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“Sure.” She shrugs with the kind of indifference only teenagers can muster.

“It’s a really nice morning,” I say conversationally as I sit on the edge of one of the pool chairs.

“I guess.”

I take another sip, letting the silence settle between us for a moment, giving her the chance to get up and leave if she wants to. But she stays.

“Your brothers really seem to adore you,” I say, which earns me another shrug in reply. “You’re really great with them, too. How old are they?”

“Seven and nine.”

“My sisters were six and two when my dad left us.”

Maya is not nearly as surprised to hear that as I imagined she would be. I expected wide eyes, but she merely nods knowingly, her gaze on the pool water glittering in the morning sun. Then again, who knows how jaded these private school kids are: rich dads leave their kids as often as dads living below the poverty line.

Maya seems older than fifteen. I remember being the same way at that age, and my peers never let me forget it. Especially the boys I wanted to date. I’d often hear things like, “You’re a bummer, Izzy,” and “You always have to take care of your sisters.”

“I was nine, and Mom had to work three jobs in order to provide for us, so I ended up taking care of my sisters. It was tough, and it wasn’t fair, because I was too young to be taking care of kids when I was still a kid myself.”

Maya dips a toe into the water. I half expect her not to reply, but then she leans back, a long, weary sigh escaping her. “Dad tries. He really does. But ever since…” She doesn’t want to say it. “Ever since Mom died, it’s like there’s this giant hole in the middle of everything. In the middle of Dad. I’m kind of afraid he’s going to fall in one day, or one of the boys is. And he really tries to be there for us, but he also has to work a lot. I don’t want the boys to be lonely.”

“You’re really young to try and take the place of a parent,” I say softly.

“I’m not trying to take her place.” Maya’s voice cracks. “I’m just trying to help Dad out.”

“Of course, you’re not. But it’s still a lot of responsibility to feel that way for your siblings.”

I give her a warm smile, and this time she returns it. Her eyes fill with tears, and she wipes at them with the back of her hand, offering another smile, though it’s weaker this time. I don’t have any answers for her, but at least she knows she isn't alone.

We talk for a while longer before Maya gets a call from her friend. She stands to answer it and walks away, but not without a grateful look over her shoulder.

I decide to take a walk before heading back to the house and the work waiting for me in the library. I wander the grounds in the morning sunshine, letting my mind drift away from the uncertainty and the overwhelming and scary feelings that threaten to consume me.

My wandering brings me to an extensive greenhouse down an isolated hedgerow, tucked in between stands of trees. The door is slightly ajar, and I let myself in. It’s perfectly quiet, save for the hum of a humidifier.

I think I’m alone until I turn a corner and see a woman standing before a cluster of bright, exotic pink-and-white flowers and a pair of silver shears in her hand. She looks almost ethereal in her pale dress, her movements slow and deliberate.

It’s Eleanor King.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize anyone else was in here.” I begin backing away, ready to make my escape before she can banish me from the premises.

“There’s no reason to be sorry. The greenhouse isn’t off limits. I want people to see my flowers.” She doesn’t turn around as she carefully clips a leaf from a stem. “These are Shining Stargazer Lilies, the stars of my collection. I put them on display to the public once a year despite Sebastian’s complaints about the tourists.”

I’m still not sure if I should stay, but the amused mischief in her tone keeps my feet planted where they are. “They’re beautiful.”

Eleanor finally turns to face me. Up close, her eyes are the same dark, piercing shade as Sebastian’s, but where his are cold and steely, hers are like a lake after a storm: still, quiet, and unnervingly deep.

“Isabella.” I’m surprised. I wasn’t sure if the King matriarch knew my name. She snips a dead bloom and lets it fall into a wicker basket at her feet. “Sebastian told me you’re from Harlem, and that you didn’t have an easy time growing up. It seems you’ve worked hard to get where you are.”

I’m not sure how I feel about Sebastian sharing private information about me with his mother. I have no idea how she will respond to my background.

“I did,” I reply, cautious.

Eleanor snips another few buds. “In the King family, men have ambition and drive, while women are expected to be a beautiful statue in the background. We are the velvet that lines the jewelry box, soft, quiet, and designed to make the gems look shinier.” She looks at her hands, elegant despite a slight tremor. “I was a lot like you once, with dreams and goals. I loved architecture; I wanted to build things that would leave a mark on the skyline.”

“What happened?” I ask, though I think I already know.

“I met Julian King,” she says simply. “I thought his money and power would help me achieve my goals. But by the time I realized I was mistaken, it was too late. He wanted an art piece, something to hang on his arm, like an expensive watch.”