48. Francesca
48
FRANCESCA
The streets of Winthrop Harbor haven’t changed. Same stately houses, same perfectly manicured lawns, same old-money elegance pressed into every inch like a museum exhibit frozen in time.
But I have changed.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as I drive through my old neighborhood, stomach twisting with nerves. I don’t belong here anymore. The town, the expectations, the gilded cages disguised as privileges—I walked away. No, I ran away. Every single chance I could.
I told myself I would never come back. That it would take the apocalypse to get me back home, but it turns out it only took one phone call from my sister.
Florence’s house looms ahead, tucked behind wrought-iron gates and trimmed hedges sculpted into neat little boxes. It looks just like our childhood home. Pristine, curated, devoid of warmth.
No sign of her husband’s sleek, overpriced sports car. No security guards standing at attention. That should feel like a relief. But it doesn’t.
I exhale, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake the tension clamped around my spine.
“Just get Florence out. That’s the priority. Everything else can wait. The details, the fallout, the inevitable reckoning with my mother. It can all wait,” I murmur to myself. I almost reach toward the passenger seat, a reflex to sink my fingers into Romeo’s fluffy fur when I’m feeling anxious. But this is a rental car, and he’s not here. I asked Graham to watch him, since driving back home would take me four times as long as flying.
I kill the engine and sit in silence, my pulse a steady drum against my ribs. I don’t want to be here. Not in this house. Not in this town. Not anywhere within a hundred-mile radius of my mother.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
Catherine Ashburn doesn’t need to be in the room to make her presence known. She’s a shadow, her voice an echo in my head. My father’s disinterest always cut me, but my mother’s words? They bled me dry.
If she knew I was here, she’d be waiting. Calculating. Already three moves ahead.
My fingers twitch over my phone, my gut screaming at me to call Graham even as my pride holds me back. I told him I didn’t need him to save me, and I meant it. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t hear him.
I press the heel of my hand against my forehead and command, Focus, Francesca. But my brain won’t cooperate. Instead, it replays our last conversation like a tape on loop. The unexpected dust-up—it was not an argument. The frustration. The heat of the moment when I— God. I can’t believe I yelled I love you at him like that.
Of all the ways I imagined telling him for the first time, shouting it mid-argument wasn’t one of them. I wasn’t planning on saying it. It just came out, like a truth I had no control over. And yet, it wasn’t a surprise. Not really.
I think I’ve known for a while, if I’m being honest with myself. The realization crept up on me slowly, taking root in quiet moments and stolen glances. In the way his hands cradle my face, in the gruff timbre of his voice when he calls me sunshine. In the steadiness of his presence, an anchor in the chaos.
Graham Carter carved out a space in my heart when I wasn’t looking. And now, well . . . now I can’t imagine my life without him in it.
And sitting in this car, staring at my sister’s house like it might swallow me whole, I finally let myself think about what I ignored before I left. How off he was acting. At the time, I was wrapped up in my own panic and anxiety, focused on getting to Florence. I thought he was just being Graham. Overprotective, maybe a little stubborn, possessive in that quiet, alluring way of his.
But now I’m not so sure. He wouldn’t let me bring my laptop or tablet. Said he needed to check them for malware or something. And he double-checked my phone before I left. I should have asked more questions. Should have pushed.
And now, I’m worried that I left him when he needed me.
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, pulling my phone from my bag. My fingers move on instinct.
Me: I’m at Florence’s house.
I hesitate for a half-second before dropping a pin and sending it to him.
Me: If you don’t hear from me in twenty-four hours, you know where to find me.
His response comes through instantly.
Graham: The clock started when you left. If you’re not home in ten hours, I’m coming for you. Not a second longer, wife.
A slow, steady warmth unfurls in my stomach. I don’t think that math adds up, but I’m not going to argue.
Me: I’m counting on it.
The certainty of his words, the promise in them, wraps around me like armor. It’s still new, this feeling of having someone in my corner. Someone who sees me, all of me, and chooses me anyway. It’s thrilling and terrifying in equal measure, the vulnerability of it. The power he holds, whether he realizes it or not.
I’ve spent most of my life looking over my shoulder, expecting no one to catch me if I fall. It’s a hard habit to break, the instinct to guard myself, to keep everyone at arm’s length.
But Graham isn’t everyone. He’s my husband. My partner in the truest sense of the word. And I meant what I said, I love him.
Completely. Irrevocably. In a way that shakes me to my core.
With a steadying breath, I tuck my phone back into my bag and climb out of the car. The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I make my way up the long, winding drive. Each step feels heavier than the last, like I’m walking through quicksand. The perfectly manicured lawn mocks me, the cheerful beds of annuals lining the path a jarring contrast to the dread coiling in my stomach.
Florence should already be at the door. Should be peeking through the curtains, waiting for me, maybe throwing open the door the second I knock.
