in who was on his arm, but there were lots of comments and entire forums discussing him.
“Unbelievable,” I murmured, but not because of the headlines.
It was because of the pictures of him that kept popping up. His dark brown hair was perpetually a little too undone to be accidental. The incredibly blue eyes carried an infuriating mix of amusement and disinterest even through the screen. His face was the sort of handsome that would make people forgive things they absolutely shouldn’t.
It was highly inconvenient how objectively attractive he was. I closed the laptop halfway but then opened it again almost immediately. Clearly, I hadn’t tortured myself enough just yet.
Alex Westwood was equally easy to find information on, but the articles that featured him spoke of a man who was a lot less chaotic and more controlled than his younger brother. Thesewere mostly about business expansions and acquisitions he’d made.
There were a few older stories about him with different women, but it seemed like, for the last few years, ever since the media had covered his marriage to Jane Thayer, there was only her. I leaned in a little closer, studying the way they looked at each other like no one else in the world existed, and found myself smiling.
Jane seemed genuinely happy with him. In love with her husband. A lot softer than she’d seemed in that conference room earlier. As much as I disliked and distrusted her husband’s family, I really did like her. It was good to see that she was so clearly loved.
Eventually, however, I found out that Jane and Alex had recently moved into a house right here on the Gold Coast. I blinked hard, sitting up a little straighter. “You’ve got to be kidding me. We’re bloody neighbors?”
I clicked into the article, quickly scanning the lifestyle piece, but nope. The headline hadn’t been kidding. They lived in the same neighborhood, on the same general stretch of very expensive real estate that I now, somewhat accidentally, called home.
A search of the address revealed that it was shockingly close to my own, but maybe that would make it easier to show up just this once. Jane had seemed nice enough and I supposed I would have to establish some contact with these people at some point. It might give me a good opportunity to set some boundaries.
Once that was done, I would never have to do it again. A one-time obligation. I could handle that.
“Fine,” I said out loud as I snapped the laptop shut with a decisive click. “We’re doing this.”
Getting ready, however, turned out to be significantly more complicated than I’d anticipated.What exactly does one wear to dinner with gazillionaires?
A ballgown would be excessive, like I was trying way too hard. But a business suit seemed too formal for a family meal. I stood in front of my wardrobe for an unreasonable amount of time, staring at perfectly acceptable clothing but feeling completely out of my depth. Eventually, I settled on an outfit that felt safe enough. Dark wash jeans, heels, and a pretty blouse that walked the line between effortless and formal. After changing, I allowed myself to check my reflection only once and decided it was good enough.
The taxi ride over to the address I’d jotted down from that article was much too short. I spent most of it staring out the window, my stomach tightening into a ridiculous knot of nerves.This is ridiculous. It’s just a dinner. Not a trial.
“Here we are,” the driver said way before I was ready, pulling up along a quiet, pristine street that seemed exactly like the kind of place where people with generational wealth lived without apology.
“Could you just park down the street a bit?” I asked as I glanced toward the house. “Perhaps keep the meter running as well?”
He nodded, pulling forward without questioning me. As I reached for the door handle, I drew in a deep breath. Looking up at the house, I climbed out of the car. It was an impressive place, with clean lines and warm lighting, the facade telling a story of understated luxury at its finest.
I approached the door confidently enough, but as soon as I reached it, I stopped and walked back a few steps. Then I approached again, getting closer this time before I stopped again. My hand lifted but then froze.
The sound of laughter filtered out from inside, faint but definitely there. Squeals rang out too, like there was at least one particularly happy child in there. Some good-natured, loud banter was being exchanged. I couldn’t make out the words, but I didn’t need to. The warm, boisterous tone said everything.
Behind that door was a family. From all accounts, a tight-knit, happy one—and I wasn’t part of it in any way, shape, or form. I doubted I could ever feel welcome among them, after Mom’s stories. None of these people had been involved in those bad memories, but I couldn’t help but lump them all in the same group.
Memories flickered through my mind as I stood there, remembering other rooms with other Westwoods. Conversations that had grown quiet when my mother had entered with us in tow. There had been polite smiles for the charity cases. We’d felt more like guests than family.
I exhaled slowly and lowered my hand. It might not have been this particular branch of the Westwood family that had featured in those memories, but I suddenly had the unmistakable, inescapable feeling that I didn’t belong here either.
Grateful that I’d asked the taxi driver to wait, I turned and walked back toward the street. I’d kept my promise to my mother and gone out. I just hadn’tstayedout, but that wasn’t what she’d asked me to do anyway.
I was reaching for the door handle of the cab when the sound of my name rang through the night, coming from the direction of the house. It startled me so much that I actually jumped a bit.
“Jacqueline?”
Instantly, I froze, knowing in that moment that I’d made a grave mistake coming here, and unfortunately, it didn’t look like I’d managed to slip away with no one being the wiser either.
