7. Cara
— ? —
Cara
The invitation arrives on a Thursday.
Heavy cream cardstock with embossed lettering.
The Thorne family crest stamped in gold at the top - a lion rampant, which always struck me as absurdly pretentious.
Marcus used to joke about it. “My father thinks we’re descended from royalty.
Really, we’re descended from bootleggers who got rich during Prohibition. ”
Eleanor Thorne requests the pleasure of your company at a celebration of Rosalind Thorne’s eightieth birthday…
I find Damien in his office, staring at an identical envelope. His is crumpled at the edges, like he’s been gripping it too tight.
“No.” He doesn’t look up. “Absolutely not. There’s no way in hell I’m going to that.”
“When did you get yours?”
“This morning.” He throws the envelope across the room. It bounces off the wall and lands in the corner. “My grandmother sent it. She’s the only one who still has my address.”
“Your grandmother.” I pick up the discarded invitation. “The one you said you liked.”
“The only one I liked.” He finally looks at me, and there’s something raw in his expression. “She’s turning eighty, and this is her way of trying to get the family back together. But I can’t - I can’t walk into that house-”
“When was the last time you went to a family event?”
“Eight years ago.” His jaw is tight. “Christmas. The night I put Marcus in the hospital.”
“And you’ve been avoiding them ever since.”
“I’ve been protecting myself ever since.”
“By hiding?”
His eyes flash. “I haven’t been hiding-”
“You’ve been letting them win.” I cross the room toward him. “Don’t you want to show them they didn’t break you? Walk in there with your head high, prove you’re still standing?”
“And what, make small talk with people who erased me? Pretend we’re one big happy family while my father glares at me and my mother pretends I don’t exist?” He laughs bitterly. “Hard pass.”
“Make them uncomfortable.” I’m standing in front of his desk now. Close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands grip the edge of his chair. “Remind them you exist. Remind them that whatever they did to you, you survived it.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Is it?” I hold up my own crumpled invitation. “I’m the woman who threw photos of their precious Marcus on a twenty-foot screen at a hospital gala. You think I want to walk into that house? Face all those people who think I’m crazy or vindictive or both?”
“Then why are you pushing this?”
“Because I’m tired of being afraid of them.” I hold his gaze. “Aren’t you?”
The silence stretches. I can see him wrestling with it - the anger, the hurt, the years of wounds that never quite healed.
“You’d go with me?” His voice is rough. Uncertain. “To that house. Those people.”
“I’d go with you.”
“As what?” He stands. Moves around the desk until we’re face to face. “My date?”
The word hangs in the air. Date.
“As backup.” I keep my voice steady, even though my heart is racing. “As someone who understands what it’s like to be on the wrong side of the Thorne family.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Something shifts in his expression. Not quite agreement. More like… acceptance.
“Fine.” He picks up the crumpled invitation from the corner. “But if Victor starts in on me, I’m not responsible for what I say.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
***
The dress is red.
Rachel helped me pick it out - something bold, something that says I’m not hiding, I’m not ashamed, I survived and I’m still standing. We spent three hours at a consignment shop, trying on dresses I couldn’t afford until we found one I could.
It fits like it was made for me. Hugs my curves in all the right places. The neckline is lower than anything I would have worn as Marcus’s wife. The back is open, showing skin I would have kept covered out of some misguided sense of propriety.
I barely recognize myself in the mirror.
Good. The old Cara wouldn’t survive tonight. This version might.
I take a deep breath. Walk out of the bathroom.
Damien is waiting by the door, adjusting his cufflinks. He’s wearing a suit I’ve never seen - charcoal gray, perfectly fitted. It makes him look like a different person. Polished. Dangerous.
He looks up.
And goes completely still.
His eyes track down my body. Slowly. Deliberately. I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch - across my shoulders, down my waist, lingering on the curve of my hip.
Then back up to my face.
His jaw tightens.
“You…” He clears his throat. “We should go.”
“You didn’t finish your sentence.”
“I know.”
Heat creeps up my neck. I grab my clutch from the table, suddenly very aware of how much skin this dress shows. How his eyes haven’t quite returned to normal.
He looked at me. He really looked.
Why do I want him to look again?
***
The drive to the Thorne estate takes forty-five minutes.
Forty-five minutes of charged silence. Of Damien’s hands gripping the steering wheel too tight. Of me staring out the window, trying not to watch the way the dashboard lights play across his features.
“You’re nervous,” I say finally.
“I’m not nervous.”
