Chapter 3
CHARLOTTE
Our family home was in an affluent suburb on the outskirts of Chicago. I still lived here with Dad and a few of my brothers. We could all afford to leave, but only a couple of us had chosen to do it so far.
There was just no need. Our home was as sprawling as the San Francisco Westwoods’ property, with so much space that we rarely even saw each other if we didn’t go looking.
Besides, I liked living here. The safety, the familiarity, and the kind of views and spacious rooms I would never find in the city.
I sat in the parlor outside Dad’s office, flipping through a fashion magazine and pretending to read the latest trends in blush-colored satin while the argument between Alex and Dad crescendoed behind the closed door.
If I hadn’t been so used to it, I might’ve been alarmed, but this was nothing new. Loud voices, differing opinions, and sharp tongues reigned supreme around here. The house had practically been built on chaos.
Large as it might be, with seven men under one roof, each staking their claim and thinking their way was the right one, utter insanity was unavoidable.
It was a little better these days, now that some of my brothers had moved out, but they still came by so often that it didn’t make as much of a difference as I might’ve thought.
As for me, I’d always managed just fine, perched on the edge of it all as the only woman in the house after Mom’s tragic death ten years ago. But being the only girl wasn’t exactly difficult or a hardship.
They didn’t coddle me. They didn’t overprotect me day in and day out. Mostly, they just counted me as another guy and it suited me to a tee.
I had six older brothers, for God’s sake.
I could hold my own, and if I wanted glittery pink nail polish, I bought it myself and never looked back.
I never had to explain it to anyone because they didn’t see me as their little, highly feminine sister.
Frankly, they rarely even noticed things like nail polish.
Basically, that meant I could pretty much do what I wanted and they were all too busy to care. Mostly, anyway. I glanced up from the magazine when Dad’s voice carried through the door again, his tone sharp, intense, and deliberate.
“Harlan’s boys are all married now,” he said, referring to his older brother and the father of my cousins in San Francisco. “He married all four of them off in rapid order. Hell, maybe it’s time I take a page out of his book.”
Alex scoffed and it was tinged with annoyance.
Dad must’ve heard it too, because he dug in further.
“It’s the Westwood way, Alex. You’re the CEO of Westwood & Sons, Midwest and East Coast Division now.
You should have been married before I gave you the position.
That’s how Harlan did it with Sterling and it’s how we’ll keep the legacy alive.
We’ve been doing it that way for over a hundred years and it works. ”
Alex muttered under his breath, words I couldn’t catch, but I imagined them to be colorful, probably involving variations of bullshit and Seriously, Dad, this again?
Listening to the argument brought a smirk to my lips. Legacy, marriage, the Westwood way.
I’d grown up hearing the mantra, but it never seemed to apply to me. I wasn’t expected to carry on the name in the same way. That weight belonged to the men, my brothers and cousins, and perhaps that was the best thing about being Charlotte Westwood.
I got to watch the chaos unfold while staying just outside it, armed with wit, a sharp tongue, and an appreciation for the absurd. I flipped another page and waited for the argument to burn itself out.
Alex could take care of himself, so I wasn’t worried. This was just another day, another argument, and another reminder that family wasn’t always quiet. Yet, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Alex mumbled something else I couldn’t quite catch. Suddenly, their argument escalated to full-throttle shouting. It was impossible to follow anything past the point where they were probably waving their hands and brandishing their voices like swords.
Nate—Nathaniel James Westwood, the second oldest and self-appointed moral compass—stepped into the parlor on his way to Dad’s study. He froze mid-step, clearly reconsidering whether to dive in when he realized what he was about to interrupt.
Smart move, Nate. Live to argue another day.
He glanced at me with his eyebrows raised. “Enjoying the show?”
“Very much,” I said, tilting my head back in mock admiration. “Front row seats, unlimited popcorn. All I need now is a slushie. Maybe some nachos.”
He smirked and shook his head as he started backing to the door. “Should I rescue you, or…?”
“I think I’ll survive,” I said lightly. “Maybe. Probably. Dad wanted to talk to me, so I’d better say.”
