by Geneva Lee
“Where are my manners?” He gestures toward the stairs. “You have guests.”
Suddenly, all those strangers don’t feel like intruders. They feel like safety. Rushing past him, I try not to look at him, but I can’t help it. He pulls my attention like a magnet. The scowl is now a permanent fixture on his handsome face but it stops at his eyes. I don’t pause to consider what I see there until I reach the first step. By the time, I reach the last one, I’ve convinced myself I was wrong. It wasn’t pain in those stormy eyes, and if it was, it was my own reflecting there. I’d imagined it. I couldn’t let myself do that again.
I thought Sterling was just a poor boy dressed in a rich man’s suit. I was wrong. He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“There you are!” My best friend’s arms circle me tightly, but my eyes—and thoughts—are on Sterling. Poppy doesn’t notice, which is no surprise. She’s perfected the art of convenient ignorance. Her philosophy is why deal with something unpleasant if you can avoid it? Sometimes I wish I could be more like her.
Right now, I wish I could be her, instead of the girl running from the wicked boy upstairs or the girl whose mom just died.
“Are you okay?” Her voice drops to a whisper, and I remember why we’re best friends. Because that convenient blind spot of hers doesn’t extend to me. She sees me clearly. Probably even the stuff I don’t tell her. Like about the night before mom died. Or about the smug jackass I met at the coffee shop before…
We’re best friends, but it’s not like anyone can ever really know you. Not entirely. We all have secrets—parts of ourselves that are better hidden than shared. Sometimes even from ourselves. We’re born alone and we die alone. The last few days have made that clear to me.
“Fine.” I shrug off her concern, hoping she doesn’t press the issue. She doesn’t.
Instead, she seems intent on distraction. “Everyone’s in the solarium, hiding from mum and dad.”
She clasps my hand and drags me in that direction. I don’t want to hang out with them. The guys will make stupid, insensitive jokes. The girls will fawn over me, but I’m not stupid enough to believe it’s anything more than an act. But it’s better than staying put and running into him again, so I let her lead me away.
Poppy prattles on about changes to her parents’ trip to the Seychelles. “Dad’s been called back to London…”
I’m barely aware of the update. I’ve heard it before. The Landrys were constantly planning a vacation they never took. Mr. Landry always wound up being called to London and then Mrs. Landry would fly to Palm Springs and have an affair. The world kept spinning and the Seychelles remained untainted by their lousy marriage. Poppy is proof that good things can come from bad places, like a flower growing through a crack in the cement.
She’s kinder than she has to be, given her looks and upbringing. With her black curtain of hair, amber skin, and willowy, dancer’s body, she could be like most of the other girls we know: all beauty and money with a big empty spot where her soul should be. She could cut and belittle and dehumanize. Instead, she threw a party for her gardener when he got engaged and plays with the maid’s daughter to give her a break. I have no idea why. Maybe it’s because she has that convenient ignorance. Maybe she refuses to focus on all the bad in our world.
I’m considering this when I realize that she’s moved on with her gossip. “He’s from New York. Scholarship of some sort. I can’t believe brains come with his body.”
No. I’ve been so caught up in stewing over my confrontation with Sterling that I’m only now considering that he came here with Cyrus. Cyrus, who is part of my inner circle, even if he used to tease me about my flat chest. Cyrus, who will be in the solarium with everyone. I doubt Mr. Personality is out making new friends with my mom’s bridge club.
I just taunted the wolf, dangling fresh blood in front of him. Now I’m going to walk into his den.
“I’m not feeling so well,” I lie, hoping to extricate myself from the situation.
Poppy studies me for a moment, tilting her head, her eyes crinkling, in a way that reminds me of my mother. My stomach flips over, grief churning through it. Now I’m not lying. I don’t think I can face my friends any more than I can stand to see that boy again.
Judging by the way Ava and Darcy are huddled in the corner, there’s more gossip to share—more trivial, meaningless information. I wish they hadn’t come. I wish I could turn around and go back to standing silent in my father’s shadow as he shook hands and made small talk.
