by Ivy Fox
I’m just like him in that way. I wish I weren’t, but I am. I wish I could have half of Chad’s golden heart and not my own, the one that mirrors Saint’s darkness so perfectly. I’m always so angry all the time. I hide it well under pleasant smiles and sophisticated words, but underneath such fabricated lies, all of me is grime and dirt. Just like the dark-eyed boy who haunts my dreams and nothing like the one who dotes on me.
“I really wish you could come with me,” I gruffly reply, trying to push the daunting thoughts far away from my mind.
“You won’t even notice I’m gone.” He chuckles lightly.
He’s wrong.
I’ll notice every day that he’s not with me.
Worse of all is that I think I might notice Saint’s absence, too.
Chapter 26
Elle
Roman Grayson is dead meat.
I’ll kill my big brother with my bare hands for bailing on me and letting me endure this hellish lunch all on my own.
Argh.
As discreetly as I can manage it, I pull out my phone and hide it under the table. I send Rome another quick text ordering him to get his ass over to the Ivory stat. When he doesn’t respond, I vow to cut my big brother into tiny pieces for him flaking out on me.
Something must have happened.
It’s not like Rome to leave me alone with our father like this, but maybe he realized he couldn’t stomach having one full meal with our father and Vivienne West of all people.
Gahhd.
If I have to listen to another cooing word or witness her exaggerated attempts to stroke my father’s ego one more time, I’m going to barf all over my garden salad.
Vivienne has been on my shitlist since I was a child. She used to be all chummy with my mother, but when she died, Vivienne ghosted our family. But then again, I was thankful she disappeared from our lives since I had never cared much for her in the first place. Although she acted as if she were my mother’s BFF at the time, there was always something about Vivienne that rubbed me the wrong way. It only took me five minutes in her company this afternoon to remind me why the mere sound of her voice grated on my nerves and created knots in my stomach. It’s not my warped paranoia at play here. How could I ever trust a woman who is known for ruining reputations left and right throughout all of Manhattan? Don’t even get me started on the way she is looking at my father like she’s finally found her soulmate. Anyone who makes googly eyes at such a man has some serious mental disorders. I mean, her husband just died earlier this year, and here she is giggling like a schoolgirl, hanging attentively on my father’s every word.
Gross.
But there’s more to her than that.
Right beneath the surface, under all her expensive Gucci apparel, lies a snake with fangs and venom, ready to bite into your skin and pump your veins full of poison.
It’s only when her daughter returns to our table from the ladies’ room that the tension in my shoulders eases somewhat. With her pale white hair and light gray eyes, Holland West looks far too innocent to be seated at our table filled with vultures. Sure, she might try to put up a good front with polite conversation and rehearsed smiles, but underneath all that well-mannered bravado, I recognize something in her that resonates so profoundly in me.
When you’ve been unloved or discarded by the people who were supposed to love you unconditionally, it leaves a mark. No matter how hard you try to hide the pain and desolation, it’s imprinted on your soul, and Holland’s anguish is as palpable as my own.
Hmm.
I wonder if that’s the reason why Vivienne kept her daughter’s existence under lock and key all these years. One look at Holland, and you can tell straight away she is nothing like the queen bitch of the Upper East Side. While Vivienne is the epitome of sophistication and poise, Holland fidgets in her seat, uncomfortable with her surroundings. Unlike me, she’s not used to playing the game.
Holland is too sweet.
Too pure.
And with a mother like Vivienne, those qualities will make for an easy target.
For the remainder of our lunch, I try to divert my father and her mother’s attention off her, feeling oddly protective of someone so naively transparent. She’s been sheltered—that much is clear—and paired with her stunning beauty and gentle heart, in my world, that’s a recipe for disaster.
Once lunch is over, and we say our goodbyes, I make sure to insert my number in Holland’s phone, just in case she needs a friend to talk to. She doesn’t seem like she has many of those anyway.
But the minute I step into my father’s car, I’m reminded of the bomb Vivienne dropped on me over lunch.
“Why didn’t you tell us that you’re on the shortlist to become Chief Justice?” I ask my father bluntly, this time not concealing the fact that I’m not one bit excited by his impending promotion.
“It must have slipped my mind,” he replies indifferently, looking at his watch and avoiding my penetrating gaze.
“Nothing skips your mind, Father. Did you think we would sabotage your chances if we knew beforehand?”
The sinister smile that crests his lips sends a shiver down my spine.
“If you could, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” I deadpan, his smile only widening with my reply. “I still might.”
He laughs at that.
“I’m sure if you figure out a way, you’ll try. You wouldn’t be my daughter, otherwise.”
I turn to face the window, hating how proud of me he sounds. My father isn’t bashful in making my brothers and me feel small.
He enjoys it.
Lives for those moments even.
But sometimes… just sometimes when he looks at me, I catch a glimpse of pride in his amber eyes, causing nausea to creep up my throat. And right now, I feel the vile, twisted thing strangle me, making it hard for me to breathe from such adoration.
