She got on that plane, I checked, and she was supposed to be on the last ferry to the island. She hasn’t seen any of us in years. I tried keeping up communication with her after her sudden departure, but those calls were few and far between. So I’m very excited to see her today. More excited than at the prospect of my upcoming wedding, which should be a red flag on its own and make me run for the hills from this scheme.
My texts sit undelivered, calls go straight to voicemail. A knot twists in my gut. Maeve’s always been the wild card, but she sounded desperate when she called our parents. I don’t think she would back away now. Or maybe she would—she did it once—but my gut tells me there’s something else going on. Something neither of us will like.
So I fire off another text.
Where are you?
And then I add something I promised I’d never say to her again.
Don’t leave me like that again.
My phone screen remains blank—no dots, no delivered receipts. I stare at it, and the feeling of unease intensifies.
Mixed with the way my skin still burns where Noah’s gaze had lingered, I’m close to screaming bloody murder into a pillow. Despite the appeal of the idea, I press my fingertips against my temples and start circular motions that do nothing to erase the memory of his voice dropping not an octave but a whole pitch when he called melittle mouse.
Three familiar sharp raps on the door make me flinch.
“Beatrice?” The voice cuts through wood like a blade. “Open this door immediately.”
I drag myself up, yanking the door open to find my mother standing there—her back straight as a ruler, fingers clutching her ever-present pearls, and lips pinched so tightly they’ve nearly disappeared. Behind her, a maid scurries past us with her eyes downcast, probably ashamed on my behalf, because I sure am.
“What now, Mother?” I lean against the doorframe.
“You made a scene.” Her back turns even straighter as she stares me down.
“I didn’t,” I reply, fighting an urge to roll my eyes. “I stumbled over a suitcase. The hotel’s still standing.”
“Thatsuitcasebelongs to Noah King,” she hisses, pushing inside without waiting for an invitation which would never have followed. “Your fiancé’s brother. Not a good way to introduce yourself to your future brother-in-law who is promised to be thebest architect of our generation. And you were causing a scene.” Her nostrils widen as if she smells something sour. “Do you have any idea what’s riding on this?”
I cross my arms. It’s so typical for my mother to judge people’s value by their net worth. If he wasn’tthe best architect of our generation, she wouldn’t have cared if I sent his bag flying into the ocean.
“Yeah, the family name or whatever vague legacy you keep dangling. Which is odd, considering our family has the nameandthe money. So why do you want to marry me off so badly?”
She points her index finger into my face. “That’s why. We’re tired of dealing with you.” Her words slap me across the face, leaving yet another permanent mark. “No one from our close circles will take you, and it’s a bad image for us.”
“So I’m just a bargaining chip?” My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
Mother’s fingers tighten around her pearls. “The Kings need our shares, and we need—” She pauses, eyes flicking over me like I’m merchandise with a defect. “Well. You know how things are. A daughter of mine marrying into the King family—people will forget your… incident.”
Something cold slides down my spine. Theincidentthat happened because of them. I swallow, tasting metal.
“What about Maeve?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. “She should have been here hours ago.”
“Flights get delayed all the time. Or she’s wandering lost somewhere—you know your sister.” She flicks her wrist dismissively toward the window where rain has started to patter. “Focus on tonight’s dinner. Don’t embarrass us again. The Kings must be charmed, Beatrice. Everything depends on it.”
“One King,” I correct, though the words taste bitter. “My husband-to-be is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he decided to call this scheme off.”
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t be dramatic, Beatrice.” She adjusts her pearls, making a clicking sound that always triggers bad memories. “Maeve is flying across the world for this wedding. The least you can do is smile through dinner.”
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. Five years since Maeve walked out the door, leaving me alone with them. Five years of double scrutiny, double expectations. Now she’s coming back because her bank account hit zero, and suddenly she’s the golden child again.
“Fine,” I mutter, just to make her leave. “I’ll play nice at dinner.”
Mother’s lips curl into something adjacent to a smile. She sweeps out, trailing Chanel No. 5 so thick it coats my throat. I collapse onto the bed and check my phone again. The texts to Maeve remain unread, little gray bubbles of desperation floating in digital limbo.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, wondering why I’m still here, in this voluntary cage. There’s nothing safe or comfortable here. I’ve heard that people recall happy memories when they are feeling sad, and my mind’s drawing a blank.
But then a memory flashes. A recent one.