“You’ve been grinding your teeth since we left. I can hear it from here.”
He loosens his jaw with visible effort. “I haven’t seen these people in eight years. Haven’t set foot in that house since the night everything fell apart.”
“Since they threw you out.”
“Since I walked out.” His voice is hard. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Victor told me I was dead to him. That I’d brought shame on the family name. That if I ever showed my face again, he’d have me arrested for trespassing.”
“And now you’re showing your face.”
“Now I’m showing my face.” He glances at me. “With you.”
The way he says it - with you - makes something flutter in my chest.
Stop. Focus. Tonight is about facing them, not about whatever this is.
But I can’t stop noticing the way his hand moves to shift gears. The veins in his forearm. The way his sleeves are rolled up just enough to show the edge of a tattoo I haven’t seen before - something dark and intricate, disappearing under the fabric.
What would it feel like to trace that ink with my fingers?
Stop.
“Tell me about your grandmother,” I say, desperate for distraction. “What’s she like?”
“Sharp.” A hint of warmth enters his voice. “She’s ninety-three pounds and five feet tall, but she’s the only person in that family who’s ever scared Victor. She says exactly what she thinks, no matter who’s listening.”
“Sounds like someone I’d like.”
“She’d like you too.” He glances at me again. “She always hated Marcus. Called him ‘a snake in a suit’ when he was twelve. Nobody listened.”
“She knew? Even then?”
“She knows everything. Always has. She just learned a long time ago that speaking up doesn’t change anything in that family.” His jaw tightens. “The Thornes don’t like people who tell the truth.”
“Is that why they exiled you?”
“That’s part of it.”
I wait for him to say more. He doesn’t.
The rest of the drive passes in silence.
***
The Thorne estate is obscene.
There’s no other word for it. A sprawling mansion behind iron gates, lit up like something from a movie.
Valet parking on the circular drive. A string quartet playing on the front lawn - actually on the lawn, surrounded by manicured hedges and rose bushes that probably cost more than my annual salary.
“Old money,” Damien mutters as we approach the front door. “They built this place to intimidate people.”
“Is it working?”
“Ask me in an hour.”
Inside, it’s worse. Crystal chandeliers dripping from every ceiling. Oil paintings in gilded frames - ancestors, probably, though they all look equally disapproving. Fresh flowers everywhere, filling the air with a scent so thick it’s almost nauseating.
Guests mill about in designer gowns and tailored suits. I recognize some faces from the hospital gala. They recognize me too. I can tell by the way their eyes widen, the way they lean in to whisper to each other.
There she is. The crazy wife. The one who made that scene.
I lift my chin. Let them look.
“Damien.”
Victor Thorne’s voice cuts through the crowd like a blade.
I turn. He’s standing ten feet away, a champagne flute in one hand, his face carved from ice. Eleanor hovers behind him, her expression pinched with something that might be concern or might be constipation. It’s hard to tell with that much Botox.
“Father.” Damien’s voice is flat. “Nice party.”
“I didn’t expect you to actually show your face.” Victor moves closer, and I can see the resemblance now - the same jaw, the same dark eyes. But where Damien’s face is open, readable, Victor’s is a mask. “Your grandmother invited you against my wishes.”
“She always did like me better.”
“Your grandmother is sentimental. I am not.”
“Noted.” Damien doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t back down. “Nice place you’ve got here. Very tasteful. Is that guilt I see in the floral arrangements, or just overcompensation?”
Victor’s jaw tightens. His gaze shifts to me.
“Mrs. Matthews.” The words drip with contempt. “Interesting choice of date for my son.”
“I thought so.”
“My other son will destroy you, you know. In the divorce. You understand that, don’t you? Whatever money you think you’re entitled to-”
“Your other son has been stealing from me for years.” I hold his stare. “I have documentation. Bank records. A paper trail that goes back long before I knew what he was doing. So I’d be careful about making threats, Mr. Thorne. Your family’s dirty laundry might end up on display.”
Something flickers in Victor’s eyes. Surprise. Maybe a hint of respect, quickly buried.
Before he can respond, a small figure appears at his elbow.
She’s tiny - barely five feet tall, with silver hair and sharp dark eyes that miss nothing. Despite her size, there’s something commanding about her presence. The crowd seems to shift around her, making room.
“Victor, stop terrorizing the guests.” Her voice is crisp. Authoritative. “It’s my birthday. I won’t have you making people uncomfortable.”
“Mother-”
“Go bother someone else. I want to talk to this young woman.”