Chapter 9
P eter: Learn something useful for once tonight, will you?
I glance up from Peter’s text and out the window of the SUV I rented for the evening. The buildings around us transform as we turn onto a more residential stretch of North Side, each townhome more luxurious and meticulously maintained than the last. My tulle skirt shifts against the leather seat as the driver navigates the curved streets, and I grip the edge of the seat to steady myself.
Though I wasn’t lying to Harrison when I told him Peter understood why I couldn’t just strut into Silas Wells’s mansion and start snooping, that understanding didn’t last long. Less than two hours after Harrison’s visit, Peter called. His temper burned through the phone, demanding results, insisting I something at the party. I still don’t understand how Harrison holds sway over a man like Peter, but the pressure is suffocating.
Chewing on the inside of my lip, I text back.
Me: I’ll do my best.
After sending it, I delete the messages and slip my phone into the handbag tucked neatly in my lap. Inside is the bare minimum: lipstick, my apartment keys, a wallet, and, disappointingly, no concealed blade. I know better than to try sneaking anything sharp into a party that will undoubtedly have security scouring every pocket and lining.
As the SUV slows to a crawl, the traffic ahead grows heavier. Through the windshield, I catch glimpses of luxury cars lining the street, their blinkers flashing as they wait to approach the grand estate. Staff dressed in sleek black uniforms move in synchronized motions, opening car doors for guests draped in designer gowns and tailored suits.
Straightening my back, I take a deep breath, running through the finer details of Scarlett Page’s life in my mind. The fake name and identity feel like a second skin now, but even second skins can slip when the stakes are high. Tonight, I can’t afford that.
“Ma’am,” Keith, the driver I hired for the evening, speaks up, looking at me through the rearview mirror. “I have it on the calendar that you’d like to be picked up at ten o’clock. Does that still work?”
“Yes, ten’s perfect. Thank you,” I reply, offering him a small smile. He nods and turns his attention back to the road.
After a few minutes, the SUV glides up to the front of the mansion. Resisting the instinct to let myself out, I wait as one of the uniformed staff opens my door and extends a hand. I take it gracefully, stepping onto the sidewalk and feeling the sharp winter air bite through my coat. Wrapping it tighter around myself, I glance up at the estate.
Though several skyscrapers tower around it, this three-story detached home feels like a relic of a bygone era, stubbornly refusing to yield to the modern city. Every carved detail of the stone facade has been painstakingly preserved, a testament to the wealth required to maintain such beauty. Its presence alone commands respect, and I can’t help but marvel for a moment.
The wind cuts through my thoughts, and I force my legs to move. As I approach the entrance, a woman bundled in a thick coat and scarf greets me with a clipboard. Her nose is red, and she shuffles from foot to foot in order to keep warm. I hand her my ID, which she studies twice, her brows knitting briefly before she nods.
“Enjoy the auction,” she says, motioning toward the door with her chin.
“Thank you,” I reply, climbing the stone stairs. A soft hum of voices grows louder as I near the entrance, the warmth of the party beckoning me inside. My eyes catch on the couple ahead of me; a woman in an elegant gown with a glittering neckline turns slightly, glancing at me. Faith Desmont. Her husband, Gary, stands tall beside her, his hand resting protectively on her back. They’re the power couple behind one of Chicago’s largest real estate investment firms.
I school my features into polite neutrality, ensuring my expression matches the carefully curated refinement of my surroundings. Faith offers me a tight smile, and I respond with one of my own, knowing full well that every interaction tonight, no matter how small, is part of the game.
“Ms. Page,” Faith greets me, her voice clipped. She’s as stunning as ever, a middle-aged woman with sleek light-brown hair and flawless fair skin. Faith tolerates me out of necessity, though her solidarity with her less fortunate friends, whose husbands have a tendency to flirt with me, keeps her demeanor frosty. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Good to see you again, Faith,” I reply, adding just a hint of sincerity. My gaze shifts to her husband as he turns toward me. “Gary.”
“Scarlett, lovely to see you,” Gary says, his tone noticeably friendlier. The edges of my smile soften ever so slightly in response. In a room full of people who’ve made a sport of writing me off for months, Gary’s affable nature is oddly comforting.
