Chapter 3
Three
Blair
In my experience, the best way to get through any Porter family gathering is to spend as much time sleeping as possible.
It’s safer to be unconscious, and therefore blissfully unaware of whatever is underway elsewhere in the house, rather than being tempted to—god forbid—engage in it.
I’ve employed this strategy since I was a teenager, and by now, my body seems to have developed a built-in trigger response: When exposed to Porter stress, sleep.
My brother thinks I’m a waste of space who isn’t worth his energy? Sleep.
My sister thinks I’m an attention whore who would purposely ruin her engagement announcement by flashing my tits to half the world? Sleep.
My parents wish they’d stopped after two perfect children and not rolled the dice a third time? Sleep.
It works so well that, in the aftermath of the most halfhearted intervention ever recorded, I fall into bed and sleep for a record fourteen hours.
There may have been one time I woke up to pee and down a glass of icy water in the darkened bathroom, but the memory is so hazy it might as well have been a dream.
By the time I (reluctantly) regain consciousness, my mouth feels as though it was stuffed with cotton balls, and my body aches from lying in one position for such a long time.
I’m also starving. So, in the absence of emergency supplies—the maid must have taken the granola bars and fruit snacks out of the desk since I was last here—I’m forced to abandon the safety of my room.
The house is quiet and still as I slip downstairs, peering into every room I pass for signs of my siblings or parents.
There’s no hint of anyone, however, until I reach the ground floor hallway, which runs the length of the entire house and is the most direct route to the kitchens.
It’s there that I’m forced to come to an abrupt halt to avoid colliding with Candice—my father’s mistress/assistant—whose nose is in her phone.
“Good, you’re awake,” she sneers, barely looking at me as her thumbs fly over the screen, composing a message that’s far more deserving of her time than I am. “Lord Porter would like to see you.”
My stomach twists. “Can it wait? I’d like to get some breakfast.”
“It’s one o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Lunch, then,” I counter, already moving past her.
God only knows what my father has to add to last night’s discussion, but it won’t be a loving heart-to-heart. As such, this talk isn’t exactly at the top of my to-do list.
Apparently, the woman who spends her working hours with her nose up my father’s ass and non-working ones probably doing more of the same, doesn’t think much of my priorities. “Blair?” she calls after me, her tone sickly sweet and dripping with condescension.
God, if it wouldn’t make my mother so happy, I’d do everything in my power to get her fired.
I halt and, baring my teeth into something resembling a smile, turn to look at her directly. “Surely you must mean, Miss Porter, Candy? The alternative would be quite disrespectful.”
The smug, self-satisfied look on her face slips.
“It’s Candice, actually. And of course, Miss Porter.
” A vein in her forehead twitches. “I’m just letting you know that your father’s car will be arriving in half an hour.
I was actually on my way to wake you up.
So, I’m afraid your breakfast will have to wait. ”
I let out a heavy sigh, more irritated that I have to do her bidding than at the prospect of putting off my meal. “Thank you so very much for your invaluable assistance, Candy. That will be all.”
Without bothering to correct me, Candice strides off, shaking her head as though I’m the most unbelievable, audacious creature on the planet. I wait until she’s gone before permitting my shoulders to drop and, recognizing defeat, abandon my path to the kitchen.
Thornhurst’s staffing is typically pretty thin.
My parents keep on just enough people to ensure the place remains in ship-shape: a maid or two, a maintenance man, and a groundskeeper.
The staff, much like myself, see this place for the void of depression and futility it is, and don’t usually last long.
The nearer I get to my father’s study, however, the busier the house becomes.
It’s mostly Dad’s staffers and a few campaign people I’ve never met before.
I smile when I see Old Freddy stepping into the hall.
“Howdy, Fred,” I chirp in a fake American drawl, genuinely happy to see someone for the first time since I arrived.
Old Freddy, who lives in the nearest village with his wife, has been the only consistent staff member as far as I can remember and has always been sweet to me.
His job is technically only to coordinate personal security for the family and the house, but the remote geography of Thornhurst means it can take regular police hours to get here in an emergency.
