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And we head back inside.
CHAPTERTEN
OLIVER
Ihate this house.
If I had any positive memories of the mansion where I grew up, they’re long gone.
One finger taps against the side of the glass set next to me. I haven’t taken a sip of the cognac handed to me when I arrived. The nutty, fruity aftertaste has never been my favorite. And I also want to keep a clear head.
I don’t know how long it will take until I’m declared legally single. I’ve been purposefully vague with all the attorneys I’ve talked to, not wanting to provide any specific or damning details until I’ve decided on one. Hannah hasn’t sent me the name of who is representing her. She never responded to my text, either.
The one I wrote and deleted dozens of follow-ups to. Which is stupid in and of itself. I never second-guess myself this much. But I think the complete silence means I offended her, which wasn’t what I meant to do at all.
I’m fumbling through the dark on how to navigate this situation. And the only person who knows about this mess is Asher, and I’m not sure he’ll be of any help in drafting texts.
“Wow, what a party.”
I glance up at the sound of Scarlett’s voice, surprised to see her and Crew walking into the sitting room where I’m seated, alone.
The Bransons haven’t arrived yet. The butler showed me in when I arrived, handed me a glass of cognac, and informed me my father was on the phone.
They make a striking pair, Crew in a tuxedo and Scarlett in a floor-length black dress that has silver threaded into hidden folds, flashing with every step she takes. I’m sure she designed it herself.
I stand, offering a hand to Crew and then kissing Scarlett’s cheek. She smiles at me. This is how we typically greet each other in public, not private. I wasn’t sure if it would be welcome, and Scarlett’s response is reassuring.
Crew is looking around the sitting room. A massive stone fireplace takes up most of one wall, a portrait of our great-grandfather, Charles Kensington, who founded Kensington Consolidated, hangs above the mantle. Even though it’s almost spring, a lit log crackles in the fireplace. All the furnishings in here are unchanged from when we were young. The velvet rolled arm sofa I was just sitting on is the same one nannies chided me for jumping on as a kid.
“I didn’t know you guys were coming tonight,” I state, sitting back down.
An intentional decision on my father’s part. He could have told me he had or was planning to invite Crew and Scarlett to dinner tonight.
And a reminder Crew and I don’t talk. Not regularly. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since I returned from Vegas.
“Dad said it was an important night,” Crew says, taking a seat on the matching sofa across from me. Scarlett sinks down beside him.
I know exactly why my father invited them. He wants to show off for Leonardo Branson. Make it obvious what he’s marrying into and why he would be a fool not to encourage this arrangement.
“Can I get you a glass of cognac, Mr. Kensington?” The same butler who served me reappears.
“Sure,” Crew replies.
“Can I get you anything to drink, Mrs. Kensington?”
Scarlett shakes her head. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
Voices filter in from the hallway, low and polite.
My father appears in the doorway first, nodding approvingly when he sees Scarlett and Crew seated. No glance is spared in my direction.
Mr. and Mrs. Branson follow him. Nothing about either of them is especially remarkable, but I must have met them both before. In her heels, Mrs. Branson is a couple of inches taller than her husband. He’s an agreeable, serious-looking man dressed in a navy suit that matches the blue shade of his wife’s dress. Surprisingly, Leonardo’s second wife looks close in age to him. It’s much more common for men to remarry younger versions like my father did with Candace.
Quinn walks in behind them. Even before she speaks, remarking on the size of the house in a crisp British accent, I’m reminded that was her upbringing. Her posture is straight and proper, her expression polite and alert. The pale pink dress she’s wearing stands out against the darker colors of the room.
When she turns toward me, there’s a flicker of warmth—of interest—on her face. “Hello, Oliver.”
“Hello, Quinn.” I take her offered hand, fingers long and delicate.
