by Sophie Lark
Always
A Second Chance Romance
Sophie Lark
Contents
Inspiration
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Colors of Crime Series
Sapphire – Chapter 1
Thanks For Reading!
Meet Sophie
Inspiration
You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope...I have loved none but you.
Jane Austen, Persuasion
1
When Anika came home from work to find her father, his lawyer, her sister, and Aunt Molly all assembled in the living room, she knew the news would be dire. It must be so bad that Mr. Burton had come to the house to deliver it, to ensure that their father understood, and didn’t try to sweep it under the rug. Presumably Aunt Molly had been called over from next door to keep a lid on any hysterics—she was one of the few people Anika’s father listened to, at least occasionally.
After some hemming and hawing, Mr. Burton came out with it:
“Despite my best efforts, as well as those of your father’s financial manager and his accountant, I must inform you all that the Knight family is on the edge of bankruptcy.”
“Bankruptcy!” Stella scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”
Stella was dressed for the evening in a sleek cocktail dress, chandelier earrings, and a pair of ermine-trimmed stilettos from their father’s not-yet-released summer line. She had already called for the car to brought round. Only outrage was keeping her from her party.
Anika noticed that her father did not look as surprised. In fact, if it was possible, he almost looked guilty.
“I don’t understand,” Anika said slowly. “Bennet Knight has had steady earnings for the last six years.”
Bennet Knight was her father’s eponymous fashion line.
“It has,” Mr. Burton agreed, “but you know that at this point your father only retains an eight percent share in the company. While earnings are steady, I’m afraid they can’t accommodate your family’s expenses. Which despite my warnings, have been increasing year by year.”
This was the first Anika had heard of any warnings, and definitely the first time she had been informed that her father no longer owned the majority of his own company.
“Dad,” she said, struggling to remain calm, “what happened to the rest of your stock?”
“Oh,” he waved his hand dismissively, “I sold some of it to Dominic over the years. When expenses came up.”
Dominic was her father’s business partner. Bennet designed the clothes; Dominic supplied the marketing genius.
“What kind of expenses?” Anika asked.
“You know—when I bought the MacLaren and the yacht. When we got the villa in Sorbonne. When that investment in that Chinese amusement park went bad. Just times when things were a little tight.”
“Alright.” Anika did some quick mental calculations. “Well, eight percent isn’t terrible—that should still bring in enough to live on.”
“It might,” Mr. Burton agreed. “If not for the debt.”
Mr. Burton elaborated: it appeared that between her father’s watch and car collections and her elder sister’s failing business (her perfume line was apparently much less solvent than Anika had been led to believe), the Knight family was in debt to the tune of some twenty-eight million dollars.
“And there’s the unpaid taxes as well,” Mr. Burton said with a pained expression.
Aunt Molly looked around at all the glum faces.
“That’s not insurmountable!” She tried to cheer them up. “With a few tweaks, I’m sure you can cover the debt. Bennet, what about all those motorcycles out in the garage? You never ride those anymore—they could be sold. And now that you’re not eating carbs, would you even want to go back to France? You could sell the villa.”
This was, of course, why Mr. Burton had invited her—to try to persuade Bennet Knight to balance his budget. Anika could not imagine a more impossible task.
“Those motorcycles are collector’s items, Molly,” Bennet said coldly. “The Vincent Black Knight for instance—there’s only a hundred of those in the world, and none in mint condition like mine. And the Guzzi LaMans—Bono owned that. My God, they’re not for riding, I’d sooner sell my right arm.”
“What about the villa?” Molly persisted.
“It took months to source the furniture from India!” Stella cried. “Daddy and I designed the entire color story together, and we hired Niki de Saint Phalle to paint the mural in the dining room. Besides, I always bring my girlfriends there after we see the spring shows in Paris.”
All other suggestions were likewise met with shock and refusal.
Spend less on clothing?
“A designer walking around in rags—that would be good for business!” from a sarcastic Bennet.
A reduction in staff at the house?
“I suppose you think I’ll be scrubbing the toilets!” from a disdainful Stella.
Give up their club membership?
Absolutely not!
Fly on commercial airlines?
Unimaginable!
“We should probably let the horses go,” Anika said with great reluctance. She was the only one that rode. She raised three of the older horses with her mother, before Elaine Knight had fallen ill. “Without the horses, we wouldn’t have to employ the stable staff.”
“You’d fire Tom?” Stella said. “He has a family you know.”
With great difficulty, Anika controlled her temper. She knew that Stella didn’t give a fig about the horses, except for how they allowed her to be part of the local equestrian society so she could attend their summer derbies wearing her most adorable frocks and hats.
“It’s Greg that has a family,” Anika said. “Tom is single.”
