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The heavy door swings open before we can even reach it. I expected a butler but was surprised to see a woman standing there, radiating warmth like a hearth in winter. She must be Mrs. Morton—Blake’s mom. She is all soft curves and softer smiles as she envelops me in a scent of jasmine and expensive perfume. Her embrace is surprisingly genuine.
“Darling, we’ve been so eager to meet you,” she coos, pulling back to hold my shoulders. “Blake has told us so much.”
“Good things, I hope,” I say with a voice steadier than I feel. How much information could he have told them about me? He knew zilch about me until last night.
“Only the best,” she assures me with a wink.
I return her smile, the knot in my stomach loosening ever so slightly. That is until I step inside. Through the doors, the opulence is staggering—high ceilings, priceless art, a staircase spiraling upward like something out of a fairy tale. Every plush carpet and gilded frame screams privilege I can’t relate to. But as much as I want to cut and run, Mrs. Morton’s presence makes it seem less daunting. I hadn’t expected her to be so welcoming.
“Come, let’s get comfortable,” she beckons, guiding us toward the living room where a man rises from a leather armchair. Richard Morton stands tall, commanding, and every inch the business magnate I had expected. A rush of memories floods my mind as I try hard to push them away. Mr. Morton isn’t the powerful mongrel Mom worked for. Nor is he the rich asshole who wanted me erased before I had a chance to develop.
Nope, he’s simply Blake’s father—one I should hold my judgment until I get to know him better.
“Blake,” he nods his greeting for me, a touch more reserved.
“Sir,” Blake replies, his stance tenser than before.
“Call me Dad, you know that,” Mr. Morton chides gently, a twinkle in his eye.
“Right, Dad.”
A bubbly laugh pulls our attention to the corner of the room where a female version of Blake lounges on a plush sofa, her legs elegantly crossed. Emily, I presume, shares Blake’s dark hair and easy confidence. The resemblance is unmistakable.
“Finally, the mysterious Amanda,” she says, her eyes bright with humor as she rises. “We were thinking you were a figment of Blake’s imagination.”
“Hardly,” I say, surprised by my boldness. But there’s something different about his family than I was used to. Blake was right. They’re more down to earth. “Nice to meet you, Emily.”
“Likewise.” Her handshake is firm, her grin infectious.
“Shall we?” Mrs. Morton gestures toward the dining room, her necklace catching the light with every step. They may act normal, but their net worth is anything but average. “I hope you brought your appetite.”
“I’m fresh off a game. I’m absolutely starving,” Blake says.
“Good,” she says. “You’ll need your strength for what’s coming.”
Her words are playful, but I catch a strange undercurrent, a flicker of something unspoken behind her eyes. Blake squeezes my hand as we follow her lead to the dining room table.
“Thanks for having me over,” I say, sounding casual as I take in the room’s expanse.
“Any friend of Blake’s is part of the family,” Mrs. Morton says, pouring wine into crystal goblets with practiced ease.
“Family,” I echo, the word thick in my throat. Blake and I exchange a glance, our fake relationship suddenly feeling all too real under the warm glow of the Morton family chandelier. The money I made from tonight may have helped cover Grandma’s rent, but she would never approve of the deceitfulness that went with it. She prides herself on integrity and honesty.
Something the wealthy people she worked for never had.
The glint of the silverware is enough distraction to pull me back to the present. Back to where each fork and knife is meticulously placed beside porcelain plates that cost more than my entire wardrobe. I spear a bite-sized piece of herb-crusted lamb, rich and unapologetic flavors bursting on my tongue.
“Blake tells us you’re quite the athlete,” Mr. Morton muses, his voice deep and resonant. He doesn’t look at me; his eyes lock on his son in an unspoken challenge simmering beneath the surface.
“Uh, well, I play some intramural volleyball, but my studies keep me buried.” I start, but my words fizzle out in the tension that suddenly tightens around the table like a vise. Blake’s grip on his knife hardens, his knuckles whitening.
“Speaking of athletics,” Mr. Morton continues, oblivious to the tightening tension, “it’s time to hang up those skates and join the real world, Blake. You’ve had your fun with hockey. College will soon end, and you need to fulfill your role in the business.”
“James,” Helen says, half shocked, half exasperated. She gives her head an irritated shake and directs her focus on Blake. “What your father is trying to say is we’d like to travel more and need you to take over sooner than expected.”
“Helen, the excuse doesn’t matter. The time has come for him to step up.”
Blake sets down his cutlery with a soft clink, his jaw flexing. His gaze locks with his father’s—a silent battle waged across the expanse of the polished mahogany table. “That wasn’t the plan, Dad. We agreed?—”