I’m too late. A dark-haired boy with cold gray eyes spots us, a smile cracking his face. His tie is already loose at his neck, his top button undone. He tosses back the drink in his hand. Shaking his head, he calls out, “Where have you two been?”
I manage a tight smile. Trust Montgomery to treat this like any other party. It takes effort to convince my body to move toward my friends. He is holding court between Cyrus and Oliver Hawthorne, who’s still finishing up his last year of prep. There’s a half-empty bottle of West Tennessee Whiskey waiting on the table for the next round.
“Thank you for coming.” I’ve been prepped to say this to everyone—raised by old-fashioned parents who expect their kids to have a shred of manners. That etiquette comes out in public, even among friends.
“I wouldn’t miss it. Your dad always has the good booze.” Montgomery’s thoughtless humor slices through me.
“Don’t be a dick, Money.” Cyrus smacks the back of his head but I see his barely concealed smile. He’s better at pretending not to be a walking sack of hormones than the others, but not by much. He’s as tall as Montgomery—meaning they tower over me—but that’s where the similarities end. Cyrus is fair-skinned, fair-haired, and mostly fair-minded. Of course, he has ambitions to follow his father’s path into politics, but not before he takes over the family’s global hotel chain. He’s lucky he looks like his mother, a Swedish model turned trophy wife.
“I was complimenting her family,” Money says, slurring slightly. This clearly isn’t his first bottle. Big surprise. He swings for Cyrus’s shoulder, misses and slops his drink all over him.
Cyrus jumps to his feet, glaring at him, as he wipes off what he can. “This is Brioni, for Christ’s sake.” His vision shifts to the doorway. “Sterling, come help me drink this. We’re cutting Money off.”
Sterling. I don’t turn to see him enter. Their new friend. My new nightmare.
The other girls—who didn’t bother to look up at my entrance—are very invested in the appearance of Sterling. I can see what draws their attention, even as I dread the next few weeks. They’ll talk about him nonstop. If I’m lucky, some other guy will prove more intriguing.
I’ve talked with Sterling. I’ve looked in his hurricane eyes. There’s not a chance in hell anyone half as interesting winds up at Valmont University this year.
Clutching Poppy’s hand tightly, I will her to read my mind. But when I look over, her black eyes are trained on Sterling. She didn’t meet him that night. He didn’t insult her. He didn’t stick around once she arrived with Felix. Now I’ve lost her, too. I make a mental note to warn her about him at the first opportunity. I can only imagine what a jerk like that could do to someone as sweet as her. For now, I drag her toward the other girls, pretending that Sterling doesn’t exist.
“Fresh meat,” Ava purrs in a low voice. She’s the female version of Montgomery. Usually opposite-sex siblings don’t look so much alike, even if they are twins. The West twins could be an advertisement for genetic engineering—beautiful, perfect halves of the same soulless coin.
“He’s poor,” Darcy says, but she’s staring at him with the same lusty expression. She twirls a ringlet of hair on her finger as though she’s considering how low she’s willing to go. She’s not a bitch so much as a pragmatist. With three older brothers, she’ll get a much smaller piece of her parents’ pharmaceutical company. She started her final year of prep this week, too, and she made no secret that she’s headed to university to cat
ch a husband. She’s the only person I know studying to ace the SATs to ensure she goes Ivy League—where the big bank accounts send their sons. In her mind, getting out of Valmont ensures a fresh stock of potential marital possibilities.
“He’s also a complete jackass,” I inform them.
“That’s no way to welcome him to Valmont.” Judging from Ava’s interest, she plans on welcoming him to town with a private tour of her panties.
There’s no use supplying them with the details. Poppy will listen to me, but Ava and Darcy collect boys like stamps—licking them and sticking them before moving on to the next find.
Ava pats the arm of the wicker chair beside hers. “Sit. We need to catch up.”
I want to run. To flee the memories of my mother watering her plants. To avoid Sterling. To hide. To pretend life hasn’t changed forever.
I sit.
That’s all the invitation they need to continue with their gossiping.
