Page 51 of The Silent Princess

The terrace, even though covered in glass, is smaller than every other room in her house, or should I say mansion. Father did not spare any expense, and since he knew her love of the arts, he made his personal advisor seek gems from small towns in Italy, paintings imported from Western Europe, and Persian tapestries, building, year after year, a museum-like home for her to wander through, each room filled with fabrics, colors, artistic craftsmanship, and handmade furniture for her to glide her fingers over. Filled with enough stuff in the hope she would never notice how alone she was.

Nate and I grew up here, thinking this was normal, keeping both our rooms as empty as we could, the external maximalism behind the door choking both of us. No wonder my house is made of various grays and metal, sharp angles, and a minimalist approach, which can seem clinical, even to me sometimes, but serves its purpose. A safe place to recover, eat, sleep, train. However, Nate allowed himself more flexibility after getting married and having Maddie. Colors entered his home again and never quite left, which, I suppose, is not so bad since my niece enjoys it.

“So…why do you have this ugly bruise, darling? Was it from that fight event thing? Please don’t tell me this is business-related. Your father would turn in his grave knowing you behaved in such a disgraceful way.” If only she knew.

“I assure you, Mother, Father can rest in peace. It had nothing to do with the legitimate part of the business.”

“Um.” Drifting away, a cup of Earl Grey in her hand, she blows on it softly, looking outside at the garden beyond the covered terrace. “Men,” she mutters. “Violence, always, one way or another,” she continues, talking to herself. How many pills did she take today? I will need to have this talk with her soon. Last month was out of hand when she could barely remember Maddie’s name. Not that she neglects us purposefully. It is just those damn pills. Nate wants us to let her be, says she is in pain from an incurable disease since Father died, and that the pills help soothe her heartbreak. I have never understood it, but now that Ella has crashed into my life… How would it feel now, if she slipped away like sand between my fingers? Would I also want to numb the pain? A pang of pain pulls at my shoulder, and I roll it back.

Yes. Most definitely. I would seek any relief, any escape. And I have the awful sensation that the sun would never rise again.

“Are you going to tell me why you stopped by?”

“Can’t a son visit his mother?” I earn a knowing smile, her matte burgundy lips pursing as she shakes her head at my cockiness. We are still standing on the covered terrace as she sips her tea in a long black wooden dress.

“What do you know about Mara Brooks?” I ask, bluntly. Putting down her cup, she inspects her fingernails, a sanguine red matching the roses in the garden.

“Not much,” she sighs, looking back at me, sizing me up like a young investor. Shapeshifting on the spot. “What has she done?”

I run the edge of my index below my lip, drifting for a second to my woman. “Father always kept you in the dark; I’d like things to be different,” I explain. “This is one of those situations where your input could be extremely valuable.” She offers a clipped nod.

“I… She used to come to the spa with Lauren and Amalia. We would have tea together and, well, you are old enough.” She hums. “A brandy too.”

“How often?”

“I don’t know.” She waves in the air. “Once a month? But I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“Why?”

“Why? Why?” she repeats. “What do I know? We are not close, darling.”

“During those times, did she ever mention her company, her daughters, her… stepdaughter?” Arching a perfectly shaped black brow, she purses her lips. “And here I thought it would never come.” Sipping her tea with the smile of someone trying to hide that she has just won the lottery, she continues, “Tell me about this girl, Tristan, and I will tell you what I know. I sigh, crossing my arms, wanting to shield Ella from anyone who could harm her.

“Her name is Ella. She is Mara Brooks’s stepdaughter, and I know from a source that Mara is mistreating her and also embezzling money through her firm. I cannot tell you more without putting your safety at risk.”

“Please. I have had a target on my back since the day I married your father. Come on, Tristan, tell me. Let me help you.” I run my hand over my chin. Could she?

It would not hurt to have society’s sculptor at the tip of my hand.

“She’s indebted, heavily, to the Vodianovs.” Mother rests a palm over her mouth, fear passing through her gaze, fear for a woman she does not even consider a friend.

“You have to help her.” Helping Mara Brook? That’s the funniest thing I heard in a while.

“She’s lying in the bed she made.”

“But if she does not pay them back, they will…”

“This is not why I came. You asked me, and I told you. Now it’s your turn.”

“Well,” she says, playing with her multiple silver bracelets, “what do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

She sighs. “She seemed delighted by her daughters and would often talk about her house and the various decorating projects she had going on. As for her marriage, she would just…complain, you know, about him leaving the dishwasher open, walking in the house with his shoes on, which, by the way, should be illegal, but of course you know that, honey. As for her firm, she would talk about projects, name-dropping big names from the West Coast, celebrities sometimes. There was a lot of talk about the size of each project and how much work she had, but honestly, I never saw a picture of anything she ever mentioned. None.”

“Alright. And about Ella?”

“Ella? Oh, right. Well, I’m sorry, honey, but she never mentioned her. Not even once. It is as if the poor girl never existed.” I uncross my arms and walk toward the glass wall, taking in the last sunlight of the day. I hope Ella is reading right now, lying in the comfort of her room, safe and sound. Steps come closer, a hand resting on my shoulder.