The line moves steadily, and over the heads of a few guests in front of us, I see the security station; a guard with a handheld metal detector scanning each attendee before they hand off their coats at the nearby check. It’s efficient, but the slow pace gives Faith plenty of time to size me up.
“I didn’t realize you’d be here tonight,” she remarks, her tone carefully indifferent. “How do you know the Wells family?”
“I’ve recently become friends with Natalie,” I answer, maintaining eye contact. “She insisted I come.”
“Ah, yes. Natalie is a sweet girl,” Gary interjects, nodding earnestly. “I’m glad to see you making friends. I was starting to worry all the husbands would scare you off before you could.”
Faith’s gaze snaps to her husband, eyes narrowing as though he’s just said something he shouldn’t have. It’s a futile attempt to disguise what I already know all too well: my presence in this circle comes with a reputation I didn’t ask for and certainly don’t deserve. I’ve ignored the men’s inappropriate remarks in the past, thinking it would discourage them without casting myself. Instead, it only fueled their boldness, and now it’s become part of my identity here. One I despise.
I lift my chin and square my shoulders, refusing to let the moment linger. “Yes,” I say evenly, my voice cool but firm. “I’m glad to have made a friend, too.”
Thankfully, the conversation cuts off as we step over the threshold of the open front door. Faith’s fur-lined coat slips off her shoulders to reveal an emerald gown that complements her features, while Gary looks every bit the dashing partner in his perfectly tailored dark suit.
When it’s my turn, I hand over my coat and bag before stepping up to the security station. I hold my arms out as the guard sweeps the wand over my body, the steady hum of chatter from other guests filling the grand entryway. Despite the distraction, I take a moment to absorb the scene. White marble floors stretch across the expansive space, blending seamlessly into pristine white walls adorned with subtle yet intricate wood details. A curved staircase behind the temporary coat check draws the eye, its wrought-iron railing an elegant masterpiece. This home is every bit as spectacular as I imagined, a testament to the Wells family’s wealth and influence.
Searching through this mansion—three stories, possibly four if I can manage to get to the basement—will be next to impossible. My frustration simmers as I recall the hours I spent hunting for blueprints online. Davey Sinclair’s meticulous efforts to scrub any updated specs from public records have paid off, leaving me with only a decade-old floor plan that’s largely irrelevant after Silas’s extensive renovations a few summers back. The remodel was splashed across every local newspaper at the time, celebrated as a reflection of his “timeless” taste. Conveniently, none of those articles included details about the new layout.
The Desmonts move past me, nodding a polite farewell as they make their way into the adjacent room where most of the guests are gathering. After handing off my coat and tucking the ticket into my handbag, I follow suit, stepping into what appears to be a large reception area. Like magic, a server materializes at my side, balancing a silver tray laden with full champagne flutes. His timing is impeccable, as is his silent offering.
With a smile and a quiet thank-you, I pluck a flute from the tray with practiced grace. As I continue into the room, the sparkling drink in hand, I let my gaze sweep over the guests. Conversation swirls around me, mingling with the soft clinking of glasses and the faint strains of a live quartet tucked into a corner. This is a world of carefully curated opulence, where every glance, every word, and every move is a calculated performance.
I’m standing in what, I assume, is typically a formal dining room, now transformed for the evening’s event. The chandelier has been pinned closer to the ceiling, and the grand dining table has been replaced by small cocktail tables, each draped in crisp white linens. There’s more than enough room for a sleek bar, its robust marble countertop blending seamlessly with the home’s elegant design, though it doesn’t seem to be a permanent fixture. The dark, wood-paneled walls, adorned with perfectly centered sconces, lend the massive room an unexpected sense of warmth and intimacy.
Straight ahead, a cased opening leads into a formal living room where guests perch delicately on leather sofas, their conversations weaving into the soft hum of the party. To my right, through another wide doorway, lies a lavish charcuterie display spanning multiple tables draped in pristine white linens, an impressive spread that commands the attention of anyone passing by.
