Page 228 of Rush

We end the call and I sit there, holding the phone frozen, my coffee’s gone cold. I call Luca and pull the blanket off, get up, and reach for my coat.

The sun hasn’t clawed its way fully up yet—just a weak glow over the buildings, stretching long shadows down the street. I stare out the window, picking at the loose thread in my glove, heart thudding louder the closer we get to the townhouse.

When we roll to a stop, I stay seated. Luca watches me.

“You gonna sit out front ‘til New Year’s?”

I exhale through my nose, unbuckle. “I didn’t even call ahead. It’s nine in the morning—what kind of maniac just shows up?”

“You,” he says, chuckling.

I give a weak smile, then climb out. Luca stays parked at the curb.

The front door opens before I can ring.

Colin. Crisp as ever in his morning coat. “Miss Elena,” he greets, a slight hint of surprise in his tone.

“Are they awake?” I ask.

“They’re enjoying breakfast in the conservatory.” He puts his hands out, offering to take my coat. “Shall I announce you?”

I swallow. “No. No, I’ve got it.”

He steps aside. I cross the threshold, the warmth of the house meeting me—orange zest, coffee, the faint pine of the Christmas garland wound around the staircase. My sneakers are too loud on the marble. I don’t remember it echoing this much when I lived here.

Down the corridor. Past the portrait of my father’s grandfather. The door at the end is already ajar.

Laughter.

Carole’s laugh.

I pause outside the conservatory, one hand curled into my coat pocket. When I open the door to the floor-to-ceiling glass room, one of their maids is tending to a shelf of delicate orchids.

“Good morning,” I announce, my mouth tastes like metal.

They both look up from their breakfast—my father in a custom three-piece suit, reading glasses perched low as he readsThe Wall Street Journal, Carole in Chanel, full pearls before 8 a.m. Her hair already looks like it’s been set by someone on the payroll. It feels like I’m intruding.

I’ve shown up in last night’s sweats, coat wrinkled from the backseat of the car, worn sneakers that probably have old gum on the sole.

Haute couture.

Their eyes widen.

“Elena, good morning, dear,” Carole says, blinking fast, voice dipped in soft honey like I might bolt if startled. “Would you like some breakfast?”

I stare at the spread between them, it’s enough food to feed at least five people. While it looks appetizing, my stomach roils in anticipation.

“I’m good. Not here to fuck spiders.”

They stare. Silence balloons.

“Pardon?” Carole’s voice tilts.

“Elena,” my father says—warning in his voice like I’m eight and about to knock over a Ming vase.

I shrug. “Sorry, means I’m not here to waste time. It’s an Aussie thing—was talking to Jack before I came here.”

“What funny saying,” Carole quips, delighted.