Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
JO
The wake is held in the mansion’s reception hall, a space so vast that the crystal chandeliers above the room look like they belong in a palace, not a private home.
The floor is polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the black suits and dresses of the guests.
Their laughter is soft and controlled as they chat politely, the kind of interaction that suggests power and influence rather than warmth.
As I follow Gavin through the double doors, I try to keep my presence small. Even though he insisted I attend, the thought of mingling among people who’ve known my father for decades makes my stomach twist.
And then I see him. Axel Rhodes. A familiar face should help me to feel more relaxed, but the sight of him has the opposite effect on me, and I feel myself shifting uncomfortably as he glances in my direction.
He is standing near the grand fireplace, his dark hair neat, his shoulders broad, and his green eyes scanning my face with that same imperious assessment I’ve come to recognize whenever he looks at me.
The movement in the room doesn’t seem to touch him.
He’s as cold and unapproachable as ever.
“I’ll go and get us some drinks. Why don’t you go and speak to Axel?” Gavin says. He says it loud enough that I know Axel has heard him and so I nod and start towards him as Gavin moves away.
“It was a very moving service,” I say because I can’t think of anything else.
Axel just stares at me, the hostility clear on his face. “Yes, for those who knew Joseph, it was.”
The implication is clear. I didn’t know Joseph so I can’t be moved by it.
I don’t know this man and I don’t know why he seems to have such a problem with me, but quite frankly, I’m sick of it, and I’m sick of being the one to make polite conversation while he acts out.
I can’t help it. My eyes start to roll of their own accord at his words.
Axel’s gaze finds mine, and he stares at me.
Instantly, I feel exposed, caught in a private infraction, an almost childish rebellion against his attitude and the way that my body seems to react to it whenever he’s near me.
Even now, even as I look at him with disdain, I can feel my stomach fluttering.
“Do not roll your eyes at me, Miss Button,” he says finally, his voice low and calm, but with an edge.
I tilt my chin up, smirking slightly despite myself. “I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t so rude,” I reply.
He scoffs, a sound that carries disdain and dislike. “You shouldn’t even be here.”
I hesitate, opening my mouth to agree. He’s right. I thought as much myself until Gavin convinced me to come. I am intruding on something that isn’t mine. But something stops me from saying any of that. My throat tightens in anger, and I feel heat rising in my cheeks. I can’t let him have this.
“I have every right to be here,” I blurt out before I can second-guess myself. “Joseph was my father. And this is his house.”
His green eyes narrow, and his lips press into a thin line as if he’s trying to measure my resolve. For a moment, the world around us seems to disappear. There is just him and me, and the silent storm raging between us.
Axel opens his mouth to say something cutting, I’m sure, but before he can speak, Gavin reappears at my side, bringing his calm authority and impeccable timing.
He holds two glasses of what looks like white wine, and he hands one to me.
He nods at Axel. “Got something that needs your signature. Catch you later?”
“Of course,” Axel replies smoothly.
“Miss Button, if you’ll allow me. There are some people you must meet,” Gavin says smoothly, placing a hand lightly on my back and guiding me away.
I glance back, and Axel’s green eyes are following me, his expression thunderous, a wordless warning. I turn back to face where I am walking, but I can still feel the pull of his gaze like a weight as Gavin leads me through the crowd.
But the next time I look back, people have moved between Axel and me, and I can no longer see him.
Up ahead, I can see Lydia and Sheldon Manswell talking quietly.
Up close, Lydia is poised, sculpted, and chillingly beautiful, the kind of beauty that immediately commands attention.
No wonder my father was besotted by her.
Her eyes flick over me with the kind of appraisal that feels like it’s stripping away every layer, searching for imperfections.
Sheldon, on the other hand, stands casually, a drink in his hand. There is warmth in his eyes.
“Lydia, Sheldon, this is Jo Button,” Gavin says. “Joseph’s daughter. Jo, this is Lydia Manswell, your father’s ex-wife, and Sheldon Manswell, his stepson.”
And after that statement, someone taps Gavin on the shoulder and whispers something in his ear, and he excuses himself, leaving me with Lydia and Sheldon.
Wow. Talk about an awkward introduction.
This is just getting better and better. At least when Axel gives me the evil eye, he is good to look at.