In the heart of the dining room, a set of French doors opens onto a fully enclosed courtyard. The small outdoor space is framed by three walls, each adorned with matching French doors leading to the other adjoining rooms. The fourth wall is a backdrop of aged stone draped in browned vines that likely bloom with vibrant colors in the summer months. Even amidst Silas’s extensive renovations, it’s clear he preserved the home’s original European-inspired charm, a testament to his appreciation for classic elegance.
As I make my first sweep of the room, there isn’t a Wells family member to be found. Not a single sibling, nor their enigmatic father, is in sight, which strikes me as odd. This annual auction is one of their most publicized and important family events, always a united front to raise money for a handpicked local nonprofit. This year, the beneficiary is an organization dedicated to helping lower-income families secure affordable housing. A cause they will no doubt broadcast as proof of their benevolence.
With none of the Wells family present, I straighten my posture and begin my rounds. For the next forty minutes, I engage in polite small talk with a handful of women who seem to tolerate my presence, fend off two advances from men who clearly haven’t gotten the memo from Natalie to steer clear of me, and flag down a staff member for a second drink after draining my first a little quicker than I intended.
On my second pass through the interconnected spaces surrounding the courtyard, something new catches my attention: a small sign, neatly propped on an easel positioned deeper within the room with the charcuterie tables, standing beside a doorway that seems to lead further into the house.
SILENT AUCTION
BIDDING CLOSES AT 9:00 PM
Following the arrow on the sign, I find myself in a slightly quieter room—still massive, but smaller in comparison to the grand spaces I’ve just passed through. It offers a momentary reprieve from the noise of the main event. A handful of guests wander between the tables, examining the displayed auction items. Each table is carefully arranged, with every item accompanied by a small card featuring a QR code for mobile bidding. The prizes are as extravagant as expected: five-star resort stays in tropical destinations, exclusive dining experiences, private yacht charters, and stunning artwork curated by local artists.
I stop in front of a package for an all-inclusive spa experience at one of the city’s most beloved luxury hotels. After a moment of consideration, I place a moderate bid, one I know will easily be outdone before the night is over. I do the same for a few more items, feigning interest but ensuring my bids are just high enough to appear engaged without actually winning anything. My goal isn’t to leave with a prize, it’s to be seen participating, another layer to the carefully crafted persona I’ve been building since I arrived in Chicago.
On a separate table, set apart from the auction items, is a QR code for direct donations. Without hesitation, I scan it and make a contribution. I could never ignore organizations focused on low-income housing. At one point, a program like this could have changed everything for me and my best friend, Drew, when we were struggling to get through school.
The sharp ache in my chest flares as her name crosses my mind, the familiar burn filling my lungs. I wish she were here with me now. She’d laugh at the absurdity of it all and tell me that this world I’ve stepped into is straight out of one of her beloved romance novels. But this isn’t a romance novel. No hero is coming to save me. In this reality, the only person who can fix anything—who can save me— is me, and most days, I’m not even sure I know what the hell I’m doing.
I inhale deeply, the breath trembling as it fills my chest. With effort, I exhale, forcing the memories and guilt back into the dark corners of my mind where they belong. It’s a routine I’ve perfected, though it never gets easier.
On the same table, I spot a stack of reading material about the nonprofit, New Beginnings Housing Project. The organization’s mission is outlined on a glossy pamphlet, and I carefully fold one to tuck into my handbag. It’s a small token to remind myself of the cause, one I genuinely support, even if my presence here tonight has little to do with charity. Abandoning my empty champagne flute on a collapsible serving tray in the corner, I glance around the auction room. It’s eerily quiet now, the lull of early evening leaving the space deserted. With the frenzy of last-minute bids still hours away, the solitude offers a moment to reassess.
I take in my surroundings again. The room, with its dimmed lighting and soft instrumental music humming through speakers, feels refined yet intimate. A baby grand piano is tucked into one corner, its black lacquered surface gleaming softly in the low light. Judging by the setup, this must be some type of music room.