“Cyrus said he’s a scholarship student. From Queens or something,” Darcy tells us. “I didn’t think Valmont gave many scholarships outside sports recruits, but he doesn’t play football according to Cy.”
“Maybe he plays lacrosse,” Poppy offers. We all turn to stare at her. Sweet girl. As though there are a lot of inner-city lacrosse teams. She returns our stare with a blank look. “What? A lot of good players graduated last year.”
“I have a feeling he’s more into one-on-one sports,” Ava says, adding, “At least, I hope he is.”
“Why don’t you ask him?” I slump farther down into my chair.
She turns sparkling eyes on me. “I will.”
“Adair.”
I look up to find Cyrus lording over me. His eyes zero in on my neckline and I realize he’s staring down my top. Pushing up and out of his line of sight, I swivel around to him. “Could you be…” My rebuke dies on my lips when I see he brought Sterling over.
“I wanted to introduce you all to my roommate and Adair’s savior the other night.” He glances between us expectantly.
This is the part where I play the grateful girl and welcome him, thank him for coming, fawn over his chivalry. I don’t move.
“I shouldn’t have come,” Sterling mutters, showing a shocking amount of insight.
He shouldn’t have come. I wish none of them had, but him more than the rest. He doesn’t belong here. Not today. I hate him for coming. I hate him for confusing me. I hate him for hating me.
I hate how he makes me feel. I hate that I like it.
“Nonsense. I promised to show you the town. Introduce you to the Court,” Cyrus says dismissively, and I wonder if Sterling counts himself as one of us. If he thinks he belongs to the silly clique of rich kids sticking together more out of habit than affection.
“Are we still going by that?” Poppy asks.
We’re not the Court anymore. How can they think that? We’re not the kids who stole from their parents’ bar carts and drank away the weekend in each other’s pool-houses. Everything is changing in ways that have nothing to do with starting college next week or who lives in the dorms and who prefers morning maid service at the family estate. Can’t they feel it?
“We could divide up by those stuck in the dorms and those still living in the lap of luxury,” Money suggests, malice glinting in his eyes.
“Some of us wanted our freedom,” Ava reminds her brother, but her next sentiment is aimed at Sterling. “Freedom means getting to do whoever you want.”
“It means you aren’t wanted around,” Money says drolly. “You could be the unwanted. What do you think, Poppy? Does that suit you better?”
Poppy tenses. She never built an immunity to Money like the rest of us. Her parents insisted she live in the dorms along with Cyrus’s. She’ll spend the summers drifting between the city and the various Landry houses. It hardly matters. Her parents are never home anyway. That’s the price of running the world’s leading tech company. Fortunately—or maybe unfortunately—that means they can buy Poppy the best in life, including an education at Valmont University. In fact, the only thing they don’t give her is their time.
“You, darling, are not unwanted,” Cyrus soothes her. “I’ll take you anytime. You know that.”
Her eyes narrow at his advance. “I think I’ll stick with the dorms.”
“Anyway,” Cyrus says heavily, “I couldn’t leave him to languish. I thought we could show him a good time.”
Languish? A good time? I can’t find words. They’re stuck boiling in my throat, burning it raw. I don’t know if I want to cry or scream. This is different. It’s not the passionate, hate-driven anger Sterling released in me. This is sour and rotten. This is betrayal. I don’t know why I expect them to care. They never have before. Still, I cast a frantic look at Poppy, hoping she’ll save me. She’s the only one I can always count on, but she’s mesmerized by Cyrus’s new pet like the rest of them.
It’s as though none of them remember why they’re here, except the one person I wish didn’t. They begin planning what to do next, peppering Sterling with questions. He answers them. They watch him. He watches me. His eyes scan and dissect, taking me apart piece by piece like I’m an experiment. For a few minutes, I sit there and let him.
“What do you think, Sterling? We could go to the pool house.” Ava leans toward him, angling her curvy body to flash him some cleavage.
His gaze stays glued to me. “I want to know what Adair thinks.”
Heads swivel in my direction, proving they’d forgotten I was even here—and son-of-a-bitch Sterling wanted me to know it.
