Page 17 of The Silent Princess

“Um, no. No, of course not, but…”

“Is there anything you find yourself lacking, Mother?” I lean back, sitting inside the obvious manifestation of wealth, from floor to ceiling. “I venture to guess you’ve allowed other parties to influence your judgement.” Tilting my head to the side, I catch the slight tremble of her lips.

“People talk,” she mutters.

“They certainly do.”

“Don’t worry about a thing, Mother.” Nate’s hand lands protectively on her shoulder, and she covers it with her own. “Tristan is steering the ship like the best captain that ever existed, and I double-check that he’s not completely out of his mind. You have nothing to worry about.” My eyes remain on her, my brother’s softness standing opposite the ice coursing through my blood, pulling my heartbeat into hiding, observing, preparing for the worst, always the worst.

“Just remember what is truly important, honey,” she says weakly. “Money won’t hold your hand on your deathbed.” For a second, her gaze meets mine, glassy and raw from the loss of her true love, a vulnerability contrasting with the inevitable wisdom burdening her. I’ll never truly understand my parents’ marriage. A twist in my gut answers her honesty, her words piercing straight through me to the only piece of my puzzle I cannot manage to find—that person who changes it all. The one who makes shared silence feel like both privilege and necessity, who turns the air into an effervescence of desire and need. The person who makes every moment spent without them feel like a waste of time.

I have seen characters in films experience it. I have even read about it in books. Still, the four-letter word has never crossed my lips. My skyscrapers, contracts, and appointments beat the rhythm of my life, with the occasional family time I manage to claim. Feeling alive, alive like a storm has taken possession of you, has never happened.

Only…

The closest I have ever come to it was with her.

Ella.

This morning, when we talked and signed, all I could think about was the clock remaining pointed at the same number, pausing time, freezing me inside that one suspended moment where all I could see were her fearful, brave eyes daring to respond to my interrogation and sitting in my damn chair like an angel fallen from the sky into the hands of the devil himself. If I could have caught her arm and asked her to stay, if only I could have allowed myself one more second of bliss, of talking to someone who was not trying to take anything from me except a crippled bag with broken earphones and a book that could barely hold itself together.

And those eyes.

Those brown eyes, wide and frightened, looking down, her body shivering at the sound of my voice yet still boldly signing back at my remarks. I have always been one to plan, to weigh the pros and cons before acting, yet when I opened the vault, I slipped a handful of hundred-dollar bills into her bag. Five thousand dollars, to be exact. Why did I? I cannot find one logical answer to that question.

Perhaps a part of me wanted her to come back and return it, proving to me that she had no interest in my money, that the conversation we had was genuine, two people speaking to each other regardless of their backgrounds. Or perhaps I wanted to give her enough money to avoid coming back at all.

I am sure she has quit now that she has enough to avoid cleaning, since that is probably what she earns in months of evening shifts.

“No phones please, darling,” Mother says, sipping her martini, her eyes on Maddie as I send an email to Brenton.

From: Tristan Ashford

To: Brenton McHallord

Subject: Urgent Report

Please send me a detailed report on the cleaner responsible for last night’s shift. Her name is Ella.

I slide my phone back into the inside pocket of my suit. “I should get back.”

“Back? To the office? Darling, it’s eight o’clock. Go home.” Nate remains silent, gathering Maddie’s coat and signing to her that it is time to leave. She rushes to her grandmother and hugs her tightly, and my mother closes her eyes for a second, breathing in Maddie’s cookie-sweet scent.

“Promise me you’ll keep an eye on him,” she asks Nate as he kisses her cheek.

“Everything works because of him,” he murmurs in a much more serious way.

“And you,” she adds, patting his hand. His lack of confidence on the matter alarms me, since there is very little I would do without him by my side as my only blindly trusted ally. I will need to remind him of that.

“We cannot have an empire and expect him to sleep soundly by nine every night,” Nate continues. “You know that, right? We hardly saw Father back when we were kids.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “I worry, that is all. A mother can worry, can’t she?”

“Don’t.” I nod, standing. “Did you get the ballet tickets you wanted, by the way?”

She sighs. “No, I forgot to ask what’s his name, Terrence. Yes, right. He’s Amalia’s assistant, and he was supposed to get us front row, but…”

“I’ll take care of it,” I state, knowing that even her rich friends with personal assistants are not as efficient as Kathy. I lower myself to kiss her cheek while she remains seated, tired from the obvious amount of Xanax she must have consumed today. I will find her ballet tickets, if only because it might bring a smile to her face.