My gaze shifts to the left, where an open doorway reveals a dark hallway. Likely a staff corridor used to discreetly clear away empty glasses and plates. At the opposite end of the hallway, I spot a wood-paneled staircase, faintly illuminated by a light I can’t see from here.
With one final glance around the auction room, ensuring no one is watching, I slip through the doorway and into the hallway, my heels whispering against the polished floor. I stay light on the balls of my feet, hyperaware of the sound of every movement as the noise of the party fades behind me.
I don’t bother peeking into the few doors I pass along the corridor. Silas Wells isn’t careless enough to leave anything important or incriminating in the main living areas of his home. If there’s something to find, it won’t be here. My focus narrows on the staircase ahead.
At the base of the stairs, I pause briefly, gripping the smooth wood railing with one hand and lifting the hem of my dress with the other. Moving with intention is critical. If I’m caught, confidence will be my armor. The trick to convincing people you belong somewhere is to act like you do, like it’s obvious you’re undoubtedly where you’re supposed to be.
I bound up the stairs quickly but carefully, my grip tightening on the railing. The polished wood feels cool beneath my fingers, and the staircase turns midway at a landing before continuing in the opposite direction.
When I reach the top, I find myself in a tucked-away corner. It’s quiet. On one side, there are two closed doorways, and on the other, the hallway veers sharply to the left, disappearing from view. I take a moment to collect myself, heart pounding in my chest, before deciding where to start.
I peek into the two darkened rooms. One turns out to be an immaculately decorated bathroom, its marble countertops and gold fixtures gleaming under soft recessed lighting. The other is a comically oversized laundry room, complete with multiple industrial-grade washers and dryers, folding tables, and cabinets that likely hold everything from linens to uniforms. It doesn’t surprise me that a billionaire like Silas Wells would have an entire house staff, but who on earth needs this many washers and dryers? I shake my head, quietly marveling at the excess.
The silence on this floor is unsettling, but I’ve already come this far. If there’s anything worth finding in this maze of a house, it won’t be on the first floor with the guests. I straighten my back, lift my chin, and round the corner of the hallway. Confidence is my best weapon, but before I complete the turn, I collide headfirst into what feels like a brick wall.
With a startled gasp, I stumble back, my hand shooting out to steady myself. Before I can regain my footing, a firm hand clamps onto my elbow, keeping me upright. My heart leaps into my throat as the world rights itself, and I lift my eyes to meet warm, honey-colored ones set in a familiar face.
Cillian. The head of Silas’s personal security team.
Well, shit.
The towering man dressed in black radiates authority. His dark blond hair is neatly combed, and the veins in his neck flex as his sharp gaze locks onto mine. He keeps a firm hold on my elbow—not painful, though the tension in his jaw suggests he’s moments away from hauling me back down the stairs and out the front door.
“What are you doing up here?” His eyebrows draw together, his expression tight with suspicion. “This floor is off-limits to guests.”
My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and I silently pray the heat creeping up my neck isn’t visible. His clean-shaven face only emphasizes the muscle working in his jaw as he scrutinizes me.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe out, channeling every ounce of startled innocence I can muster. I widen my eyes slightly, as if caught off guard by the accusation. “I’m Natalie’s guest, and Faith Desmont mentioned she might be upstairs, so I came to look for her.”
Cillian’s gaze narrows, scanning me from head to toe with a practiced, critical eye. His posture doesn’t relax, and neither does his grip on my arm. I shift my weight from one leg to the other under his examination, feeling the walls of this brilliant plan closing in on me.
This was a terrible idea. I should’ve trusted my instincts and stuck to my original plan of ingratiating myself into their inner circle, slow and steady. But no. Peter and Harrison had to push, and now I’m caught red-fucking-handed by Silas’s most loyal guard dog.
“You’re right,” I continue quickly, breaking the tense silence. His eyebrows lift slightly in surprise at my admission. “I shouldn’t have wandered so far. I’ll head back downstairs and see if I missed her.”
I begin to pull my arm back, but Cillian doesn’t let go immediately. Just as he opens his mouth to respond, another voice—low, smooth, and unmistakably familiar—filters through the hallway behind him.
“Sneaking around my home, Ms. Page?”
