And then I understand.
This isn’t about her beauty at all.
She tucks a smooth, shiny red wave behind her ear. Her hair is deeply parted, and the full side hangs over her shoulder. The coppery red plays off her pale purple robe, and the warm afternoon sun makes her milky complexion glow.
“Serena.” I clear my throat, moving two steps closer. “I don’t think you’re crazy. I don’t know you. Not yet, anyway. I’m just here to do my job. I’m here to protect your assets and see to it that your funds are appropriately allocated until the conservatorship is over. That’s all. I’m not here to judge you. I’m not here to be intrusive or invading. I want you to be comfortable. You are my priority.”
Her blue eyes lift to mine, and her expression softens. Serena’s heart-shaped lips relax, but only for a split second.
“Forgive me for calling bullshit on . . . all of that.” This woman has sass, and she’s not afraid to use it. I can respect the hell out of that. She tucks one hand beneath the opposite elbow and stares out the window, looking like she could use a drink and a cigarette. “You’re on my father’s payroll. And you work for her.”
“Her?”
“My wicked stepmother.” Her pretty blue eyes roll, and her voice is tinged with unconcealed annoyance. “The incomparable Veronica Kensington-Randall.”
The name sounds familiar, and I’m sure I skimmed over it when my father dropped the conservator assignment in my lap this morning, but as far as working for anyone, it’s not like that.
“I don’t know her,” I say. “Serena, I work for you. No one but you. The judge appointed a conservator to your estate. Rosewood and Rosewood was chosen as a non-biased solution. And here I am.”
“You think I’m paranoid, don’t you?”
“Not at all.” I lie. Sort of. I have no fucking clue what to think of this woman, but I’m completely absorbed into everything about her. The way she talks. Her fluid body movements. Her flair for dramatic eyebrow arches and the way she unabashedly jumps to conclusions and refuses to apologize.
She has my full attention, be it good or bad.
“Veronica has the entire world convinced I’m crazy. I can’t set foot in Manhattan now. None of my friends have so much as sent a single well-wish. Not that I’m unwell, but you know.”
“With friends like that . . .”
She whips her gaze to me, letting it drip down to my lapel, slow, like honey, before rising again. “You sure you’ve never heard of Veronica?”
“Never.”
Serena blows a light breath, her pink lips pulled up at the side as if she’s amused. “What rock have you been living under?”
She glides back to the sofa once belonging to some woman whose name now escapes me, and she floats down, wrapping her hands around her teacup. I take the spot next to her, slowly, gingerly.
“My priorities don’t involve keeping up on the who’s who. The lifestyles of the rich and famous aren’t of any interest to me. No offense.”
“None taken. And why would they be?” She smiles a fleeting smile, an unexpected hint of compassion in her tone. “Glitz and glamour is nothing but a façade. Our lives are incredibly mundane, and we spend a tragic amount of money trying to prove we’re some kind of special.”
She laughs. Once.
“Do you think you’re special, Mr. Rosewood?” she asks.
“I don’t think I’m qualified to make that judgment.” I run my palm down my thin, black tie. “I can tell you who’s special to me, but I can’t tell you if I, myself, am special. That’s not for me to decide.”
“Wise man.” She sips from her teacup, staring ahead.
A gardener with a large pair of sheers clips away at the overgrown boxwood bush in front of the parlor’s picture window, shaping it and paying close attention to the edges. We watch in silence until he moves along, the bush trimmed into a faultless rectangle by the time he’s finished.
“Your home is lovely,” I say. “The grounds, the gardens. Impeccable. You’re very fortunate to spend your time recovering in such a beautiful place.”
“This place is a prison fortress in disguise. No one under the age of seventy should have to live here.” She huffs, taking a sharper tone with me. “No internet. Spotty cellphone service on the best of days. I’m completely cut off from the outside world.”
I clear my throat, looking away.
