Chapter 10
Ronan
She hasn’t said a word since we left Silvercrest.
Not a damn word.
Not that I want her to. The silence suits me fine because I’m still seething. Not just from her cornering me with Lex, dragging some hollow confession out of me like it was supposed to fix anything—but because it worked.
That’s the worst part… it fucking worked.
Lex looked at me like maybe he didn’t hate me anymore and that should be a relief. It should feel good.
But it doesn’t.
It feels like exposure because Francesca stripped me bare for the world to see. It pisses me off and mixes up my insides. Is she really this nice and empathetic or is she simply looking to do a good deed for the day?
She says she wants to understand me and I’m going to let her choke on the truth of my life. She’ll soon realize I’m not just cold—I’m carved from a glacier.
The drive from Silvercrest to Woking winds through narrow country lanes and sleepy English villages, the late-March light slanting low through bare trees and hedgerows beginning to bud.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, the leather groaning beneath my hands. I don’t look at her when I say, “We’re almost there.”
Francesca doesn’t respond. She shifts in her seat and stares ahead as the iron gates come into view, the profile of her face incredibly beautiful.
I punch in the code. The gates groan open, slow and theatrical, like even they’re reluctant to let us in. I’m equally reluctant to enter, but it must be done.
The estate comes into view and from the outside, it looks like a home. Granted, a really fucking big home, but there’s a warmth to it.
All a facade though.
I park in front of the main entrance and kill the engine. The silence presses in again.
She turns her head toward me, brows lifted. “You live here?”
“No. This is my mum’s home. My dad bought it for her a few years ago. I’ve got a place in London, but I stay here sometimes when…” The words trail off because I’m not sure exactly what possesses me to stay.
“Your mum needs you?” she guesses, finishing my sentence for me.
“She always needs me,” I reply, unable to mask the bitterness. “But more so when I need to be at Crown Velocity to train or help evaluate upgrades. Since the Silvercrest Global Prix is in two weeks, I’ll be based out of here until then.”
She studies my face for a beat, then unbuckles her seat belt and gets out. No further questions. Definitely no fear and that makes me admire her a bit more.
Sighing, I follow, every step toward the front door heavier than the last. I punch in the security code, and the door unlocks with a quiet click, swinging open on silent hinges.
The entryway is as polished as always—gleaming parquet floors and antique mirrors hung in perfect symmetry down the corridor.
A vase of fresh lilies sits on a marble console beneath the staircase, probably swapped out this morning by the house staff.
Everything is tasteful yet impersonal, like a five-star hotel trying too hard to feel like a home.
Francesca steps inside, her boots clicking against the floor as she takes it all in.
Her gaze sweeps over the crystal chandelier overhead, the oil paintings lining the hallway, the sheer size of the space.
I know she’s not awed by this wealth, because she comes from money too.
But if she’s as intuitive as I believe she is, I’m sure she can sense that something’s off.
“She might be asleep,” I say, hoping it’s true. The zeal to put Francesca in her place by throwing her to the wolves—my mother—is fading.
Francesca’s voice is quiet but firm. “You didn’t bring me here hoping she’d be asleep. You brought me here to explain things.”
“So be it,” I murmur and turn toward the sitting room. I open the door and Vivienne is draped across her chaise, just where I expected she’d be. Silk robe, cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other, she gives off movie star glam vibes.
Vivienne dramatically tilts her head our way and sighs as if the effort to offer greeting is too much to bear. “Well, well… my prodigal son returns. And he brought…” Her eyes narrow on Francesca. “Arm candy. This is new.”
Francesca steps forward before I can speak. “Hello, Mrs. Barnes.”
Vivienne eyes her up and down, her lipstick smeared. “What’s your name?”
“Francesca.”
“Francesca,” she repeats thickly. “Exotic. Are you one of those social media girls? You don’t sound British.” She gives her another disdainful once-over. “You certainly don’t look British.”
“I’m Italian.”
Vivienne squints, unimpressed. “Hmm. Italian. Good skin, terrible politics. I had a fling with a composer from Milan once. Terrible in bed, brilliant with his hands.”
“Vivienne,” I snap, heat rising in my neck, but Francesca shoots me a look, and it speaks volumes.
Leave it alone. She doesn’t offend me.
My mother ignores my presence entirely, her attention still pinned on Francesca like a cat toying with a bird. “So, what are you?” she asks, voice syrupy and sharp at once. “His girlfriend? Handler? PR stunt?”