My blood runs cold.
The bodyguard steps aside, revealing Silas in all his irritating glory. Hands stuffed casually into the pockets of his tailored dark gray slacks, he looks as though he’s just stepped off the cover of a luxury lifestyle magazine. Despite this being the Wells family’s most high-profile event of the year, he’s traded a suit for a fitted, ribbed black sweater with a slight V-neck that reveals the curve of his collarbone. The sleeves are pushed back to the middle of his forearms, exposing part of that elusive tattoo I’ve been wanting a closer look at.
The dim light of the hallway plays tricks with the sharp lines of his face, making the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth appear both amused and dangerous. His dark eyes, framed by those perpetually slipping glasses, glint with a curiosity that feels far too intrusive. One look at him, and I know the excuse I fed Cillian won’t hold water here. Silas isn’t buying it for a second.
This was an absolutely terrible idea.
“Now, what could you be doing up here?” His voice is laced with mock curiosity, though the slight tilt of his head betrays his sharp edge. The weight of his stare sends a shiver down my spine, and I swallow hard, forcing down the panic clawing at the edges of my composure.
“Hi, Silas,” I start, my voice a shade too bright, ignoring the questions entirely. “Do you know where Natalie is? I was told she might be up here.”
He lets the silence hang for a beat too long, his brows drawing together ever so slightly, as if he’s trying to decide just how much of my nonsense he’s willing to entertain. When he speaks, his tone is softer but no less cutting. “The blocked-off main stairwell wasn’t enough of a hint that I didn’t want guests up here?”
My jaw tightens as his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose, a movement that adds to my growing frustration. “After you helped yourself to my lunch, I figured I might be more than just another guest,” I snap before I can stop myself. The words hang between us, bold and reckless, and I immediately regret them. My chest tightens as I rush to reel it back in. “The door to the back stairwell in the auction area was open. I hadn’t seen her, but you’re right. I shouldn’t have come up here. I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”
Silas watches me for a moment longer than I’d like, his gaze flicking over my face, searching for cracks in my story. Then, with an almost imperceptible sigh, he adjusts his glasses with one hand, the muscles in his jaw flexing as if he’s holding back whatever sharp comment sits on the tip of his tongue.
“How... thoughtful of you,” he says finally, though his tone is unreadable. Breaking eye contact, he shifts his attention to Cillian, who remains uncomfortably close, his chest brushing against my shoulder every time he exhales.
“She’s fine, Cil. I’ll bring her to Natalie,” Silas says, his tone firm and dismissive.
The words hit me like a bucket of cold water. She’s fine. I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Silas doesn’t see me as a threat—not right now, anyway. In any other situation, I might be offended that he thinks so little of me, but I’ll take whatever small mercies I can get. I certainly didn’t have a plan for what I’d do if I were caught snooping through his private rooms.
“I’m going to shut the door to the music room to keep other guests from getting ideas,” Cillian says, his tone deliberately casual, though the insult lands with precision.
I whip my head toward him, catching his sarcastic smile as he turns to leave. “Charming,” I mutter under my breath, glaring at his retreating form.
“He’s not wrong,” Silas chimes in, drawing my attention back to him. He’s leaning lazily against the wall now, one shoulder propped against it and ankles crossed like he owns the place—which, of course, he does. The taut fabric of his sweater stretches over his arms, hinting at the strength beneath his lean frame. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering for a moment too long on the bodice of my muted green dress that flares out to a tulle skirt with subtle volume. His previously guarded expression softens into something warmer, though no less intense. “That color suits you.”
Heat rushes through me, sparking at my fingertips and spreading across my skin. My hand instinctively smooths the fabric over my stomach as I try to ground myself. The silence between us thickens, the dim lighting and muted green walls amplifying the sudden intimacy of the moment.
“Complimenting me doesn’t make up for the insults,” I retort, narrowing my eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches into a devilish smirk that has no business looking as good as it does.
He straightens, pushing off the wall with an easy grace, and gestures for me to follow him. “We usually join the party an hour or so after it starts, but I’ll make an exception and bring you to my study.”
An exception? Like he's being generous?