I’m about to ask our driver to put on some music, so I can annoy the man seated beside me and get us back to our usual dynamics when he places a hand on my knee to grab my attention.
“Tell me. What are your thoughts on Vivienne and her daughter?”
My brows furrow at the question.
“Why?”
“Indulge me, Eleanor.”
“Vivienne is a snake. I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her.”
Another proud laugh escapes him, causing me to cringe in revulsion.
“And her daughter?”
I chew my lower lip while pondering how best to reply.
“Eleanor, answer the question. What are your thoughts on Holland West?”
Fragile.
Breakable.
Easy prey.
Those are the words that instantly come to my mind, but I don’t dare say them out loud, especially since I see them so perfectly written in his excited gaze.
“You can tell she’s been sheltered away from her mother most of her life. Vivienne would have molded her into her image by now if she hadn’t been.”
“I agree.”
“Why are you asking me this?”
He thins his lips and leans back in his seat. I bite my inner cheek, knowing he won’t give me the answers I want, but my stubbornness won’t let me keep quiet.
“What are you up to, Father?”
He tilts his head in my direction, and the way his yellow eyes shine at me twists my insides.
“You’ll see soon enough.”
His reply seems harmless, but I know with my father nothing ever is.
He got remarried.
Never thought I’d see that happen in a million years.
I mean, isn’t marriage supposed to be a sacred union between two people who love each other?
My father doesn’t have a heart. Therefore, he’s incapable of such a feeling. But then again, so is Vivienne West.
I still can’t believe anyone would willingly marry my father of their own volition, yet here we are.
This lavish affair is all that people have been able to talk about since the media leaked that the prestigious Judge Malcolm Grayson was going to tie the knot with none other than Manhattan’s favorite socialite, Vivienne West. I’m still trying to wrap my head around this union forged in hell.
My father has never shown any inkling to remarry, so why the change of heart?
And why the sudden rush to tie the knot? Shotgun weddings have taken longer to plan.
My father is up to something.
I just know it.
This must have something to do with his possible nomination for Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. Marrying Vivienne must be a strategic political move to improve his chances of getting the seat. But my gut instinct tells me there must be a far more nefarious plan at play here to encourage him to walk down the aisle again.
One thing is for sure—I doubt he’ll be able to break Vivienne as well as he did my mother. She was too soft and sensitive to put up much of a fight against him. His new bride isn’t as fragile. He likes them submissive, and Vivienne West is anything but. Out of all the single women in New York he could have chosen, he picked the most vile and pretentious amongst them. All her smiles and cooed words are as fake as she is. But if the devil needs a wife, then I guess Vivienne will do just fine.
The only good thing to come out of this union is her daughter, Holland. Not that she looks very pleased to be joining our family. I can hardly blame her. It’s obvious she wasn’t prepared for her mother’s nuptials, especially considering that her father died just earlier this year. But I guess Vivienne prefers to play the role of the blushing bride more than she likes to play the grieving widow.
Too bad that even on her wedding day, she can’t escape the ghost of her late husband.
To Vivienne’s disappointment, my father’s guests gossiped throughout the wedding reception about her first husband, Craig West, and how he flung himself off the Brooklyn Bridge after being caught embezzling money from his clients. It’s remarkable to me how his reputation has been tarnished, and yet no one even says a word of how Vivienne must have known about the criminal dealings of her late husband. I guess to a man like my father, that kind of ingenuity is an asset. If she managed to keep her name from being run through the mud after such a scandal, then she’s perfect for keeping up with his ongoing charade of being a family man. To marry a widow and raise her daughter will undoubtedly do wonders for his reputation.
That’s Judge Grayson for you—turning sacred matrimony into a business deal that will benefit his optics immensely.
I have to find a way to stop his candidacy from happening.
I thought I could count on my brothers to brainstorm with me, but lately, they have all been stuck in their heads, too consumed with whatever drama they’ve got going on to even care about our father’s conniving plans.
Especially tonight.
The twins are acting as if someone ran over their dog, and Rome is being moodier than normal.
Boys.
It’s a good thing that I will finally have a sister to talk to now. I love my brothers with all my heart, but having another girl in the house will be a welcomed change—the only upside to this union that I can see, that’s for damn sure.
I look around the crowded, festive tent, trying to see if I can find my new stepsister. It doesn’t take me long to find her seated at an empty table fiddling with her dress, looking like she would rather be anywhere else but here.
‘I feel ya, sista,’ I think to myself and smile.
I start walking over to her when someone pulls at my elbow, stopping my next step.
“Hey, rugrat. Enjoying the show?” Rome asks, wrapping his arm over my shoulder.
“If you’re asking if I’m finding this whole sham of a wedding entertaining, then my answer will have to be a hard no. If I get one more congratulations on my new stepmother, I’m going to barf.”
