Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Henry
“It’s time, son.” My father poured three fingers of scotch at the bar tucked into the corner of his study, another Thursday ritual as old as my failures. “The Ashworths have been more than patient.”
I stood at the wall of windows overlooking Central Park West, twenty stories up in the building where doormen knew your coffee order and residents had private elevator banks. The park was painted in shades of gold and red—like the trees that lined Main Street in River Bend.
No. I couldn’t think about her. Not now. Not when my father expected answers I didn’t have.
“Caroline’s a fine match.” The crystal decanter clinked against the glass with precise, measured strikes. Like everything else about Richard Kingston III, the sound conveyed power. “Her family’s wealth nearly rivals ours. Nearly.” He let the word hang in the air, thick with judgment. In my world, that minor distinction meant everything.
I turned from the window, his words pulling me back toward the armchair by the fireplace. The leather creaked as I sat, the air heavy with the scent of old scotch and older expectations.
Every inch of the study reminded anyone who entered that the Kingstons had never been more powerful. It was a room built to command respect and suppress rebellion.
I’d learned that lesson the hard way. I hadn’t fought for her—not when it mattered most. And the worst part was knowing that I should have. It had been a lifetime since I’d seen her, yet Savvy lingered in every corner of my mind.
She was nothing like the polished, predictable women my father paraded before me—Caroline included. Savvy had been a hurricane. Uncontrollable, vibrant, and far too dangerous for the Kingston legacy.
My gaze flicked to the portrait of my grandfather above the marble fireplace. Richard Kingston Sr., patriarch and architect of the Kingston empire, looked out with cold eyes that seemed to say, You don’t get to choose. None of us ever did.
“You’ve been dodging this for weeks, Henry.” My father poured a precise measure of scotch into another crystal glass and handed it to me. “The Ashworths won’t wait forever. You need to plan.”
I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, staring into its depths as if it held answers.
“This isn’t about what you want,” he continued, his voice sharp. “The Kingston name is bigger than you, bigger than me. Choice isn’t part of the deal. That’s the price of privilege.”
The pressure of those expectations pressed down harder in the study, where the air seemed thick with ambition and legacy.
I leaned back in the leather armchair, closing my eyes. I could still hear her laugh, the way she’d said my name like it wasn’t tied to generations of obligation. Sometimes, I wondered if she’d forgotten me entirely—or if she still carried the broken pieces of our relationship.
The glass of scotch sat untouched in my hand, a reminder of the legacy I couldn’t escape and the life I couldn’t have.
Those distinctions stared down at me from the walls—four generations of Kingston men captured in oils, each portrait more imposing than the last. Great-great-grandfather Theodore, who’d built our first bank. Great-grandfather Richard I, who’d turned it into an empire. My father’s father, Richard II, who’d merged us into the billion-dollar stratosphere with real estate. They all have those ice-blue Kingston eyes, watching, judging, expecting.
“The Kingston legacy demands certain ... standards.” He lifted his glass toward Theodore’s portrait. “Certain responsibilities. You have to marry, son. And soon. Statistically speaking, the longer you wait to have children, the more likely you will have a girl.” He gestured to the wall of portraits. “Two hundred years of Kingston men. Don’t screw that up because you can’t do what’s expected of you.”
My stomach turned. “I wanted to marry once. Remember how that worked out?”
“Don’t tell me you’re still—” He lowered his glass hard enough to slosh the amber liquid over the edge. “For God’s sake, Henry. It’s been five years. Let it go.”
Five years, two months, and thirteen days. Not that I was counting.
“The Honeysuckers,” he spat the name like a curse, “would never fit into our world. The Kingstons have married Vanderbilts, Carnegies, and Astors. We don’t marry ... Honeysuckers.” He laughed, cruel and sharp. “Lord, how does one even become a Honeysucker?”
The name hit me like a physical blow, bringing with it the memory of Savvy’s laugh as she’d told me the story. We’d been in her family’s garage at the marina, watching her father work on Mrs. Patterson’s ancient Volvo while the scent of salt and motor oil filled the air. He worked on cars and boats there, the space cluttered with everything from rusted-out engines to half-finished skiffs.
I turned to my father. “Honigsucher,” I said, the word foreign but familiar on my tongue. “They were beekeepers in Germany. It means honey seekers—before Ellis Island got creative with the spelling?—”
“I don’t need a history lesson on peasant surnames.” My father’s voice sliced through the air. “I need you to do your duty to this family. Caroline’s father called again this morning.”
I swallowed the scotch, letting it burn. “I’m meeting Caroline for coffee tomorrow.”
“Coffee?” He barked out a laugh. “You’re not meeting her for coffee, you’re meeting her to propose. It’s time, Henry. Past time.” He moved to the portrait wall, straightening a frame that didn’t need straightening. “The merger documents are ready. The press release is drafted. All you need is the ring.”
“You mean the ring is all you require.”
“Watch yourself.” His voice dropped to that dangerous register I remembered from childhood. “I’ve been more than patient with your ... reluctance. But the Ashworths won’t wait forever. Do you think you’re the only suitable match for Caroline?”
“Maybe she should find someone who loves her.”
He turned, those Kingston-blue eyes piercing right through me. “Love? Is that what you think you had with that mechanic’s daughter? That little dreamer who thought she could build a wedding business with her equally delusional friends?”
The memory of Savvy’s dreams twisted in my chest. She’d had it all planned—the three of them spreading happiness across New York, one wedding at a time. I’d also believed in that dream until my father had made his plans crystal clear.