“You know what I mean,” Stella said dismissively. “People are counting on us. We have obligations.”
“I’m aware of that,” Anika said. “We won’t be able to meet any of those obligations if we lose our house.”
“I’d rather lose our house than lose everything that makes it worth living in!” Bennet cried.
“Well,” Mr. Burton said, “that is an idea...”
“What’s an idea?” Aunt Molly said.
“It’s so difficult to change habits without a change of scenery. And it’s so expensive to keep up an estate like this. What if you went to stay in the city for a while? In the penthouse? You’d only need a few staff members there, a housekeeper or two, the driver—“
“And the cook!” Stella put in.
“And the cook,” Mr. Burton agreed.
“We’re not selling the estate,” Bennet said stubbornly.
“Of course not!” Mr. Burton said. “I would never suggest that. But you could rent it for a while. That would allay its expenses and bring in some income as well.”
There was quiet as everyone pondered this idea.
“I don’t know who I could trust to live here,” Bennet said at last.
“It would have to be someone responsible,” Aunt Molly said.
“No children!” Stella added.
“Maybe someone famous?” Aunt Molly mused. “You wouldn’t want just anybody stayin
g here.”
Aunt Molly was a wonderful woman—while not as beautiful as her sister had been, she was kind, intelligent, and extraordinarily patient with the foibles of her brother-in-law. But she had a weakness for celebrities of any stripe. It wasn’t only residual fondness for her sister that allowed her to judge Bennet on such a generous curve: while he might be vain and foolish, he was also well known, and well regarded in the fashion industry. Aunt Molly could not help but be impressed by that.
Still, she had made a mistake with her comment, because she had forgotten Bennet’s jealousy.
“No celebrities!” Bennet said. “I don’t want the place destroyed by parties. And they have the most horrific taste—remember when Prince rented that basketball player’s house? He painted the whole thing purple.”
“He did paint it back again,” Anika reminded him.
Bennet hated the idea of anyone more famous than himself inhabiting his hallways.
“No,” he insisted. “Find someone quiet, reclusive. Wealthy of course. From a good family. No foreigners—no Chinese billionaires or Russian gangsters. I don’t want to come back to a swimming pool full of koi fish or be stabbed with an irradiated umbrella if the rent is late.”
Mr. Burton made a note of all this for the listing agent. Anika wished the woman well on her quest to find a childless recluse in need of a forty-acre estate that they would rent with funds obtained without any status or renown.
With all this decided, Stella prepared to leave again. Far from disappointed that they would have to give up their childhood home, she seemed excited at the prospect of spending more time in the city. Anika wished she shared her sister’s enthusiasm. The last time she lived in New York, she had been horribly unhappy.
“There is one more thing,” Mr. Burton said.
“What now?” Bennet groaned.
“You’re all aware that Dominic Moretti has been ill.”
“It’s all the pasta,” Bennet said. “He says the Italians have been eating pasta for thousands of years. I told him he ought to switch to Paleo if he cares so much about the antiquity of his diet.”
“It’s liver damage,” Mr. Burton said bluntly. “His doctor has advised him to cut back his work hours. Drastically.”
“Dominic didn’t say anything about that to me,” Bennet frowned.
“He asked me to draw up some documents,” Mr. Burton said, “to allow his son to take over his position in the business.”
“Marco!” Bennet cried. “He’s just a kid!”
“He’s a year older than Stella,” Mr. Burton corrected.
Bennet made a dismissive noise. Since he still considered himself in the prime of youth, it was impossible that his children could be full-grown adults.
“Doesn’t Marco live in Italy?” Stella asked. Despite her innocent tone, Anika knew that Stella was fully aware where Marco lived, and probably what he had for breakfast this morning. As she considered herself a premier socialite, Stella kept careful watch on anybody with a trust fund and an Instagram following as large as Marco’s.
“Marco will be moving to New York,” Mr. Burton said, “very soon.”
With this information, Stella departed the house in high spirits. For her, the evening’s news had been almost entirely positive. The financial issues seemed overblown, and as long as she had a clutch full of credit cards, her father could sort out the rest. He could always make more money.
Moving to the city full time was just the change she needed. She was tired of the stuffy, old-money, geriatric Hamptons. The city was where life and adventure were to be found—right outside her window instead of a helicopter ride away. And it appeared that Italy’s most eligible bachelor would be moving there at just the same time.
Anika’s emotions were quite the opposite. She would be torn away from her home, where the last physical reminders of her mother lingered. Worse, she had no confidence in Mr. Burton’s idea that her father and sister would manage to spend less money amidst the constant temptation of the most expensive city in the world.
Sensing her despondency, Aunt Molly put her arm around Anika’s shoulders.
“A change will be good for you too,” she promised her niece. “You’ve been isolated here.”
