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Throughout the journey to the precinct, I could only think about the consequences awaiting me when my parents found out. To my surprise, though, when we stopped at the station, the captain waited, barking orders at the cops to take me home and to forget that my arrest had ever happened.

I assumed my parents had pulled strings from New York, and needless to say, they were furious upon their return home, resulting in them forbidding me from leaving the house except to attend my final days at school.

The clock struck the final chime, and I swallowed down the painful lump that had grown in my throat. “Happy Birthday,” I whispered into the darkened room, knowing I wouldn’t get an answer.

I continued staring at the ceiling, knowing sleep wouldn’t come, when a loud knock at the front door rattled the entire house. My brows furrowed. Who the hell would be at our door at this time of night?

Hushed voices indicated that my parents had woken up, soon followed by soft footsteps as they padded along the hallway and down the stairs. I glanced out the window into the night, the feeling in my stomach that something was wrong growing bigger with every passing second.

Holding my breath, I listened through the silence to understand what was going on. The front door was pulled open, and a conversation took place, muffled to my ears. For reasons unknown, nerves swirled in my stomach, and I flinched when the front door slammed closed.

I tracked the footsteps—three sets—as they padded through the foyer. Figuring my parents had gone into our living room as opposed to returning to their bedroom, I strained my ears to listen. Silence fell for several seconds before the footsteps started again, this time a single set—the distinctive tap of my mother’s heeled slippers.

When she drew nearer to my bedroom, my heart almost beat out of my chest, and when her footsteps paused outside my door, I slammed my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep as dread seeped into my bones.

The door creaked open, light from the hallway seeping in. “Charlotte, wake up,” my mother hissed as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her and flicking my light on. “Charlotte!”

I slowly peeled my eyes open, faking a yawn as I asked, “What’s going on?”

“You need to get dressed and come downstairs. Now. Hurry.”

The panic in her voice sent a shiver down my spine as I sat up, my own panic brewing under my skin. “Mother, what’s happened?”

Mother, not Mom, not even Mommy. I’d been made to call her Mother for as long as I could remember.

“Stop asking questions, and do as you’re told,” she barked, glaring as she crossed her arms over her chest.

Hesitantly, I got out of bed, fear slithering through my veins. I grabbed some clothes—a cashmere pink jumper, jeans, underwear, and a pair of ballet pumps—and headed to my ensuite to change, my heart beating so hard I thought it would shoot straight out of my chest.

One question rotated in my mind. What in the world was going on?

Chapter 2

Emerging from the bathroom once I had changed, I found my mother tapping her foot impatiently. Her gaze raked over my attire, her lips pursing. “Hmm, not ideal, but you’ll do. Brush your hair.”

She nodded to my hairbrush lying on my dresser, and I grabbed the silver brush, tugging it through knotted strands of my long blonde hair. If I were honest, I wasn’t a fan of my hair; it irritated me, and I often craved to pull it into a high ponytail to keep it off my face, but it was another thing I wasn’t permitted to do. According to Mother, a young woman always wore her hair free.

If I had my way, I would have cut it short and binned all the appliances so I never had to bother with styling it perfectly ever again.

Once I’d smoothed every strand with the brush, my mother nodded for me to follow her. With my heart lodged in my throat, I trailed behind her, feeling like I was being led to my execution.

“Remember, speak when spoken to, Charlotte,” my mother hissed over her shoulder. “And for the love of God, do not create a scene.”

It took every effort to hold the questions dancing on my tongue at bay. “Yes, Mother,” I replied stoically.

I’d heard the ‘stay quiet unless spoken to’ lecture repeatedly over the years; I didn’t need reminding.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I followed her into the living room, my feet freezing on the spot. My father sat on the couch, his head buried in his hands, while a tall man whom I’d never seen before hovered by the fireplace. In his hands, he clutched the silver frame which held a picture of me, staring at it with an indecipherable look on his face.

Hearing our arrival, his head whipped up, and our gazes locked. My mouth dried instantly. He was quite possibly the most handsome man I had ever seen.

Dark chocolate eyes held mine, warmth reflecting in them. His short hair, the same color as his eyes, was shaved around the sides, but slightly longer on top and swept back, and his chiseled jawline was free of any facial hair.

I couldn’t stop my gaze from roaming over his broad shoulders, traveling down over his broad chest. His black suit was tailored to fit his muscular physique to perfection, with a tight white shirt underneath. The top two buttons were undone, revealing a hint of dark chest hair that disappeared underneath the shirt, and I briefly wondered if it went all the way down to his waist.

Swallowing nervously, I pulled my attention from him to look at my father before twisting to Mother. “What’s going on?” I repeated, my pulse thrumming in my ears.

My father’s head lifted, and not quite meeting my gaze, he stood. “Charlotte,” he said with a tremble in his voice. “This is Mr. Du Pont.”