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“Get to the point.”
“I am.”
I lean back in my seat, forehead furrowed as I concentrate hard on what she’s saying.
“And then there’s Chandler Carlisle-Bent, Claire’s half-brother from a previous marriage of Claire’smother. Gordon adopted him, gave him his name. Chandler was ten when Gordon married his mother. Rumor has it he has disinherited him, though. And twenty years ago, Chandler vanished. It was at the same time Gordon’s wife passed away.”
“Disinherited and vanished?”
She nods. “Not vanished anymore though. He happens to be on his way to Boston as we speak.”
She must see the confusion on my face.
“He’s set to land any minute.”
“So this Chandler is Ophelia’s uncle?”
“Half-uncle, I guess, since Gordon isn’t Chandler’s father by blood.”
“Why was he disinherited?”
“Don’t know. Gordon was left on his own and retreated from society. After a few months, the papers got bored and moved on, as they do.”
“Who is waiting on Chandler’s flight?”
“Hamish. And I think this is important. Claire would have been the primary beneficiary of that fortune had she survived but as it stands now, it could all go to Chandler.”
“But you said he was disinherited.”
“Gordon is an old, sick man. If I know men like Chandler, he’ll fight the will. Unless, of course, Claire’s daughter was to turn up. Then Gordon has a granddaughter to leave his significant fortune to. Chandler may still fight, but he’d have a harder time with Ophelia in the picture.”
I stop hearing because it all clicks into place. All of it makes sense now. Ethan insisting on no prenup. It’s not a matter of trusting her. Not at all. And they’re not afraid of Ophelia demanding half of their fortune should anything happen. It’s the other way around.
“That mother fucker.”
Nigella’s phone rings. We both glance at it, and I see Hamish’s name on the screen. She answers and puts him on speaker.
“Flight got in early and he’s in the car. I’m tailing them. Looks like they’re headed downtown.”
“Send me your live location. I’m on my way,” I say, standing, grabbing my coat and pushing the button to call the elevator.
“Silas, the restraining order,” Nigella says as the elevator arrives.
“Fuck the restraining order.”
22
OPHELIA
I’m dreaming. I know because of the grainy black-and-white, old-movie quality of the scene. I know because I’m watching myself. Myself and Silas.
I recognize my mask. It’s the one I bought after saving months of allowance. Dad never allowed me to get a job. I wanted one badly, if for no other reason than to have something outside of my life at school and home. A change from what had become a lonely routine. But he was adamant, seeming to grow more and more overprotective the older I got.
My dress is a mashup of the red dress I wore this year and the one I’d worn at the last ball. The ruby choker is tight around my neck. It’s the only thing in color. The room we’re in looks the same. And Silas and I are there.
The thought of Silas makes me weepy. Makes Silasblink out of focus like I’m looking at him without my glasses.
I concentrate, watch Silas and myself sitting on the chaise. He’s smiling as he opens that bottle of champagne, and I am transfixed watching him, this man who feels like home. But there he goes again, blinking out of the scene entirely, the scene itself changing to another, a house smoldering, ash on the ground, lives turned to dust.
