Chapter 21
S oon, Emma and I were upstairs again.
She was there to make sure I could get the dress on without ruining my makeup and hair.
The gown almost completed the look.
After Emma left in an Uber, I headed back upstairs and slipped my feet into the heels Marco had chosen.
Then I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom and took a selfie, because I knew I would never look this beautiful again.
But I had to ask myself—was I really beautiful?
I didn’t even look like myself.
I looked like a stranger…
which made me feel like I was an imposter.
Thus, the picture. It would remind me of this night, an evening I still anticipated with glee, although seeing myself in a mirror filled me with some apprehension as well.
When I glanced at my reflection again, I realized something was missing—jewelry.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t even care—but my neck and ears, completely exposed thanks to the dress and updo, seemed so naked.
I hadn’t brought much jewelry with me and what I had brought would probably look cheap.
Still, I had to try.
Inside the nightstand were the pair of faux pearl studs I’d worn to the college on that fateful day when I’d first met Sinclair.
They would have to do.
Fitting them in my ears, I walked into the bathroom again to look at myself in the mirror.
Good enough.
Then I sat on the bed, feeling jittery, wondering when Sinclair would arrive and tell me it was time to go.
I wasn’t just nervous because I was again going to be a foreigner pretending she belonged…
but I was going to meet Sinclair’s father, rotten-to-the-core Augustus Whittier II—and what made me almost scared was wondering if he would know who I was.
After all, Sinclair had told his father I’d be working for him, repaying a debt when I first arrived here at the mansion.
But that was two months ago—and Sinclair wouldn’t have necessarily reminded him.
Unless that was the whole point.
I hadn’t gotten that feeling from Sinclair, though.
Why would he go to all this trouble to make me feel special and cared for if it was only to deride and mock me?
Leaning over, I decided to grab the final journal out of the bottom drawer to read as a distraction, because I was making myself sick with worry.
But then I heard footsteps outside my door.
He was home.
It wasn’t until I answered the knock on my door that I realized he’d been home and had probably arrived while I’d been waiting for the Uber with Emma inside the library.
I took a deep breath, not sure what to expect.
If I’d thought I’d undergone a transformation, perhaps he had too.
His black tux made him seem all the more masculine, all the more handsome and put together.
He’d allowed a couple days’ worth of whiskers to shadow his cheeks, making him look a little more rugged, a tad more dangerous—and all the more captivating.
Yet I still trusted him.
But it was his eyes and the way they took me in that grabbed me by the heart.
Mine probably told him back that I belonged to him.
“You are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on, Annalise.”
Pursing my lips, I fought against two tiny tears that threatened to spill over my perfectly made-up cheeks.
Were the foundation and blusher also made to wear for twenty-four hours?
I highly doubted it and fought the tears back.
“I feel the same way about you…Cory.”
His smile was subtle as his eyes continued searching mine.
Apparently, he had the same thoughts as I about what Emma’s hand had done to me—I simply didn’t look like the same person he’d seen at breakfast. “Take off those earrings. They’re fine, but I have something else for you to wear.”
It was then that I noticed he was holding in his hand a rectangular box.
So I pulled the fake pearls out of my ears, placing them on the dresser.
Then he opened the hinged lid of the box, setting it next to them as I looked inside.
What I saw nearly took my breath away.
“Gold and diamonds go with everything,” he said, lifting the delicate necklace out of the box.
It was beautiful—diamonds, more than I could count, on a silver necklace that reminded me of icicle lights dangling from a house’s eaves at Christmas.
He’d said gold , and I didn’t disagree with his statement, but that wasn’t what I was seeing.
“As does silver.”
He grinned, cocking an eyebrow.
“And white gold.”
“Oh.” And here I’d been thinking the silvery tones would match my toenails.
“May I?”
I could barely nod as I turned around, allowing him to place the stunning necklace so that those diamonds graced my bare neck.
At first, it felt cool against my skin—and heavy.
It was probably the most beautiful piece of jewelry I’d ever seen, with a pear-shaped diamond at the center of the necklace, and all around my neck were little rain drops of diamonds so that I would sparkle from every angle.