My teeth clench as I place a hand dramatically over my heart. “How will I ever repay you?” I say, batting my eyelashes in mock gratitude.
He glances back at me, one brow arching in amusement. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I reply with a sugary smile that does nothing to hide my sarcasm. He shakes his head once, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “That mouth ,” before turning away.
And despite myself, my pulse quickens, unsure whether I want to laugh or throttle him. Or maybe both.
We pass several doors as we move through the dimly lit hallway, each one open just enough to reveal shadows of neatly made beds and elegant furniture. The soft glow filtering in from the hall lights highlights the polished wood and understated luxury of Silas’s home. The muted hum of the party grows louder as we near the main staircase. My fingers trail along the banister. With the curved design of the stairs, there’s no direct view of the festivities, but the faint laughter and clinking glasses carry enough ambiance to remind me of the high-stakes event happening just a floor beneath us.
A small sense of victory simmers in my chest. Not only am I in Silas Wells’s home—an accomplishment in itself—but I’m about to step into a private setting with his family. It’s a small win, one step closer to completing this job and, with any luck, convincing Peter to finally walk away from all of this.
I keep a measured distance behind Silas, studying him in his element. He moves with a kind of effortless confidence that feels innate, not learned. His posture is relaxed but purposeful, his steps unhurried yet methodical. It’s the kind of presence that commands attention without trying, as if the world instinctively rearranges itself to accommodate him.
We round a second corner, and Silas approaches a closed door on the right. His fingers curl around the handle, and he pushes it open with ease. Turning slightly, he motions for me to go first, a subtle curl of his fingers accompanying the gesture. I lift an eyebrow, surprised by the act of courtesy. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a sliver of decency buried deep in there.
The room is dimmer than the hallway, and I blink a few times to adjust to the change in lighting. Just as my eyes start to focus, Silas’s voice cuts through the silence, smooth and amused. “Nat, you’ll never guess who I caught snooping near the back staircase.”
My head snaps toward him as he walks past me, my fists clenching at his audacity. His smirk deepens when our eyes meet, and the infuriating glint in his gaze makes my blood simmer.
God, he’s unbearable.
“And I’m the one who can’t help myself?” I shoot back, my voice low and biting. He brushes past me to lean casually against the dark mahogany desk in the center, the picture of unbothered arrogance. His laptop sits closed behind him, partially obscured by his frame. One hand grips the edge of the desk while the other picks up what must be his abandoned drink. He takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving mine, as if daring me to continue.
For someone who’s supposed to be a professional, I find myself dangerously close to memorizing every detail about him. His strong arms stretching against the fabric of his sweater, the way his dark stubble accentuates the sharp lines of his jaw, and how damn good he looks with the backdrop of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves framing him.
Before I can spiral further into frustration, Natalie’s voice breaks through the tension. “Silas, do you always have to be an ass?”
She’s perched on the arm of a leather sofa against the wall, her nose scrunching in a way that somehow makes her look both annoyed and endearing. An intricate crystal glass dangles delicately from her fingers, its clear liquor catching the low light. Beside her, Davey lounges on the cushion, his arm resting protectively on her lower back. His eyes are locked on me, scrutinizing my every move as though I might bite if spooked.
Natalie uncrosses her legs and stands, her luxurious French blue velvet dress hugging her curves like it was made just for her. “Scarlett,” she says warmly, closing the distance between us with a radiant smile. Before I can react, she pulls me into a hug.
My body stiffens, unprepared for the physical contact. Her embrace is soft, genuine, and uncomplicated—the kind of hug you give someone you’re genuinely happy to see. My arms hover awkwardly for a moment before I force myself to loosely return the gesture.
Natalie’s kindness, her effortless warmth, feels like a blade against my ribs. I don’t deserve it. She’s offering me something I haven’t earned, and the weight of that realization settles like lead in my chest. It’s been years since I’ve hugged someone I care about, and the loneliness of that truth presses against my lungs, making it difficult to breathe.