“I’m sorry.” She turns my way. “This medication I’m taking makes me irritable and scrambles my thoughts. I can’t keep a single train of thought going before it derails. I swear, my mood is all over the place, and this isn’t me at all.”
Her voice is pillow-soft now, and her face is winced.
“And these headaches. God, they’re awful. It’s why I keep the house so dark.” Her voice softens to an apologetic whisper.
I waste no time in rising, pulling the centuries-old tapestry closed. “Better?”
“Thank you.” Her dramatically beautiful features are reduced to shadows in the dark, but it does very little to mask her beauty. “I apologize if I’ve been curt with you, Derek. You’re the first person I’ve spoken to in over forty-five days who doesn’t have their paycheck personally signed by Veronica.”
“Is that so?”
She nods, elegantly lifting one leg across the other and resting her hand atop her knee. Her gaze is fixed on a gilded clock resting on a marble mantle. The face of the clock glows white in the dim room. I have to venture to guess that the minutes drip a little slower in these parts, and that alone is enough to make any normal person a little insane, all else aside.
“I used to have a life,” Serena says. Her lips arch into a tepid smile as she stares at her still hands. “A beautiful, exhilarating, fulfilling life. I had friends. And a fiancé. And a charity organization. People who depended on me. A purpose. I had a good life, Derek. And then I lost it. I lost every last part of it, and I don’t know how that happened. Then they said I was crazy, and now you’re here, and all I know is nothing makes sense anymore.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened? Your version of everything. Start at the beginning.”
She glances at me from the corner of her eyes, lips pursed as she shakes her head.
“With all due respect, I’d rather not,” she says. “I relive those moments every single day. Besides, everything you need to know should be in the court order. I behaved recklessly a couple of months ago, and it was completely out of character for me. My stepmother’s psychiatrist thinks I’m unstable enough to harm myself. And to damage the future of my estate. So Justice Harcourt ordered that I’m not fit to manage my finances at this time, and now here we are.”
“I’m not interested in what they think.” My statement captures her attention, and her body shifts in line with mine. “I want to know your version of everything. I’m in your corner, Serena. Everything you tell me stays between us. I can’t do my job properly unless I have all the facts.”
Serena is quiet, and I sense contemplation in her bright blues. “All you have to do is manage my estate, counselor. You don’t need facts. You need a budget.”
Before I can offer my rebuttal, she yawns, rises, and pulls her robe tight around her.
“I’m sorry, Derek. I’m exhausted.” Serena forces a polite smile. “I assume you were only wanting to introduce yourself today? Perhaps you can come by another time, and we can have a more in-depth conversation about my finances. In the meantime, let Eudora or Thomas know what you need, and I’ll be sure they pass it along to your office.”
Eudora glides out from around the corner where she’d been lurking and hooks Serena by the elbow to guide her away.
“Come, Ms. Randall. Let’s get you back to bed where you belong.” Eudora whispers but speaks loud enough that I hear her.
A heaviness settles in the pit of my stomach as I watch them leave.
“Serena,” I call out.
She stops, turning toward me. “Yes?”
“I’ll be back tomorrow.
Will you be home?”
“Tomorrow’s a Saturday. You work on Saturdays?” Her left brow arches.
“Not generally.”
“I don’t want you billing my trust for frivolous weekend hours.” She stands straight.
“This is on the house,” I say.
Her nose scrunches. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m making you a priority,” I say, glancing at Eudora. “My number one priority.”
Eudora tugs Serena’s arm, and they move a step further.
“I want to make sure you have everything you could possibly need as soon as possible,” I add before she gets too far away.
My gaze moves between her curious stare and Eudora’s disapproving snarl.
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock,” I say.
Our eyes lock in the dark, and I swear I see her lips twitch into a flicker of a half-smile. Or maybe I’m imagining it.
“I’ll be expecting you.”