“Promise you’ll visit us,” Anika said.
“Of course!” Aunt Molly said. “You know I go to the city all the time.”
“It won’t be the same as being neighbors,” Anika said.
“No,” Aunt Molly admitted, “but who knows, maybe this will be good for me too. You’re not the only one who’s been single too long—if your father forgets his prejudices, we might convince Bradley Cooper to move next door.”
2
Anika felt she had never properly appreciated the beauty of her home until she had to leave it. She had lived away before—a semester spent in Spain during high school, and she took a dorm room when she went to NYU. But she had always come home for holidays. Just the knowledge that these rooms remained, solid and secure and relatively unchanging, had been an anchor to her in the ten years since her mother had died.
Eleanor Knight’s touch had shaped it all. For a designer, Bennet Knight had limited interest in home interiors, only lending his expertise when coaxed by his eldest daughter. And Stella preferred to decorate and redecorate the vacation homes that saw the larger bulk of visitors—her father didn’t allow her to bring anyone to the estate.
For all his talk of “good families,” Bennet Knight was not entirely comfortable amongst his financial peers. It was his wife whose family name could be found on multiple eminent buildings in New York. Bennet’s parents sold insurance in Poughkeepsie.
He liked to attend parties. He threw them himself after every one of his shows. But this was all done at a distance, in rented spaces. He didn’t allow anybody to come to his home, the place he retreated when he fell into one of his depressions, hiding in his private wing until the mood finally subsided. He did this more often since Eleanor had died. He used to stay at the estate infrequently when she was there.
Eleanor’s quiet elegance lingered in every room of the house. Disappointed in her choice of husband, she had poured her love into the estate and her daughters.
Her portrait still hung in the library, alongside those of her husband and children. Like her daughters she was tall, slender, dark-haired, blue-eyed. Bennet Knight had wooed her by begging her to pose for his first bridal line. It was a choice both romantically and financially rewarding—Eleanor’s lovely figure and melancholy face helped sell an inordinate amount of gowns, and shortly thereafter, she agreed to don one of his dresses for their own wedding ceremony.
Raised in wealth and privilege, she must have been impressed by a man with twenty-eight dollars and holes in his shoes who had come to New York to build himself an empire. She might not have realized at first that Bennet’s greatest gift was choosing partners stronger than himself—first Dominic Moretti, then Eleanor. And of course Anika’s father had then been, and remained now, extremely handsome. Eleanor wouldn’t be the first woman to imagine there was more substance behind a pretty face than could actually be found.
All Bennet’s features seemed so encouraging. The great square jaw that seemed to promise masculine strength and loyalty, the dimples that indicated a roguish sense of humor, the thick waves of hair (then chestnut brown, now an even more striking silver gray) that appeared to denote an adventurous spirit.
Only in his eyes could you see that there was something off. A coldness, a vacantness that didn’t quite match his charming smile. How long did it take Eleanor to realize?
Anika could only guess, because her mother had too much integrity to criticize Bennet to his daughters. She kept her unhappiness to herself. It was only after she was bedridden from the multiple tumors along her spine that she begged Anika not to let Bennet dissuade her from pursuing her education, to always remember that all this—Eleanor had waved a frail hand to encompass everything in her own room, the paintings, the jewelry, the curtains, th
e carpets—all this was ephemera, that experiences would last longer than objects.
Eleanor might have told Stella the same thing, but Stella said the smell of the ointments and medications in her mother’s room nauseated her, and she couldn’t bear to see her so weak and haggard. Eleanor died shortly after.
Anika fell into a deep sadness for over a year. She was only eighteen. She had never been close to her father, and though she had often wished for a relationship with Stella, their age and temperaments seemed too distant. Stella was six years her senior. They shared no interests. While Anika loved solitary pursuits like reading, ballet, and horseback riding, Stella harkened to the ancient aphorism that if a socialite performed her talents and there was no one there to see it, did it really happen at all? Stella preferred parties, galas, nightclubs, and, in a pinch, awards banquets.
It didn’t help that eighteen-year-old Anika represented something of a threat to her sister. Stella was beautiful, but she didn’t react well the first time she overheard someone whisper that the younger Knight sister was even prettier. She was relieved when Anika largely avoided the nightlife of New York to focus on her university studies.
Anika’s grief over her mother only softened when she met someone at school, a boy unlike anyone she had met before. Two years of blissful infatuation followed until it ended—horribly, painfully—at graduation. She came back home to the Hamptons to take over her mother’s charity. She had worked there ever since.
These days, she was no longer too pretty to be seen with Stella. Quite the opposite. While Stella remained as beautiful at thirty-four as twenty-four, the intervening years had sapped the life and color from her sister.