Chapter 35
Lila smiles politely, pretending to follow the conversation swirling around her, though most of it sounds like business jargon.
Max had introduced everyone, but only one name sticks.
William, a supposed childhood friend, is tall, with medium-length blond curls and a strange twinkle in his eyes that unsettles her.
Every so often, she catches him glancing her way, his expression faintly amused, as though he knows something everyone else does not.
Do I know this guy from somewhere or something?
She looks away, turning her attention to the surroundings instead.
Unlike the minimalist austerity of Max’s penthouse, his childhood home in Connecticut is a spectacle of opulence, its modern art deco design almost regal, reminiscent of the colorful palaces she once toured in London.
Each room she has glimpsed carries its own distinct palette and mood.
The reception is held in a grand black-and-white foyer that opens into a sprawling living space drenched in green and gold.
White lilies, roses, and carnations cover nearly every surface, their scent soft but pervasive.
Portraits of prominent family members line the walls, each encased in ornate frames: a gallery of legacy and wealth watching over the room.
The late patriarch’s portraits surround them, each capturing him at a different age.
One shows him standing beside a much younger Max, then bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, dressed in polo gear next to a majestic dark horse.
The man’s stern expression never wavers, even when he allows a small, carefully composed smile for the camera.
With his sharp, dark, intimidating features, it is clear which parent Max takes after.
Lila remains rooted at Max’s side as he greets a steady stream of guests offering their condolences.
Each exchange feels like part of a carefully orchestrated performance, and the effort required to maintain the illusion of belonging to this world of excess leaves her drained.
The scrutinizing gazes around her make her feel like a specimen under observation—newly discovered, studied for flaws.
Everyone seems to sense that she doesn’t quite belong, even if she dresses the part.
Perhaps that’s why William keeps giving her that strange, knowing smile.
As much as she hates being here, she hates the thought of standing out even more.
She keeps her answers short but polite, letting Max take the lead after introducing her.
The guests appear content once the focus shifts back to themselves, eagerly filling the pauses with talk of investments, interests, and vacation spots she has never even heard of.
Needing a moment alone to breathe, Lila excuses herself under the pretense of fetching more canapés—though she doubts she could stomach anything right now…
“Who’s that lost puppy by the snack table?”
“That’s Max’s latest pet project,” Matt remarks, taking a measured sip of wine.
His gaze flicks briefly to the older woman beside him before returning to the girl Max brought to their father’s funeral.
It’s evident to anyone with eyes that she’s out of her depth, a fish out of water.
Despite her styled hair, makeup, and impeccable clothes, an unmistakable awkwardness clings to her.
She carries the nervous energy of a frightened rabbit trapped in a den of wolves, visibly uneasy beneath the weight of so many eyes.
“No matter how much he tries to dress them up, there’s always something missing, isn’t there?” Matt adds with a wry smile.
“Oh, wonderful. How generous of him to take in yet another struggling girl,” the woman sighs, her red-painted lips curving into a faint frown. “Max has always been so sweet and down to earth in that way.”
Sweet? Down to earth? Matt barely suppresses a scoff. He thinks the old bat is either blissfully unaware or deep in denial about her son’s true nature. Max is anything but sweet. Matt almost feels sorry for the last girl if she hadn’t been such a shameless gold digger.
He knows Max is the product of terrible parenting, but the irony isn’t lost on him. Though Max never hides his hatred for their father, he has become nearly his mirror image: the same cold demeanor, stripped of ordinary human emotion, and the same excessive need to punish anyone who dares defy him.
Would Lydia still think her son sweet if she knew how many people Max had fired since rejoining CTEC over the smallest of infractions?
These weren’t expendable employees—they were Matt’s people, the ones who stayed loyal through every storm.
All of them had families depending on them, and all were replaced the moment Max walked back in.
And that’s not even touching on the endless parties and drug binges in the past. Had Lydia forgotten all of that?
Though Max appears more restrained these days, Matt knows better.
Old habits die hard—especially for addicts.
Max may present himself as reformed, but Matt sees through it.
His brother’s sarcastic quips, ruthless pragmatism, and icy demeanor are nothing more than a facade concealing a wounded child who grew into a man still battling his demons.
