Chapter 40
MANAGING GAPS: CONTROLLING DISTANCE TO CARS AHEAD/BEHIND
The estate looks exactly the same. That’s the first thing I notice as the limo we’re in fights against the winds that surround the gates of Hawthorne Manor.
Nothing’s changed. Not the iron fencing stretching across acres of land. Not the ancient trees standing like sentries along the drive. Not the gray stone manor rising in the distance, cold and imposing beneath the overcast English sky.
Places like this aren’t built to acknowledge grief. They survive generations. Death becomes another date carved into stone.
I stare out the window as we pass the family cemetery tucked into the western edge of the estate grounds.
That’s where we’re headed because apparently Hawthornes don’t get the chance to leave. Not even after death.
The funeral itself passes in front of me in broken fragments. Black umbrellas. Muted condolences. Voices low enough to imply respect but not low enough to hide curiosity.
Because they’re not all looking at me as Leo Hawthorne, Formula One driver. No, they’re addressing me as “Viscount Raleigh.”
God, I despise it.
I stand beneath the sprawling oak trees overlooking the burial grounds and stare at Albert’s coffin.
Then my sister-in-law’s and nephew’s. There’s nothing I regret more in this moment than Albert and I not setting things to rights.
I wouldn’t be surprised if my father saw to that.
Although we were raised by the same worthless family, we were separated by more than age.
We were divided by expectations.
He was the heir. He had a son. Now, I’m here as a consolation prize. Still, I’m stunned when the complete strangers Albert called friends inform me that he closely followed my races. Talked about reaching out.
That he, too, regretted the distance between us.
Sorrow flows through me at the realization we’ll never have the chance to reconnect.
Though I’d much rather Christin, Dario, and Lewis be by my side, they aren’t part of the Hawthorne family or the peerage.
For now, I can’t lean on them despite how much I want to buck tradition.
But I know I have a responsibility to my brother to participate in his service without starting a ruckus.
I feel Christin’s love wash over me, even with the distance between us, as I suffer through sitting near my father.
After the service ends, I try to avoid interacting with my father’s peers. I’m definitely trying to avoid my father, who stands near the grave accepting condolences like he’s hosting a bloody garden party instead of burying his son.
He spots me and his eyes narrow. Then his voice cuts through the crowd calling me forward, “Son. Leo.”
The command hidden in it hasn’t changed in ten years. I walk in the opposite direction, ready to find Christin, Dario, and Lewis and leave. I’ve done my duty.
Unfortunately, he follows. He finally gets close enough to grab my arm. “Viscount Raleigh.”
That stops me not because I respect it but because I despise its association with me. I shrug off his hand and demand, “What?”
His expression hardens instantly. I’m not surprised by my father’s lack of grief or softness. “There are responsibilities requiring your attention.”
I actually stare past him at Albert’s coffin still resting beside the open grave. My brother hasn’t even been lowered into the ground yet. I hiss, “You’re doing this now?”
“The timing is unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate,” I repeat quietly.
His jaw tightens. “The family requires stability.”
The family. Nothing personal. No, How are you holding up?
Nothing.
He goes on as if nothing is amiss. “You’ve had years to prepare yourself for assuming responsibility.”
My hands curl at my sides. “Albert’s burial—his family’s burial—is happening ten feet away.”
“I’m aware.”
Something sharp and furious twists inside my chest. It’s clarity about why I never looked back. And it makes me feel secure in what I’m going to do to his precious legacy, because nothing has changed. Not even today, when we’re supposed to be mourning my brother.
“I’m not discussing titles today.”
I turn and storm away. Then I hear my name called in a way that stops my motion on a dime. “Lord Raleigh.”
Slowly, I turn. An older man approaches from the edge of the crowd. It’s Harrison, the Hawthorne estate solicitor. I vaguely remember him standing beside my father in rooms children weren’t meant to enter.
He looks older now. Affected. More human. He dips his head as appropriate for the title I currently hold. “May I have a word? It’s about your brother.”
I nod.
He leads me several yards away beneath an enormous oak overlooking the burial grounds. For a moment, he says nothing. Then, he reaches into his coat and pulls out an envelope.
My name is written across the front in handwriting that immediately makes something in my chest ache.
I know that writing—perfectly slanted. Suddenly, I’m four years old watching Albert practice his letters. I’m twelve, borrowing school notes.
He holds the envelope out to me. I take it and my fingers tighten around it. “How did you get this?”
Harrison’s expression shifts. “Your brother left instructions. He wanted you to read it privately.”
I stare at the envelope. At my name.
