Page 54

LILA

Emily left shortly after we finished, off to a therapy appointment.

I should be glad. She needs it. After last night, it’s pretty clear she’s barely holding it together. But also—selfishly—I don’t love being here without her.

She’d been seemingly fine while we were out riding, but once we finished up, it was like her weariness had come back with her. We had a quick cup of coffee before she left, sitting at the kitchen island. She seemed to not quite be able to settle in her own skin, which is a feeling I know all too well.

She’s been filling her days with anything that keeps her mind occupied, but says riding is the only thing that truly stifles it. Personally, I think it probably made things worse, at least in this instance, considering she was also nursing a brutal hangover. But I just nodded along, because what was I supposed to say? “Actually, you look like you might keel over mid-sentence, and I’m starting to wonder if last night’s wine was laced with something stronger than sulfites?”

Didn’t quite roll off the tongue.

Maybe it was just the hangover. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the questionable wisdom of chasing anti-anxiety meds with a bottle of overpriced red. Or—more likely—it was all of the above, shaken, stirred, and served with a side of emotional collapse.

So I encouraged her to go. And now I’m here—with her family, without her buffer.

Plus Theo, who I haven’t seen since his little text performance not long ago. And not since the dream—not that he knows about that.

I’ve been pretending it didn’t get under my skin, but the truth is, it did. Now I don’t know if I can act normal when I see him, or if we’ve unwittingly crossed into some new, undefined territory I didn’t agree to.

The scarier part? I feel these wanton butterflies at the thought of seeing him. Which is absurd. Not nerves, exactly. Just this restless anticipation I can’t quite name—and definitely don’t want to examine too closely.

I wander the halls a bit longer than necessary, letting the chill bleed out of my bones, delaying the inevitable. But eventually, my aimless pacing spits me out into the morning room where Theo, to my surprise, is already well on his way to pulling off the performance of a lifetime, feeding Evelyn a line of intellectual nonsense with a polished charm that could sell sand in a desert.

She’s practically leaning across the table, hanging on to every word as he spreads butter onto his toast. He’s mid-sentence when I walk in, and Evelyn looks utterly enraptured. He flashes her a polite, almost bashful smile, and I catch just enough of it to realize I’ve likely interrupted some kind of performance.

I hesitate at the edge of the room, debating whether I want to insert myself into whatever show he’s decided to stage this morning. But before I can overthink it into oblivion, he looks up, catches my eye, and—mid-sentence—reaches for the empty teacup in front of the chair beside him.

He fills the cup, then reaches for the glass honey pot and drizzles in just enough with the tiny silver dipper to make it exactly how I like it. No flourish. No comment. Like he’s done it an inordinate amount of times before.

He’s only ever seen me make tea maybe twice that I can recall. Both instances were faculty meetings, and one of those ended with a fire drill. But of course he remembers. He always does. The details most people miss. The ones that make it impossible not to feel seen, even when you don’t want to be.

Then he slides it an inch toward the space I haven’t even claimed yet and returns to his monologue about acquisition ethics and museum donations without missing a beat.

It’s small. Barely a gesture. But I feel it anyway.

The invitation. The familiarity. The infuriating intimacy of someone knowing how you take your tea and offering it like a secret between conspirators.

And maybe it’s the lighting or maybe it’s just residual sleep deprivation but there’s something about those rolled sleeves, the way they make his forearms look unfairly solid, and the way he leans in when he talks that feels entirely unnecessary.

It’s a strange kind of thrill, being the sole focus of that steady, deliberate attention, and I vaguely wonder if everyone feels it—or if it’s just me.

My stomach does something unacceptable.

I take the seat.

“I’ve always been fascinated by the role of prominent families in shaping legal and historical events,” Theo says smoothly, as if he did not just make that up on the spot. “It’s remarkable how dynasties like the Mayfairs leave an imprint on law, policy, and even public perception. I’m actually writing a book about it.”

I say nothing. I did not know that.

Probably because he’s lying through his teeth.

Evelyn beams, absolutely charmed. “Oh, I couldn’t agree more, dear. History has a way of being written by those who hold power.”

Theo nods, like this is a casual chat and not a carefully crafted ploy. “Which is why I’m researching the impact of family legacies on regional law and governance.”

I sip my coffee to hide my near-laugh. Researching is a generous word for digging around for murder evidence, but hey—whatever works.

Evelyn’s eyes light up. “How nice! And what have you found so far?”