“She does look like a piece of work, doesn’t she?”
“I think the term you’re looking for is grade-A bitch. Just thinking that she’s going to be living with us back in the manor is making me nauseous.”
“She seems infatuated with you, though. Did you use the Elle charm on her or something?” he teases, poking my nose with his knuckles.
“I did no such thing. Who knows why she wants to be in my good graces? All I know is that she’s been hassling me to go to brunch and do mother-daughter things with her since Dad announced his engagement. She has her own daughter, for crying out loud.”
“Yes, she does, doesn’t she?” Rome interjects, his eyes falling on the girl in question, still sitting all by her lonesome.
My heart hurts just looking at Holland.
While I may be pissed beyond measure that our father married her bitch of a mother, she looks like her world has just ended. It probably has, though. Before this wedding took place, no one even knew she existed, and something tells me she doesn’t enjoy being in the media spotlight as much as her mother does. I also don’t think she had a clue that once her mother got remarried, she would be shipped to New York like discarded luggage. From the few talks we had together, Holland was perfectly content living with her grandmother, the person who has been raising her since the day she was born. I can’t fault her for not wanting to move away from Brookhaven and into the city. Especially if she never had a good relationship with Vivienne.
“She looks so sad.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.” Rome scoffs.
“I don’t think so. I think she might need a friend to help her through this transition.”
“No. She is not some lost puppy you can save from the pound. She’s Craig and Vivienne’s daughter, so I’m sure that lost look in her eyes is all for show.”
“When did you become so cynical?”
“Not cynical, dear sister. But a realist.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes. “Holland is family now. Our sister. She deserves a fair shake.”
Rome’s halfhearted laugh troubles me.
“That right there,” he says, pointing at her, “is not family. She’s a problem, just like her mother. But don’t worry. Sooner or later, they’ll realize that they married into the wrong family.”
My brows furrow at his insinuation. I get why Rome wants to kick Vivienne to the curb, but not his apparent distaste for her daughter.
“How about a dance, rugrat? Or are those six-inch heels starting to feel like a bad idea?” he teases lightheartedly, trying to ease my concern.
I slant my eyes and pull us to the dancefloor.
“Puh-lease. My feet could be bleeding, and I’d still dance circles around you.”
He chuckles under his breath and takes my hand, leading me to the center of the tent where everyone else is dancing.
We sway to the music, but my brother doesn’t seem to hear it at all, too preoccupied with whatever is on his mind to keep up with the steps.
“Did I ever tell you that you suck at dancing? More than you do at small talk?”
“I do not. I’m a terrific dancer.”
“Modest, too.”
“Graysons don’t have the luxury of being modest.”
“Isn’t that the truth.” I sigh. “What’s on your mind, big brother? You didn’t ask me to dance just because you got bored. There are tons of women here that could be better company than your little sister.”
“No one is better company than you.”
“Careful. People might mistake you for a gentleman.” I wink at him.
This time my brother throws me one of his genuine smiles. They are so rare that I take a mental picture of it to store for later.
Rome doesn’t smile.
He doesn’t even live.
Not since Mom died.
And certainly not after his fiasco of a relationship with Addison.
My poor big brother might look like God’s gift to women with his dark hair and light eyes, but he’s just as broken as the rest
of us.
Maybe even more so.
Unlike Rome, I’ve made my peace with our mother’s death. It took me years to accept that I’d never see her smile, never experience her warmth again. It took me even longer to accept the fact that she took her own life. Of course, I would never in a million years admit this to Rome. He loved her too much to believe me even if I did tell him. But I know deep in my bones that was what happened on that god-awful Thanksgiving Day. She needed to escape my father’s ruthless clutches, and death seemed like the only door she could open to obtain her freedom.
I just wish she didn’t have to leave her children in the process.
In the end, she wasn’t strong enough to fight for us.
My chest starts to pinch at that thought, and before I’m able to shake it off, my perceptive brother feels the sudden wave of sadness wash over me.
“What’s wrong, rugrat?”
“Nothing. Everything,” I mumble.
“Is this too much for you?” he questions, scanning our fake surroundings.
“No. I’m used to our father’s shenanigans, but I have to admit this one is a whopper. Vivienne West? Seriously? Could he have picked a worse snake to live with us?”
He lets out a long exhale.
“She’s nothing we can’t handle. We just have to be smart around her,” he cautions.
I nod and scrunch my nose to the side like I can smell her overpriced perfume just by the mention of her name.
“We have to be careful around both of them,” Rome adds ominously.
“You’re talking about Holland again, aren’t you?”
“She’s her daughter, Elle. Trust me when I tell you the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“I know I’m right.”
“Did you even talk to her before you labeled the poor girl our enemy?”
“I talked to her enough. And yes, Elle. That is exactly what she is to us. Don’t let her fool you.”
I sigh, placing my hand on his chest because I know this rant of his is fueled by years of people letting us down and showing us their true colors.