I had no doubt that this necklace was probably worth my father’s house in Winchester.
As he clasped it on my neck, he asked, “How does that feel?”
“Expensive.”
He chuckled.
“You’d be right.” When I turned around to face him, his eyes said far more than his lips ever could—and I hoped my eyes communicated the same.
I wondered how poets came up with their perfect phrases and metaphors—because I was completely speechless, as was the well-spoken tall man in front of me.
But he finally managed.
“This necklace belonged to my mother—and it hasn’t been worn in decades.” It wasn’t until then that I worked up to protest—but he stopped me.
“I know my mother would have loved you. Even though I never got to know her in person, I’d heard stories from my brothers and their nannies when I was young—and even the occasional snippet from my father. She was a kind if misguided soul and I can’t think of anyone else she’d rather wear her necklace.”
It wasn’t until then that I touched it with my fingers, splaying my hands against the sparkly gems dangling from my neck.
How many little diamonds were on this necklace?
I couldn’t even guess.
And I wondered if Sinclair was right.
After all, he’d been correct about the kind of person his mother had been.
Having read several years of her innermost thoughts, I felt like I’d grown to know her—and she was a kind person, one who’d wanted nothing more than to be loved by her cold, heartless husband.
Was I any different from her?
Over time, would Sinclair prove to be like his father?
Before I could muse any further, Sinclair’s voice silenced my thoughts.
“But that’s not all,” he said, reaching into the rectangular box again.
“I had the jeweler design matching earrings just for tonight—but I’ll let you do the honors this time.”
Picking up the dangling earrings, I looked at my reflection in the dresser mirror, inserting an earring into one ear and then the other—and if Sinclair hadn’t told me, I would have guessed the earrings and necklace had always been a set.
I remained speechless.
“The earrings are for you to keep, Lise.”
My natural inclination was to protest. “I couldn’t possibly—”
“Yes. You can and you will,” he said, his tone indicating that there would be no arguments.
“No time for discussion. We have to leave. Dinner is at five-thirty, and if we don’t go now, we’ll be late.”
“What about the ballet?” I asked, picking up the red clutch purse Marco had given me for the evening, along with the shawl that I draped on my arm.
“It’s at seven and just down the street and around the corner from the ballet—and the restaurant is expecting us. But we have to go now. Greg is standing by.”
As we walked down the marble stairs toward the main hallway, for the first time, I knew I looked like I belonged there.
And I also felt like the world’s biggest pretender—but Sinclair’s firm hand against my back gave me strength.
I had to believe he would guide me through this foreign world, even while I felt like I was more lost than I’d ever been in my life.
For the first time since leaving Winchester, I rode in the limousine with Sinclair to our destination.
I thought to myself, this is how the wealthy live .
My dad and I on rare occasion would go to the movie theater in Winchester, eating at Chili’s or McDonald’s first. But either he or I would drive and we wouldn’t get dressed up.
This, I thought, was the rich person’s equivalent…
and, even though I’d loved everything up to that point—trying on gowns and choosing one, having it tailored to fit me perfectly, having my hair and makeup done by an expert, wearing expensive jewels—I’d give it all up just to be with my father in our living room, eating microwave popcorn and watching a movie on our television.
That was truly where I belonged.
I didn’t belong here .
Pretending had been fine…
but now I was about to be exposed to an entire family who would see right through me.
Another knot formed in my intestines.
I looked out the side windows as Greg drove out of the neighborhood, and soon I understood why Sinclair had wanted to leave quickly.
Traffic was tight with lots of cars moving slowly.
This was the rush-hour traffic I’d heard him talk about from time to time—hundreds of people getting off work around the same time, each desperate to get home so they could begin their weekend.
I felt desperate too…
but I wasn’t going home.
Sinclair must have sensed my anxiety.
“Are you all right?”
Turning my head from the window, I tried forcing a smile.
“Yeah.”
He narrowed his eyes and took my hand from my lap, holding it in his.
“You’re not. What’s wrong?”
“I’m just a little nervous.”
Nodding his head, he gently squeezed my hand.