But there’s nothing but silence.
By the time I reach the front door, my heart is racing, pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I take a deep breath, steeling myself, and raise my hand to knock.
The door swings open before my knuckles make contact. A woman stands in the doorway. I don’t recognize her. Older, dressed in the crisp uniform of a housekeeper, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She doesn’t make eye contact, just steps aside, motioning me in.
Every instinct inside me screams turn around. To walk right back down the driveway, get in my car, and leave.
But I can’t. Not when Florence needs me. Not when I promised her I would come.
I step over the threshold, the click of my sneakers echoing on the marble floor. The foyer is grand, ostentatious, a sweeping double staircase curving up to the second floor. Everything gleams, polished to a high shine. Not a speck of dust, not a single thing out of place.
It reminds me of my parents’ house. Cold and soulless. A mausoleum masquerading as a home.
“Miss Florence is waiting for you in her office.” She gestures to the hallway on the left, not quite meeting my eyes.
Unease prickles along my spine as I follow her direction. Something feels off, a whisper of wrongness threading through the air. The house is too still, too silent. Like it's holding its breath.
My fingers flex at my sides as I pass the grand staircase, my body already bracing for impact.
Just get Florence and go. I repeat the words like a mantra, letting them ground me as I step through the archway leading down another hallway.
I step into the office, my gaze immediately seeking out my sister. But it’s not Florence who greets me.
Catherine Kennedy Carrington Ashburn perches on the edge of her desk, expression sharp and chignon sharper. A triumphant smile curls her red-painted lips.
“There she is, my favorite disappointment.”
A long-suffering sigh wrenches through the thick air. “Come now, darling. It’s a little late for the dramatics, don’t you think?” my father drawls.
I turn on my heel and school my features, refusing to let an ounce of shock bleed into my expression. Of all the things I expected to see, this was not one of them.
My father reclines on a chaise, Giovanni Baldini and his father next to him. Two unfamiliar men in chairs on the other side of the room. Florence stands in the corner of the room, hands clasped in front of her and face pale.
My traitorous sister won’t even look at me.
Betrayal seeps out of my lungs in a long, slow, controlled exhale. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, and I turn back to face my mother. She’s the real predator in the room.
Her lips curve into a satisfied smile. And just like that, I understand exactly what this is: a trap.
A carefully constructed snare designed to lure me back into the gilded cage of my old life. And I walked right into it.
Like an idiot.
My mother tilts her head, lips curving into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Francesca, darling. So good of you to finally join us.”
Her voice is smooth as silk, dripping with false warmth. It sets my teeth on edge, makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I know that tone, the subtle warning beneath the honeyed words.
I force my spine straight, my shoulders back, every inch of me radiating a calm I don’t feel.
I force myself to meet my mother’s gaze head-on, refusing to cower or flinch under the weight of her stare. “Mother,” I greet evenly. “I didn’t realize you’d be here. I was hoping I wouldn’t see you.”
My mother’s smile sharpens, her eyes glinting like shards of ice. “I see your time away hasn’t helped.” Her gaze slides over my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Gio dear, I’m sure a strong hand will do wonders for her will.”
Giovanni leans back in his chair, watching me with that same smug, detached expression I’ve hated since I was seventeen. “I’m not worried, Mrs. Ashburn.”
I grit my teeth, my nails biting into my palms as I fight to keep my expression neutral. “I’m leaving.”
“You’re not. You’re going to sign an annulment,” my mother continues, like I wasn’t talking. She gestures with her fingers, and my father pushes to stand, extending a folder to me.
I stare at my father with an arched brow, folding my arms across my chest. “No.”
Giovanni exhales sharply, shaking his head like I’m an inconvenience. “You’re going to correct your mistake, Chessa,” he says smoothly. “Your father already spoke with the lawyers. All it takes is your signature.”
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh, my eyes flicking between my mother and Giovanni. “You can’t be serious.”
My mother’s smile doesn’t waver. “Oh, but we are. This little rebellion of yours has gone on long enough. It’s time to come home and fulfill your obligations to this family.”
I shake my head in disbelief, anger and indignation warring in my chest. “My obligations?” I repeat incredulously. “I have no obligations to you or anyone else in this room. I made my choice.”
The words hang in the air between us, sharp and defiant. I’ve never sworn in front of my mother before. I never dared. But standing here, in this room filled with people who want to control me, to bend me to their will, something inside me snaps.
I glare at my mother. “And I’m already fucking married.”
A thrill rushes through my veins, electric and intoxicating. It’s the high of finally, finally pushing back against the gilded cage they’ve tried to keep me in for so long. The shackles of expectation and obligation, rusted and confining, start to crack and splinter.
My mother’s right eye twitches as the silence stretches, thick and charged.