There’s not an ounce of social nicety left in me as I push to my feet, tottering on my heels, flushed with their betrayals. They’re acting like we’re just hanging out. Cyrus brought along a new friend. Said friend is a grade-A jackass, taunting me at my own mother’s funeral, and every Southern belle in the room wants to show him her welcome wagon.
“I think you can go to hell,” I say.
His eyes flash. Everyone freezes. Except me. I’m already across the room. I should go back. I should apologize. That’s what my mom would want me to do.
Except she’s dead—and I seem to be the only one who cares.
“Let her go,” I hear Sterling tell them. “She’s upset about her mom.”
No one comes after me. The Court has a new king.
I never asked for them to come. I don’t want them here. I don’t want him here, so why do I feel so alone?
8
Adair
Present Day
The will is being read—and I quote—in the comfort of our own home. What a joke. In fairness to our legal team, most people would consider Windfall comfortable. They see the 10,000 square foot mansion with its house staff, garden staff, tennis courts, swimming pool, and guesthouses, and they make assumptions. I had the privilege of growing up here, which means I know better. Windfall is anything but comfortable. My father built the house to intimidate. It wasn’t until I was older, and had more experience of the world, that I realized he wasn’t trying to intimidate strangers or potential business partners. We were his target. His family. His wife and children.
And it had worked.
Hindsight is a gift and a curse. I wish I could look back on my childhood and remember only the lavish birthday parties and over-the-top holidays, but the sounds of empty bottles breaking and screamed arguments overshadows those memories. I can’t summon one happy moment without being inundated by a thousand that broke my heart. That’s the truth behind Windfall’s name. It wasn’t built by good fortune. It was built on cruelty.
But despite that, I’m still standing in front of the closed doors to my father’s study, dutifully wearing black and playing the part of the good daughter in mourning over her beloved father. I pretend my world isn’t composed of egg shells that leave me terrified to make a move. But I know it’s more fragile than glass and any moment, something—or someone—will shatter it.
Ginny joins me without a word. I force a smile even t
hough she’s dressed for a business meeting in a white blouse, collar turned up at the neck, and high-waisted, electric blue pants that are so tight they’re like a second skin. My niece is off with a nanny. It’s her mother’s job to see to both their fortunes. Actually, Ginny is going to work by her standards. Being married to my brother, planning his future Senate run, and hanging delicately off his shoulder is a full-time job. People often assume we’re actual sisters with our red hair and pale skin. She may not be a MacLaine by blood but sometimes I think she’s more suited to it than I am.
“That color washes you out,” she informs me, fiddling with the clasp of her gold tennis bracelet.
“Black?” I say flatly. “We’re in mourning, remember?”
“And what a spectacular show you’re making of it. I commend you,” she says, “but let’s not pretend you didn’t hate your father.”
“I didn’t.” I don’t know why I’m defending myself to her. Ginny can believe what she wants. She knows more about this family than most, but she never understood that I loved my father nearly as much as I disliked him.
“I guess we’ll find out if he loved you soon enough.” She returns her attention to the closed doors.
I bite back a half-dozen sarcastic responses, knowing that if my brother inherits Windfall, it will be up to her if I’m allowed to stay. She’s wanted me gone for years, ever since things fell apart between us. She hates that I stayed when she wanted me to go. She never understood that I didn’t have a choice.
“How long are they going to drag this out?” She checks her phone for the time and sighs as though it’s a huge burden to spend the afternoon inheriting millions.
Malcolm has been holed up inside for the better part of the week, a revolving door of attorneys and accountants coming and going. He must know what’s in the will, even though it hasn’t been unsealed yet. What else could they be discussing? My father groomed him to take over and planned my brother’s run for the state senate. They both had sights on D.C. Surely that meant Malcolm had been privy to my father’s plans for the estate and his assets. That’s what worries me. What need does my brother have to consult so many legal experts? A cocktail of dread and fear churns inside me as I consider the possibility that Malcolm is meeting to discuss me and my inheritance.