“One phone call to the building department, Henry. That’s all it would take. Their quaint little bookstore would be buried in violations—safety hazards, code infractions, structural concerns. They’d be shut down before they could even file an appeal. And the marina? I buy that property, raise the rent on Paul’s repair shop, and just like that—her family loses everything. Their businesses, their future—gone in an instant. It’d be a rounding error in our quarterly report.”
I’d made my choice that night. Walked away. Disappeared from her life without a word. Because the alternative—watching my father systematically destroy her family—would have killed me. Better to break her heart quickly than watch her world crumble piece by piece.
“You made the right choice then.” My father’s voice pulled me back to the present, reading my thoughts with that unnerving precision he possessed. “I was proud of you that day.”
“You didn’t give me much choice.” The words sat heavy on my tongue, dry and bitter, like ash after a fire.
“I gave you exactly the choice you needed.” He moved to the wall, swinging aside a portrait to reveal the safe. “And I still do. Don’t forget that.”
The safe door swung open with a whisper of expensive engineering. My father reached inside and pulled out a black velvet box that screamed old money and older expectations.
“A five-carat cushion cut.” He opened the box, letting the diamond catch the light. “Both family crests are engraved inside the band.”
My stomach lurched. This wasn’t just a ring—it was a collar, perfectly sized and waiting. “You bought an engagement ring without telling me?”
“I made an investment in our future.” He held the box out like a challenge. “The future you’re going to secure tomorrow morning.”
All I could think about was the ring I’d picked out for Savvy five years ago. It was vintage, warm rose gold that reminded me of sunset on the Hudson and a stone that sparkled like her eyes when she laughed. I’d spent months searching for something as unique as she was.
"The Ashworths expect the announcement by week’s end." He set the box on his desk with the finality that had crushed better men than me. "Their PR team is coordinating with ours. Caroline’s father and I agree—the Four Seasons, an intimate dinner, a handpicked guest list. The society papers will eat it up."
“And if I say no?”
His expression could have frozen hell. “Then I make that call. How long do you think Paul Honeysucker can keep his family afloat once I own that marina? How many books can they sell when that Victorian gets condemned?” He leaned forward, hands flat on the desk. “And you? How far will you get in this industry when I blacklist you? The Kingston name cuts both ways, son. It can open doors—or slam them shut forever. ”
Five years and nothing had changed. He still held all the power, and we both knew it.
I snatched the ring box off his desk, shoving it into my pocket as I stormed out. My mother stood in the hallway, elegant as always in Chanel, looking like she’d been waiting. Maybe she had been—she’d developed a sixth sense over the years for when these father-son chats went nuclear. She’d been doing this dance for years, standing in hallways, smoothing over Richard’s ultimatums, trying to protect me the only way she could—with quiet warnings and timed interventions. She was the first to notice Savvy’s effect on me, the one who lit up when I brought home books from River Bend, and the one who told me once that some things were worth more than the Kingston name.
“Henry.” She touched my arm. “Don’t let him?—”
“How do you do it, Mom?” The words came out rougher than I intended. “How do you stand being married to him?”
A shadow passed her eyes—fear, resignation, years of careful compromises. “We all make our choices, darling.” She straightened my tie, a nervous habit from my childhood. “Don’t forget to visit your grandfather this week. He’s having more good days than bad lately, but...” She didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t have to.
James Morrison might have built his own fortune in real estate, but all the money in Manhattan couldn’t slow what was happening to his mind. Still, on his good days, he was the only one who’d ever truly understood me.
“I’ll stop by tomorrow.” I kissed her cheek, catching the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5. “After I meet with Caroline.”
As I rode down in the private elevator, the ring box felt heavier with every passing second. Even the doorman’s deferential nod added to the pressure settling over me. Outside, Central Park stretched across the street, its trees blazing under the October sunset like nature’s version of stained glass—so different from River Bend, where autumn’s colors reflected off the Hudson, making the entire world glow.
Tomorrow morning’s coffee meeting loomed ahead. Caroline wanted to discuss weekend plans at Rise and Grind Coffee—not one of our usual Upper East Side spots. A root canal would be preferable. Hell, another lecture from my father would be better.
Not that Caroline was awful. By any standard, she was a catch—educated student at Yale, striking in that cool Nordic way and impeccably connected—the woman who looked perfect in society photos and knew exactly which fork to use at state dinners.
But there was nothing when I was with her—no spark, flutter, or dizzying rush. I suspected she felt the same. We were two perfectly matched pieces of a puzzle neither of us wanted to complete.
Savvy was the opposite of everything Caroline represented. Caroline was a perfectly cut gem, polished and predictable. Savvy was fire and warmth—imperfect and wild in all the ways I hadn’t known I needed until I lost her.
A memory hit me so hard that I had to stop walking. Savvy, perched on a coffeehouse couch during finals week, planning her future wedding business with Maddy and Ivy. The three of them were so full of dreams and determination. I’d looked them up once, in a moment of weakness—or masochism. Ivy had become some professional bridesmaid if her Instagram was to be believed. Maddy’s LinkedIn listed her as a “Romance Logistics Specialist,” whatever that meant. But Savvy? She’d vanished completely as if she’d never existed. No social media, no business listings, nothing. Maybe that was for the best. Now here I was, five years later, with an engagement ring I didn’t want and less than twenty-four hours to determine how to use it.
I needed a drink—several, actually—but first I had to call my grandfather’s nurse, then figure out how the hell I was going to face tomorrow with this ring pressing against me like a bad decision.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d walked away from Savvy to save her future, and now I was walking into a proposal to secure mine.
Tomorrow, I’d seal my father’s deal—with a ring I didn’t want, to a woman I never loved, for a life I didn’t want to live.