“Right. About that.” She sighs, soft and almost full of pity. “See, the thing is, the Carters will suffer for every hour you delay your annulment.” Her voice is gentle, almost amused, but I know better. I know that tone.
The breath in my lungs turns to stone. I feel it in my ribs, heavy and suffocating. I force myself to keep my expression neutral, but my pulse jackhammers beneath my skin. “That’s a bold threat,” I say, voice steady. “Even for you.”
Catherine swirls the amber liquid in her glass, watching the way the light catches the cut crystal. “You think Graham Carter is untouchable?” Her voice is almost amused. “A man with enemies like his?” Her lips curve in mock sympathy. “It would be tragic, wouldn’t it? A car accident. A home invasion gone wrong. A bullet meant for someone else.” She tilts her head. “These things happen every day, darling. And no one ever asks the right questions.”
My stomach clenches, a sick, twisting feeling taking root. I force myself to meet my mother’s gaze head on, refusing to let her see even a flicker of the fear coursing through my veins. “My husband isn’t like you, Mother. He helps people.”
She laughs, the sound cold and brittle. “Is that what he told you? Oh darling, you really are naive.” She stands gracefully, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her impeccable suit. “I’m afraid the Carters are about to learn a very harsh lesson.”
My pulse pounds in my ears, hot and frantic. The room tilts for half a second before I force myself to lock my knees. I know how this works. My mother doesn’t make empty threats. She lays groundwork, quietly, methodically. By the time you realize the walls are closing in, it’s already too late.
My pulse hammers in my ears, a sickening, off-kilter rhythm.
I picture it. Graham on a sidewalk, blood blooming through his shirt. A home invasion that isn’t random. The door kicked in, Romeo barking, and?—
I shove the thought away so hard my vision blurs.
“You’re a monster,” I whisper, voice hoarse. But my mother only smiles.
My father sighs. “This is not a game, Francesca.”
I glare at him. He barely looks at me.
My mother takes a sip of her rocks glass and taps a fingernail against the folder. “Sign the papers.”
A slow, creeping dread coils in my stomach. The words hit like a gut punch. I swear I feel them land.
“Just do it, Frankie,” Florence says, barely above a whisper.
My stomach turns violently. The room tilts. I think I sway on my feet. “You knew ,” I choke out, my throat raw. Florence still won’t look at me. I turn to her fully, my pulse pounding. “You don’t get to call me that anymore.”
Florence swallows hard. “They already have people in place, watching Graham, and you don’t know what they’ll do?—”
“Florence,” Mother snaps. “That’s enough.”
My sister flinches like she’s been slapped, her gaze dropping back to the floor.
My chest heaves with ragged breaths as I stare at my sister. She knew. She knew what they were planning and she still lured me here. Used my love for her against me. Betrayal burns like acid in my throat.
“How could you?” I whisper, my voice cracking.
Florence doesn’t answer. She just stands there, shoulders hunched, refusing to meet my gaze. Like a marionette with its strings cut, waiting for the next tug from our mother.
I stare at my sister, trying to reconcile the woman in front of me with the little girl who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms. The one who whispered secrets and dreams into the dark, our pinky fingers linked beneath the covers. The one who was my other half, my mirror image, the keeper of all my hopes and fears.
She looks smaller somehow, diminished. Like our mother’s disappointment has leached the color from her cheeks, the light from her eyes. Her perfectly polished armor is cracked, revealing glimpses of the scared, lost girl beneath.
My eyes linger on the bruises around her wrists, tracing their outline. They form a sickening pattern, a bracelet of pain encircling her delicate skin. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry as realization dawns. She didn’t betray me by choice. Someone forced her hand, leaving their mark on her body as a twisted reminder.
Something sharp and hot tears through my chest.
They hurt her. I inhale sharply, blinking against the realization.
I stare at my sister, anger and betrayal still churning in my gut, but now tempered by a growing sense of horror. Florence didn’t lure me here of her own free will. Someone forced her hand, using violence and fear to make her comply. The reality of it hits me like a punch to the throat, leaving me winded and aching.
My gaze snaps back to my mother, lips curling into a snarl. “I’m leaving, and I’m taking my sister with me.” I take a single step back, forcing my breathing to stay even.
Giovanni stands slowly, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off an inconvenience. His eyes sweep over me, calculated, assessing. “I’m tired of this, Chessa,” he murmurs, like this is a negotiation he’s indulging for too long.
He takes a slow step forward. Then another. Like a lion circling prey that doesn’t know it’s already dead. Then he moves too fast. His hand clamps around my arm, his grip bruising. I yelp, stumbling as he yanks me forward.
“You don’t get to say no anymore,” he breathes, shoving me hard against the wall.
I turn my head, locking eyes with my sister. And for the first time in over a decade, I do something I swore I never would.
I beg.
Florence takes a single step forward. And that’s all I see before Giovanni yanks me away.