“Famous last words,” he muttered. “Don’t let them wear you down, kiddo. Whatever it’s about, just stand your ground.”
“Don’t I always?” I rolled my eyes, but my chest warmed.
Nate was like this with me, half teasing and half warning, but I knew he meant it. They all loved me, but sometimes, I wondered if they loved me more as a miniature version of themselves. Someone to protect, raise, and teach like they would one of their own kids.
I didn’t mind it, though. I liked the chaos better this way, and besides, their advice was always pretty on point.
“Are you sure?” he asked when he reached the door. Thirty-one years old, wearing a five-thousand-dollar suit, and he still managed to look like a boy who was about to get caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Last chance.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll survive,” I said. “Maybe next time I’ll bring earplugs, though. Save you from having to intervene.”
He chuckled, and somehow, the low, rumbling sound made everything feel calmer despite the shouting voices echoing from the study. “Fair enough, but if Alex starts swinging, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Noted, big brother.”
With a quick salute, he turned and walked away, leaving me in the parlor with the rumble of shouting and the faint scent of lemon and wood polish wafting through the air. Alone again, I lowered my gaze back to the magazine and flipped another page. Then I froze. Even my breath stalled in my lungs.
Right there on the page was none other than Trent Shepard. Wearing Wranglers and a dusty button-down, he’d been photographed leaning against a metal fence with cows in the background like it was a calendar shoot for Sexy Ranchers Weekly.
The headline shouted, “Dallas’s Most Eligible Bachelor.”
I skimmed the article, only half reading because my eyes kept wandering back to that face.
The piece highlighted his lineage, of course, but I knew their history.
His mother was Claira Astor, an heiress and socialite with the kind of maiden name that still made people mutter, “Yes, that Astor family.”
Trent’s father, Tiberius “Troy” Shepard III, was an oil baron with more money than any one family should have, and that was coming from a freaking Westwood. Trent was the grandson of the original Tiberius who had struck liquid gold in Texas and passed the fortune down like a family heirloom.
The article painted Trent as the man bringing his family’s ranching business into the modern era. They called him strategic, innovative, and sharp as a tack. I was about to read on, maybe even finish the piece, but then the door to Dad’s office slammed open.
Alex stormed out with his phone already pressed to his ear. He came to a screeching halt in front of me. His face was red, green eyes flashing and his free hand clenched in a fist like he was itching to hit something.
“Whatever Dad says to you,” he barked, his voice low but tense. “Don’t listen. We’ll talk later.”
“Why? About what?” I asked, frowning, but he didn’t answer.
He just shot me a glance that was loaded with meaning, then spun on his heel and strode off, muttering into the phone, “How soon can you be back in Chicago?”
I watched him go, my curiosity about Trent Shepard suddenly tangled with a rising pulse of concern about whatever Alex was hiding. I flipped the magazine closed, trapping Trent’s sun-drenched grin inside, and stood up.
With Alex now gone, that meant it was finally my turn inside Dad’s study. I straightened my skirt, my heart hammering a little now that two of my brothers had essentially warned me not to let Dad wear me down.
Still, I walked into the wood-paneled, old-school, old-man study that looked exactly like people might expect. Some days, even I wondered if it had been teleported here from a British gentleman’s club. Upholstered maroon leather. Thick drapes. The obligatory globe on its own stand.
Dad didn’t look up from the papers spread across his desk, but his tone carried authority that made arguing pointless. “Dinner at the club tonight. You’re joining me.”
I didn’t question him. Dad had never pressured me in any way. Never pushed, never demanded, and never expected.
It was a strange sort of privilege, being me. As the baby of the family and the only girl, I was loved, protected, and given space to grow, but I was also routinely overlooked. Invisible at times. Untouchable at others. Underestimated always.
I nodded, carefully keeping my expression neutral just in case there was a sting coming on the other side of his command. “Of course, Dad.”
He finally looked up, gave me the faintest nod of approval, and then went back to his papers. I left the office with zero fanfare. No shouting or arguing. I couldn’t help the smile on my lips.
Sometimes, it was really great to be your daddy’s little girl. Even if, at others, he didn’t even remember you existed.