To Matt, his little brother is painfully readable. He has already mapped the limits of Max’s ambition in his head, convinced that Max is too impulsive, too fragile, too self-destructive to pose any real threat.
So why does it feel like an invisible noose is tightening around his neck?
“Look at her, the poor thing. Can you imagine what Michael would say if he were here?”
Matt offers a thin smile. “Well, he’d certainly have a lot to say. At least now he gets some rest.”
“So, what do you think?” she asks, taking a generous sip of champagne.
“About what?” Matt asks, feigning ignorance.
“About them,” she clarifies, subtly gesturing toward Max’s new companion with her glass. The chandelier overhead catches the large ruby on her thumb, deep red and almost glowing as she moves.
Matt pauses, considering. “With Dad out of the way, I have a feeling she’ll last longer than the previous one. It’s hard to disappoint someone who’s no longer here.”
A moment later, an older woman glides through the sparse crowd, her presence drawing every eye.
She heads straight for Lila, who stands alone, clutching her plate of canapés.
Lila’s wariness grows as she watches the tall, slender woman approach.
Her dark hair, threaded with deliberate silver highlights, is styled in a chic updo, each strand perfectly in place.
She wears a metallic black dress, embroidered with lace patterns resembling crawling ivy.
The woman takes Lila in from head to toe. Though her smile carries warmth, there’s an undercurrent of scrutiny, as if measuring her against some unspoken standard.
“My, aren’t you a pretty little thing,” she says, her faint English accent lending a sultry, captivating smoothness to her voice, with just a hint of rasp. “What’s your name, dear?”
“Oh, um, thanks. I’m Lila,” Lila replies, her voice faltering slightly.
“Lila what?” the woman probes, gentle yet amused.
“What? Oh—Thorne. Lila Thorne. Sorry. I’m just…”
“Feeling overwhelmed, I’m sure,” she interjects smoothly. “I’m Lydia. Are you a friend of Max’s?”
“Um, yes,” Lila says, already regretting leaving Max’s side. She recognized her immediately; her face had been on enough of the foyer portraits. Meeting your date’s mother is always awkward—especially when your date isn’t there to act as a buffer.
“Are you a stripper?” Lydia asks suddenly, her tone casual but tinged with a strange mix of curiosity and excitement.
“No?” Lila frowns, trying to read the woman. What in the world?
“Oh, goodness me. I meant a dancer. My apologies. I forget how much the culture around words and sensitivity has changed.” Lydia waves a hand dismissively, as if brushing off a minor faux pas.
Are both mother and son crazy?
“Um, no,” Lila replies, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. A slight flush rises to her cheeks as she darts glances to the side, searching for Max.
“Well then, what do you do exactly, dear?” Lydia presses, her brows knitting slightly in apparent confusion.
“I’m…” Lila hesitates, racking her brain now that she has quit her job. “An artist.”
“Oh, how quaint,” Lydia remarks, eyes bright with excitement. “I have a few original Tamara de Lempicka works. Are you familiar—”
“What are you doing, Cruella De Vil?” Max suddenly appears beside Lila, slipping a protective arm around her to pull her close.
“Relax. I’m just having a little chat with your new girlfriend,” Lydia says lightly, tucking a face-framing lock of silver-highlighted hair behind her ear.
“Mom, this is Lila. Lila, this is my exhaustingly sweet and beautiful mother,” Max says, earning a faint scoff from her. “We’ll be heading out now.”
“So soon? You just came,” Lydia remarks, eyes flickering with mild surprise as she glances between them.
Max fights back a cheeky smirk, pressing his lips into a line, though they still twitch with amusement. A flush of heat colors Lila’s cheeks. She prays her blush goes unnoticed, but Lydia’s sharp eyes miss nothing, assessing and calculating.
“True, but I have work-related matters to attend to,” Max replies.
“Work? But it’s Saturday. And your father’s funeral!
Even Matt is taking the day off,” Lydia counters, disbelief tinging her voice.
She tilts her head slightly, brow arched, lips pursed in a faint frown, hands resting delicately on her hips as if bracing herself against the absurdity of Max’s excuse.
“Of course he is,” Max sighs. A flicker of irritation crosses his face as he lifts his wrist to check the time. The watch has a brushed platinum case and black leather strap, the small Patek Philippe print barely visible near the dial.