“Hi, Natalie,” I manage, my voice hoarse. I blink rapidly, pushing back the sting of tears before she pulls away, her hand lingering briefly on my arm. “Sorry to interrupt. I didn’t see you downstairs, so I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
She glances toward Silas as she answers, though I keep my gaze firmly on her. “What a perfectly reasonable and nice thing for a friend to do for me.” Her tone carries a subtle dig at her brother, but her sincerity is still clear. She pats my arm lightly, a reassuring gesture. “I should’ve told you we have a little tradition of being fashionably late to our own party.”
“We do like to make a dramatic entrance,” a new voice chimes in from my left.
I don’t have to turn to know who it is. The final Wells sibling steps into view, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his sister. She drops her hand from my arm and takes half a step back, making space for him. Jeremy Wells, the youngest of the three siblings.
Compared to his older brother, Jeremy is shorter and more solidly built. While Silas is all sharp angles and lean strength, Jeremy’s frame carries a sturdiness that sets him apart. The similarities among the Wells siblings, however, are unmistakable: upturned eyes, olive skin, and the kind of dark hair that always looks freshly styled. But where Natalie and Silas have strikingly defined cheekbones and chiseled jawlines, Jeremy’s features are softer like their father’s. He lacks the almost predatory elegance his siblings exude, yet there’s no denying the Wells genes run strong. Jeremy is attractive in his own way, though his corporate appearance—short hair, clean-shaven face, and rigid posture—suggests someone trying to compensate for something.
And that “something” is well-documented.
Jeremy might have the longest dossier of all his family. When he was just eighteen, he was expelled from the same elite boarding school Silas graduated from. The reason? A freshman football hazing incident so brutal it made national headlines. Though the specifics were carefully obscured, no doubt thanks to the Wells patriarch’s influence, what little leaked to the press was damning. A younger student had been beaten so severely that he was placed in a medically induced coma. Unsurprisingly, the hospital records were curiously incomplete, and the family must have paid a hefty price to ensure they stayed that way.
He and three other seniors, all legal adults, pled guilty to several charges, including second-degree assault. Their wealth and influence spared them prison, but it didn’t spare Jeremy’s reputation. He was sentenced to community service and mandatory therapy, a slap on the wrist considering the damage done. The victim, meanwhile, took months to recover and had to repeat a grade. The Wells family footed the bill for his boarding school and college education, likely an attempt at reparations. Or damage control.
The scandal followed Jeremy, making him radioactive in the world of prep schools. He bounced from one to the next, expelled for smaller infractions that the schools refused to overlook given his record. By the time he scraped together a diploma from a third-rate institution, it was clear most people were eager to wash their hands of him.
Adulthood didn’t go much better. Jeremy became a walking stereotype: a rich kid with unlimited access to drugs and alcohol. His college career barely lasted two years before he dropped out. By his twenty-one, he was addicted to opioids, spiraling deeper until even his family’s vast fortune couldn’t hide the cracks. His father cut him off, hoping it would scare him into sobriety. Instead, Jeremy burned bridges and his inheritance in equal measure.
When it became clear he wouldn’t stop on his own, Silas and their father intervened. They convinced him to check into a live-in rehab facility, footing the bill for his long and expensive recovery. Jeremy eventually got clean, and the family’s PR machine spun his redemption story into gold. Now, he’s the poster child for overcoming adversity. Magazines praise him for turning his life around, he’s been the face of several national sobriety campaigns, and the public sees him as proof that anyone—with enough resources and money—can change.
“Scarlett, this is my brother, Jeremy,” Natalie introduces him with a strained politeness that doesn’t quite mask her discomfort. I tuck the observation into the growing folder of mental notes I’ve compiled on this family.
I extend my hand toward Jeremy, watching him carefully. His smile is practiced, all teeth and surface-level charm, as he takes my hand. But instead of shaking it, he brings my fingers to his lips, letting them linger a beat too long. The gesture would be chivalrous if it didn’t feel so robotic.
Up close, I notice his eyes. They’re the same deep brown as Silas’s, but that’s where the similarities end. Silas’s gaze is sharp, teasing, and occasionally disarming.
But Jeremy’s? I can’t detect any true emotion behind them at all.