Leo.
Not Viscount. Not Raleigh.
Leo.
“He was very specific.”
I swallow hard.
Around us, rain continues falling softly over black umbrellas, fresh graves, and generations of Hawthornes buried beneath the estate grounds.
Behind me, my father calls my name again, demanding my presence. But I don’t turn around. For the first time all day, he isn’t my focus.
Only this envelope from Albert is.
Suddenly I realize something that hurts almost as much as losing him. His friends were telling the truth. He really did want to reconnect.
Now I’m holding proof that he did.
Later, after everyone is in bed, I open his final words to me.
Leo,
If you’re reading this, then I’ve either become dramatically sentimental overnight—which, let’s be honest, would concern both of us—or things have gone very, very wrong.
I’m hoping for sentimental. If it’s the second option, then I’m sorry. God, I hate that my first instinct is to apologize to you. Maybe because I’ve spent most of my life doing exactly that in my head.
I’m sorry I couldn’t shield you more.
I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him from his cruelty.
I’m sorry I couldn’t make our family into something softer than it was.
I recall when you were nine or ten, you told me you didn’t know what was wrong with you. That I was better at handling Father. I know you believed that. But the truth is, I wasn’t better at it. I just learned earlier that surviving and changing people aren’t the same thing.
I kept thinking if I did enough—said enough, became enough—I could absorb the worst of them before it reached you. I truly thought that if I stood in front long enough, eventually you’d stop getting hit by the fallout.
Maybe that’s what older brothers tell themselves. Maybe it’s arrogance.
But I need you to know something. None of what happened in our home was because there was something wrong with you. Not one bloody thing.
You were never too loud.
Never too emotional.
Never too reckless.
Never too much.
You were simply born wanting love in a family that didn’t give it credence. That isn’t a flaw. It’s the thing I admired most about you.
I know you thought I embraced our world. Sometimes I did. Sometimes I even convinced myself I wanted it. But if I’m being honest? I think I liked it because someone had to.
To Father, I became the heir and, once Lila and I had Alex, he dismissed you as if you were a servant. I knew he could do worse, which is why I didn’t speak up in your defense that night. I was wrong.
You left. And Leo, I was glad you did. God, I was relieved even.
Every time I watched you on the telly during a race, with every article I read, and through every interview I listened to, I felt absurdly proud. Yes, I followed your career, every second of it.
I watched your qualifying sessions while sitting in hotel rooms. I listened to interviews while pretending I wasn’t. I knew when your shoulders looked tight before a race weekend. I knew when your smile was real and when it wasn’t.
And every single time I saw you climb into your car, I thought the same thing. That’s my brother. Free.
You looked more like yourself in a helmet than you ever did enduring Father at Hawthorne. I want you to know that I saw it.
I saw you.
There was never anything you did, little brother, that I wasn’t aware of. I am so proud of you and everything you’ve accomplished.
If things went wrong—if somehow I’m not there to say any of this in person—there’s one thing I need you to promise me. Don’t come back. Don’t shrink yourself because you think duty requires it. Don’t let guilt chain you to a life you managed to escape.
I spent years watching how brilliant you are. Don’t regret finding happiness in your freedom. I’m not.
I hope you found your true family. Not one born of blood nor obligation.
Family isn’t a hardship, Leo. It’s proof people choose you.
Ours was horrid. The life I’ve built with Lila and Alex has shown me family are those who sit on floors beside you when life falls apart.
People who love you loudly enough that you finally stop wondering if you’re worth staying for.
Leo, I want that for you. I hope you’ve found love. Real love. The kind I have with Lila. The kind we created with Alex. It’s terrifying but unbreakable. The kind of love I hope you’ve found will see every damaged part of you and stay anyway.
Because I know you, brother. You’ve spent your whole life believing people will kick you aside. I hope someone’s proved you wrong. You deserve that. You always did.
One last thing? Choose your life the way you want to live it. The world won’t end if there’s no Viscount Raleigh.
I love you.
Albie
After placing my brother’s letter aside, I bury my head in my hands and sob.
I’m not crying because of what he wrote. Not entirely. I’m releasing the emotions of the years we lost. For everything I never understood. For a father who caused such a divide that two brothers couldn’t reach out.
Except in death.
I’m not certain how much later it is before Christin finds me out of bed.
I lift my head, and she is standing in the doorway, looking at me like I’m still someone worthy of everything. Suddenly, clarity cuts through the grief and anger of today.
Because my father spent my entire life teaching me that love isn’t worth much.
Christin is the person who makes me realize how precious it is.