“It’ll be fine. I promise. And I think you’ll love the ballet.” I wanted to protest, to tell him I was going to hate all of it and ask him to take me back…
but to what? To the mansion?
It too remained a place where I didn’t belong.
But he was here—and he would help me through it.
So I just nodded back, trying to communicate that I was a good sport.
The longer we rode, though, and the farther away we got from the mansion, the sicker I felt.
So I just held onto Sinclair’s hand, reminding myself that I could get through anything with him by my side.
Soon, we were downtown with buildings so high, they blocked out the sun that was dipping low in the west. Again, the traffic was tight and moving slowly, but when we turned onto a one-way street, it eased up a bit.
When the limo pulled over to the curb, Sinclair got out before Greg had a chance to.
Then he turned, holding out his hand for me to grab.
Gripping my purse and shawl in the other, I took Sinclair’s hand and drew in a deep breath, trying to shake the awkward feeling.
“Have a good time,” Greg said, almost like a father dropping off his kids at a birthday party.
“I’ll text you when we’re ready,” Sinclair said, shutting the door once I was on the sidewalk.
Greg had dropped us off right in front of the restaurant and Sinclair ushered me toward the door as the limo disappeared in traffic, swallowed up in the sea of cars all heading away from us.
Again, Sinclair held the door for me and in I walked, deeper and deeper into this foreign land.
The smells of the restaurant were appealing, but the atmosphere was stark and cold—lots of whites and blacks and sharp edges.
The lighting was dim but it appeared that each table had its own lamp overhead.
A ma?tre d’ greeted us and Sinclair said, “We’re with the Whittier party.”
The man seemed impressed by that, but maybe he did that for all guests to make them feel special.
“Right this way, please.”
The restaurant already had lots of full tables, so I figured the food had to taste good—although I didn’t know if I’d be able to stomach anything at the moment.
Soon we were near the back and the ma?tre d’ opened a glass door that led us into a private dining area.
Here there was a huge round table—and lots of people already seated around it.
At that point, I had to fight the nausea…
but Sinclair’s hand on my back gave me strength.
Then I took in the view: this was the Whittier family…
the people who’d ruined my father’s life.
What would my dad think if he knew where I was and what I was doing at this very moment?
I had to push it out of my mind because I was already struggling—and if I thought of my father and our history, I’d never make it out of this evening intact.
The men all stood up and there was no denying that they were related.
I could see Sinclair in each of his brothers’ faces—they all had the same jawline, similar eye shapes…
and the same coldness.
Their father, however, was colder than them all, but his features were different, meaning the shape of their eyes must have come from their mother.
Sinclair said, without missing a beat, “This is my father, Augustus.” This was the man whom his first wife had called Gus .
With everything I knew about him—from my own father’s experience to the words of his dead wife—it was a feat to appear neutral, especially when there was no getting out of shaking his hand.
Consorting with the enemy.
His hair was gray, causing the blue of his eyes to appear like what I imagined the center of an iceberg would look—but his smile seemed genuine.
He didn’t know who I was.
“This is Lise,” Sinclair said quickly.
“And this is my father’s wife Madeline, my oldest brother Augustus the third, and his wife Vivian.” By that point, I was shaking his brother’s hand.
“And Warren, my middle brother,” he said, pointing to the other side of the table.
Warren also took my hand—but he kissed the top of it, something I didn’t think anyone had ever done to me.
I tried not to let it freak me out.
He said, “Nice to meet you. Sinny, my date is Hannah West.” At that, he gave his brother a look as if to communicate something.
Sinclair shook her hand, smiling.
As we took our seats, with Warren on the left of Sinclair and his father on my right, I felt my stomach clench again…
and I tried to solidify everyone’s names in my head.
But what stuck with me the most was Warren calling his youngest brother Sinny , the nickname Edna had called him once or twice.
Had that been a sign of disrespect or love?
I had no way of knowing.
But I tucked my purse and shawl in my lap and made the biggest effort of my life to hold a pleasant expression, trying my damnedest to hide the turmoil inside.
It was just a few hours. I could do this.