Chapter 2
Serena
“He was nice to look at, wasn’t he?” I settle into my four-poster bed as Eudora fluffs the pillows behind me. It’s not like I need her to. I’m not helpless. But she likes taking care of me. She always insists. “I mean, he has arrogant lawyer written all over him and I think he’s allergic to smiling, but he was nice enough.”
Eudora’s face is pinched. She’s keeping her opinion from me.
“Come on,” I say, pulling the covers into my lap. I love to tease her because she can be incredibly uptight. “Be honest.”
“There’s no denying he’s a handsome man. But if I’m being honest, I didn’t think too highly of him.” Her words are rushed and her eyes won’t meet mine. She points to the lamp on my bedside table, and I nod. Clicking it off, she glances around the rest of the room.
“Any particular reason?” I bait her.
Eudora stops fussing and flitting about, rests her palms along her sides, and exhales from thin, red lips. Her gray eyes find mine in the darkness, and her round face tilts to the side.
“I’m just protective of you. That’s all.” She clucks her tongue. “Some tall, dark, and handsome lawyer in a fancy suit waltzes in here, and you’re lonely and heartbroken and well-to-do, and to me, that just creates a recipe for the unspeakable. You’re not like other girls, Serena. I’ve been telling you that your entire life. You can’t be too careful. You have to guard yourself against men like him.”
Men like him.
We both know she’s referring to my ex-fiancé. I don’t know Mr. Rosewood yet, but I know enough to assure her he’s nothing like Keir Montgomery.
“You’re sweet to worry like that.” I sink back into the carefully arranged feather pillows behind me. Eudora has been with our family since I was eight, the year my mother passed. “But I was only appreciating his looks, not sizing him up as a potential husband.”
At times, Eudora’s been the closest thing I’ve had to a mother. And that’s why it pains me to look into her eyes and refuse to offer her an ounce of my trust. Veronica has her on speed dial, and I’m absolutely positive Eudora keeps a record of my daily goings-on and reports back. She’s nothing more than an extra set of eyes and ears—a dutiful minion with a paycheck.
But I can’t blame her. She needs this job, and Veronica pays her generously.
My father is approaching his late eighties and losing his mind one marble at a time. The day he married Veronica three years ago, she took over managing his staff and gave them all generous pay raises and additional holidays and vacation allowances.
They’ve been eating from the palm of her hand like baby birds ever since.
Eudora’s only doing what she’s told. But it’s truly unfortunate, because until Veronica came around, I loved Eudora like family.
She was my family.
“Do you think I was too hard on him? God, he’s probably thinking all kinds of colorful thoughts about me now.” I chuckle, amused.
“You give everyone a hard time the first time you meet them.” Eudora shrugs. “It’s what you do, Serena. You test them. See how much you can get away with. You’ve been doing it since you were a little girl. Believe me. I speak from experience.”
Eudora runs her hand along my forehead, as if my supposed condition is physical and not psychological.
“Goodnight.” I pull the covers up to my neck.
She chuckles, amused. “It’s only four o’clock, dear.”
“Goodnight for now.”
“I’ll wake you around seven. You’re due for your medication then.”
I close my eyes and pretend to sleep until I hear the click of the door. A quick run of my hand beneath my pillow, and I find the tablets from earlier. I meant to flush them, but when Eudora came bursting in here to tell me my new attorney was here to see me, I never got the chance.
I’d completely spaced on my meeting with Mr. Rosewood, but to be fair, it wasn’t intentional. These meds sometimes make me forgetful.
Eudora insisted on sending him away, but I wouldn’t allow it. Someone from “the outside” is a godsend these days.
Waiting another minute to be safe, I sweep the pills into my hand before tiptoeing to the en-suite and depositing them in the pristine toilet. A quick flush and they’re gone forever, lost in the antique bowels of this ancient mansion.
Skipping the last dose made me feel slightly more coherent, like my wits are coming back piece by piece. And I want my wits. I need my wits. I can’t stay holed up behind these stone walls like some criminal any longer.