“Hi,” I say awkwardly.
“Miss Button,” Lydia says with a cold nod of her head. Her voice is smooth, but there’s a haughty edge to it. She pauses, looking me up and down with a kind of clinical precision and makes absolutely no attempt to hide the fact she doesn’t think much of what she sees. “Welcome, I suppose.”
I can’t decide whether to reply with something equally cutting or whether to rise above it and be polite.
In the end, I settle for nodding politely, even though I can feel the heat of irritation rise in my cheeks.
If she notices, she doesn’t care. She just inclines her head slightly, excuses herself, and glides away as if the room is made for her alone, leaving an icy trail behind her.
I imagine I can almost see the ground frosting over where she steps.
Sheldon steps forward, a more approachable presence despite his towering frame.
“Jo,” he says, his tone gentle. “Is it ok to call you Jo?”
I nod.
And he carries on. “Sorry about her. It’s not personal. She’s like that with everyone. I swear if she smiled, no one would recognize her.”
I manage a small laugh, appreciating the honesty. “That’s good to know. Thank you.”
He smiles, and it’s warm and easy in contrast to his mother’s frost. “I hope you know you’re welcome here. Really. It’s kind of nice to have a sister.”
We chat for a few moments. He asks about my journey, my thoughts about the funeral.
I notice the careful way he chooses his words, the subtle restraint in his gestures.
It’s friendly, considered, but completely human.
When he excuses himself to speak to another guest with a promise to call me and arrange to have coffee and a proper chat, I feel a small pang of disappointment, though I shouldn’t.
I turn and scan the room, seeking something familiar, and my eyes fall on Betty. Relief blooms in me. I make my way over to her, feeling like I can finally breathe.
“Betty,” I say quietly, careful not to raise my voice over the murmured conversations.
Her green eyes widen in surprise. “Miss Button.”
“Jo,” I remind her.
She looks around self-consciously. “Jo? What’s wrong?” she asks, concern flickering across her delicate features.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I assure her, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m just pleased to see a friendly face.”
She smiles, her expression shy. “Me too. But with me being staff, well, I didn’t expect anyone to acknowledge me.”
I grin softly. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m not one of those people, and we’re friends.”
Her lips curl into a tentative smile, and I feel a great warmth in my chest. My first impressions of Betty were right. She is definitely someone with whom I can be friends with.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
I look towards the double doors that lead out onto the patio, and suddenly I need to get out of here, away from these strangers. “I need some air. Fancy a walk outside?”
Betty nods, and we walk to the doors and across the patio.
Betty leads me down a short path that opens out to a beautiful garden full of red roses.
We sit side by side on a bench facing the flowers.
It’s a good spot – close enough to the doors to hear the sounds of the wake and far enough away to be able to talk privately.
“You handled yourself very well back there with Lydia,” she says softly.
I huff a quiet breath. “I didn’t actually defend myself.”
“Exactly.”
I glance at her. There’s no sarcasm in her face. Just sincerity. Inside, someone laughs too loudly, and the sound jars.
“Have you worked for my father for a long time?” I ask.
“Fifteen years,” she says. She folds her hands tightly together in her lap. “I started when I was nineteen. I was just a member of the cleaning staff at first.”
“Nineteen?” I look at her properly now. “You practically grew up here.”
“Yes.” A small nod. “I did.”
“What was he like?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Not the public version. Not the myth. The man in his own home.”
Betty doesn’t answer me immediately. She watches a gust of wind scatter a lone, dead leaf across the lawn behind the flower beds.
“He was quieter at home,” she says at last. “Not softer. Just quieter. He’d come in late most nights.
Always alone. Always carrying work with him.
He’d put his keys in the bowl by the door exactly the same way every time.
His shoes would be lined up perfectly beneath his jacket, which always went on the third hook, not the second. ”
A faint, almost fond smile touches her mouth. “He liked order. He’d walk through the house as though he expected it to disappoint him. Checking things. Straightening things that didn’t need straightening.”
“Control. He liked to be in control,” I say, almost to myself.
“Yes.” She glances at me, surprised. “Yes, that exactly. But sometimes,” she adds more quietly. “Sometimes he would just stand in the library and stare at ...”
She trails off and glances at me.
“At what?”