As the estate owns everything in the general vicinity, Freddy operates as sort of an unofficial sheriff, too.
Which must be why he wears the cowboy hat, despite having been born and raised in Stelland.
“Howdy to you, Miss Blair,” counters Freddy, offering me a fond, if weary, smile as I approach. “You haven’t been too good about staying out of trouble, eh?”
“Maybe next time.”
His smile turns sad, but he doesn’t respond or stop to chat more, carrying on down the hall as I pause before my father’s office door with dread pooling in my gut. An indistinct male voice rumbles from beyond the fine, polished door, and god, I don’t want to be here.
There’s really no reason to be nervous. It’s not like speaking to my parents has ever been easy or informal. I have no memory of my father coming to knock on my bedroom door, to sit at the end of my bed and discuss whatever I’d done, like in the movies.
It was always like this: me being summoned and sitting across a desk from him, usually in a seat that is shorter and less comfortable than his.
I should be used to it, and I am, but the familiarity of the routine doesn’t make it pleasant.
Bracing myself for the inevitable ego-bruising to come, I lay my hand against the wood door and push it open.
The first thing I see is Lord Porter himself, who is standing behind the antique desk that is situated in the center of the stuffy room, arms crossed and frowning.
He’s silhouetted by the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, which take up every wall in this room, each of them laden with rare books and legal tomes I’ve never seen him read.
My father’s eyes find mine over the heads of the three aids sitting before his desk in wood chairs.
All of whom are dressed in sleek office attire, a laughable contrast to my own sweatpants and fluffy bunny slippers.
They’re speaking quickly, apparently mid-way through a debate on which polling is best to highlight in the meetings with donors next week, but fall silent when they realize Lord Porter is no longer paying attention.
All three turn, and, upon seeing who it is, just as quickly avert their eyes. As if having seen my tits in a magazine makes it indecent to look at me fully clothed.
My father sets down the paper in his hand and smiles grimly at his staffers as he sinks into the high-backed leather chair behind his desk. “Excuse us for a moment,” he tells them. “I need to speak to my daughter before we leave for Wyngate.”
I wrap my arms around my waist, stepping to the side as the three aids file out of the study, watching as my father leans back in his big leather chair, staring at me with a look I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him wear before.
My stomach twists as the last of them leaves. “Close the door, Blair.”
I do as he says and turn back to take one of the empty chairs, folding my hands in my lap. Obviously, I knew I fucked up, but ordinarily I’m hit with a lecture and sent on my way. Out of the country and out of his hair is exactly how my father likes me.
Something is different this time, but I know better than to speak before I know what I’m up against, so I keep my lips pressed together, waiting for the ax to fall.
“I spoke with the family attorneys and my public relations team for the campaign this morning,” Dad informs me conversationally after a pause, reclining in his richly upholstered chair and surveying me over the surface of the desk.
It’s difficult to swallow past the lump in my throat. “Oh?” I manage, fiddling with the hem of my top.
He hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t reply, staring at me with an unsettling intensity that has me shifting in my seat. With every second of silence that passes, the desperation to know what he’s thinking notches higher.
“I really am sorry, Dad,” I blurt out after what feels like a full minute might have passed, unable to keep it bottled up any longer. “About the photographs, I mean. It won’t happen again. Promise.”
It’s difficult to put my finger on what, but something in my father’s energy seems to shift as I make my plea, like I’ve confirmed something for him without realizing.
“No,” he agrees at last, his lips pressed into a flat line. “It won’t.” I watch as he leans down to pull open a drawer on the side of his desk. When he straightens up, there’s a thick packet of paperwork in his hand, which he tosses onto the desk. “Do you know what this is?”
I glance down at the lines and lines of official-looking text, too edgy to even take a stab at decoding it, and shake my head.
Dad’s weary, exasperated look makes me feel about five inches tall.
“It is an emergency legal filing to freeze your access to your trust fund. My attorneys have expedited the process and have already submitted documentation and evidence to the presiding judge. You will receive the paperwork later today.”