“I’m a driver,” Francesca says coolly. “For Titans Racing.”
My mother’s laugh starts off sounding completely amused but then ends in a wheezing cackle. “Oh, darling. No, you’re not. That’s adorable.”
Francesca doesn’t blink. “You should come to the next race. I’ll wave from the podium.”
Vivienne narrows her eyes. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”
“She’s got more than that,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
Francesca glances at me—and to my surprise, shoots me a wink. It’s courageously defiant. And strangely grounding.
Vivienne leans back on the chaise with a sigh, swirling the clear liquid in her glass.
“Well, she’s a change from your usual,” she muses, casting a slow, pointed glance at Francesca.
“You always did have a weakness for the ones who strut around half-dressed and hollow, all pouty lips and platform heels, like thinking too hard might wrinkle their spray tan.”
I say nothing, staring at her because any attempt to defuse her will only make it worse.
Mum sips, eyes glittering. “Don’t look at me like that, darling. I read the headlines. Or at least, I skim them waiting for my pills to kick in. You’ve got a type—glamorous, empty-headed, disposable. I assume this one’s just more ambitious.”
Francesca cocks her head, studying my mother with fascination, but she doesn’t rise to the barbs.
Vivienne lazily looks back to me. “Does she know what she’s in for?
The Barnes curse? We ruin everything we touch, you know.
” Then she turns to Francesca, eyes narrowing with surprising precision given her obvious inebriation.
“Though maybe you’re not worried. Girls like you usually have an endgame. ”
Her tone sharpens, eyes gleaming. “Just remember, darling—he may let you in for now, but he’ll freeze you out before you realize you forgot to pack a coat.”
Francesca tucks her hands in her pockets, her relaxed posture quite impressive given the tension swirling through the air. She seems completely unfazed by my mother.
“I didn’t come here to judge,” she says to Vivienne. “But maybe you could pretend, just for ten minutes, to not enjoy humiliating your son in front of someone who actually gives a damn.”
Vivienne blinks. Once. Twice.
I blink. Once. Twice.
But Vivienne recovers, waving us both off like a bad dream. “Oh, you’re just like him. Righteous. Cold. Self-important.”
I take a slow step forward—not to argue, not to plead. To draw my line in the sand.
“You can take your shots at me,” I say, low and even. “But you don’t speak to her like that.”
Vivienne arches a brow. “Touched a nerve, have I?”
“No,” I reply. “Simply setting a boundary you’d be wise to respect.”
She studies me over the rim of her glass, then hums thoughtfully. “How noble. That’s new too.”
I stare at her, waiting for her to acknowledge she understands that mistreating my company is off-limits. Her face tilts toward mine, mock innocent. “I was just being welcoming, darling.”
“You don’t know how.”
She pouts. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
She scoffs, then swings her legs over the edge of the chaise to rise.
She rakes her fingers through her tangled platinum hair.
“You’ve always been ungrateful, Ronan. You think I wanted this life?
All those boring charity events, pretending I gave a damn about your father’s empire, pretending to be some doting wife?
And you—off playing boy racer while I wasted away in a London mausoleum. ”
“This isn’t about me,” I snap.
“Oh, isn’t it always?” she says, then turns to Francesca, eyes narrowing with a cruel glee. “And you, sweetheart. How long do you think that little spotlight of yours will last? Another few races before someone younger, prettier, more obedient comes along?”
Francesca straightens, arms still at her sides, calm but firm. “You don’t intimidate me.”
Vivienne grins. “Oh, I’m sure you think you’re so clever. But believe me, darling—men like my son? They’ll take what they want from you and leave you to rot the second it gets complicated. Isn’t that right, Ronan? Like father, like son?”
Francesca’s features tighten. She doesn’t respond, but there is a shift in her posture, like she’s bracing for more.
And that’s when I step between them.
My voice is cold. Final. “Perhaps you should go to bed. I can have the staff bring your evening meal up to you.”
Vivienne blinks, her eyes clearing a bit as if she was in a daze. As is her habit after she expends energy on her spitefulness, she turns docile. “Yes… I am quite tired. You should show your friend the gardens. They’re lovely at sunset.”
Francesca cocks an eyebrow at the abrupt change in personality. It’s par for the course, and I’ve learned to never drop my guard.
Not for a second.
Vivienne moves to me, and I stiffen as she cups my cheek with her clammy hand. I pretend I see some piece of a real mother inside the move, but there’s nothing there. “Good night, darling. Make sure to lock up.”