I have to get out of here. I have to get my financial freedom back. My independence. My good name. And I’ll do whatever it takes.
Chapter 3
Derek
“Don’t stay too late.” My legal secretary, Gladys, lingers in my doorway, her heavy purse weighing down her hunched shoulder. “Want me to pick you up some dinner and bring it back?”
She checks her watch, and I check mine.
Seven o’clock on a Friday night.
If it were my weekend with Haven, I’d have been long gone by now, rolling around on the living room floor with my favorite four-year-old, playing Barbies or her favorite Doc McStuffins matching game while we wait for our half-cheese, half-supreme pizza to arrive. It’s our Friday night tradition.
Well, every other Friday night.
I live for my weekends with Haven.
It’s probably why I work so much. Holing up at the law firm and burying myself in my career makes me forget about the sound of silence waiting for me at home most nights of the week.
“I’m just finishing up here.” I give her a tight-lipped nod, and she swipes her hand at me.
“Haven’t heard that one a million times.” She jingles her car keys and shuffles down the tiled hall. The clunk of the front door and clink of the lock echo through the empty building a moment later.
Serena Randall’s court order rests before me, along with the rest of her file. I’ve been poring over the details since I got back from Belcourt Manor this afternoon.
Upon first glance, she seems fine. A little fatigued. A little snippy. But that’s understandable. Most cases involving a conservator are a bit more extreme than hers. Generally, people who are mentally or physically incapacitated need conservators, not starchy heiresses with a flair for dramatic eyebrow arches and blunt honesty.
I rub my tired eyes and let the papers fall to my desk before pulling my laptop closer. Armed with nothing but time and Google, I intend on digging deep and piecing this entire thing together. I have a feeling getting information from her will be like pulling teeth. That’s nothing that can’t be remedied with some good, old-fashioned cyber stalking.
I start with a search on her stepmother, Veronica Kensington-Randall, and then it hits me. I have heard of her before. She was on some legal drama in the nineties. My father was obsessed with that show. He used to record it on VHS and watch the episodes over and over, quoting the characters every chance he got.
She was be
autiful in her prime. Long, shapely legs. A California tan. Glossy, bleach-blonde locks. A beauty pageant smile.
According to Wikipedia, she’s been married four times, thrice divorced. Looks like she likes them old and ailing.
I click on “images” and pull up a slew of recent ones. It appears these days she’s combatting fifty with fillers and Spanx. Looks as though, until recently, she was rarely seen without her loving husband, Harold Randall, who is easily old enough to be her father.
Classic.
This is not uncommon, especially along the old-moneyed, blue-blooded coast of New England.
Older man takes a younger trophy wife. Children feel threatened. Wife wants to ensure her stake in the family estate. Legal drama ensues.
I smirk.
This’ll be easy.
As soon as Serena’s feeling one hundred percent, we’ll just have to prove she’s of sound mind, and then I’ll personally see to it that her stake in the family estate is still intact, all of her financials will be back in her control, and I’ll be on my way. Estate law is a little hobby of mine anyway. Nothing pleases me more than seeing to it that greedy, selfish assholes do not persevere.
Money—or the fear of having none—can do horrible things to good people. I’ve witnessed it firsthand on many occasions.
My phone dings from my pocket, and I slip it out to read a text from one of my sisters.
DEMI: Hey, come over tonight and hang out with us. Royal wants to beat you in Battleship. He says you owe him a game.
ME: Yeah, from fifteen years ago. Tell him to let it go. It’s in the past.
DEMI: He says you’re just afraid to lose.
ME: I never lose.
DEMI: He wants to know if you’re forfeiting.
ME: Never. Give me an hour.
I set my phone aside and click through the overabundance of Veronica images flooding my screen. They’re all the same—her body angled, her hand on one bony hip, and her red lips drawn into a sly smile.
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