Chapter 11
“Eldest Daughter” - Taylor Swift
Maeve
It’s Friday night, and I know what you’re thinking.
Oh yay, let’s hit a club or fly to Madrid for the weekend.
Except you’re not a Wilson, so you don’t understand the importance of family dinners.
We don’t have them every single week, especially not while the twins are at school, but when my mother issues an invitation to one, you’d better be canceling any plans you have, even if they include a visit to Wesbourne Palace.
If I’m ever forced to choose between my parents and Queen Celia, you’d better believe I’ll be choosing them, because not even the monarch herself can inspire the level of fear in a person that either of my parents can.
Actually, I rather like the queen. She’s ambitious, determined, and dynamic. If we were after the same things in life, I’d hate her, but since we’re not, I’m perfectly content admiring her. Not to mention snagging Prince Henry? Job well done, girl. That man is fine.
I walk up the front steps of Kenswick House and ring the bell.
My parents have lived at this address in the Hills since before I was born, but whether this place can be called a home is debatable.
Would you call a mausoleum homey? The place I grew up in—four stories of white stone framed by massive marble pillars and locked behind tall wrought iron gates—is as formidable as the people who live here.
My mother opens the door wearing a sleeveless ivory silk dress and a fresh blowout.
Caterina Wilson comes from an aristocratic Italian family, if that wasn’t already obvious from her high cheekbones, olive coloring, and jet-black hair.
She gives my outfit—Valentino bow-embellished black-and-white-checked tweed minidress under a black double-breasted cashmere peacoat—a cursory glance, then makes a show of checking behind me for a guest.
“Yes, Mother. I’m alone,” I say, walking past her into the house.
The hall is open all the way to the roof, a balcony on each of the three stories overlooking it, making you feel as if you’ve just stepped into a luxury hotel, not someone’s residence. Of course, that could also be because of the lack of personal touches around.
After hanging my coat in the closet, I follow my mum to the dining room, where a hundred-year-old chandelier drips from the ceiling, highlighting the huge table that can easily hold twenty people but has only been set for five.
At my father’s bark, we all take our seats without a word—or rather, four of us do.
Dinner is served promptly at seven thirty, something my brother is acutely aware of—how could he not be, growing up in this family?—and yet his empty chair screams louder than a ringing phone during a funeral.
My father notices Sebastian’s absence but pretends not to. I toss my sister a questioning glance, but she simply flicks her brows upward and sips her wine. Either their twin homing beacons are malfunctioning at the moment, or she’s not willing to sell Bash out.
They both head back to uni on Monday after a six-week holiday, which means I’ll be forced to endure these atrocious dinners alone. Don’t you just envy my life?
“How high did you school today?” my father asks Vivienne as he cuts into his perfectly seared rib eye steak.
She tucks her long dark hair behind her ear before answering him in an even tone. “Three feet.”
His fork clatters against his plate, and his face turns the same shade as his crimson tie. “Why? You know she can do more than that.”
To my sister’s credit, his words appear to roll right off her.
Viv has been on a horse since she was five—we all have—but she’s the only one of the three Wilson children with the grace and discipline necessary to make it in the sport of show jumping.
However, our father has never met something he couldn’t criticize.
Viv spears another bite of truffle-infused potatoes. “Because unlike you, she has boundaries.”
Before the two of them can get into it about the merits of pushing a horse past its limits, the dining room doors open with a clatter.
I don’t need to look to know who has just arrived, but I do anyway, because that’s just the kind of person my brother is.
He doesn’t enter a room; he sets it on fire.
You may not know him yet, but you will—trust me on that.
Sebastian Wilson is destined for a life in the tabloids.
I’m not sure if he does it to infuriate our father or if he simply considers that a bonus, but from the grin spreading across his face as he glances around the table, it’s obvious he doesn’t feel the slightest remorse for his tardiness or his rude appearance.
Is it mean of me to say that I’m glad to see him, though? Not because I’m eager to be in my brother’s presence, but because it will take the focus off me for once. And with everything that’s happened this week, it would be really nice to not have my father breathing down my neck tonight, too.
“Sorry I’m late.” Bash rounds the table to where my mother is sitting, then leans down and presses a loud kiss to her cheek.
She places her hand on his face, holding him to her. After Bash releases her and takes the last seat at the table, she says, “Sebastian. So nice of you to join us.”
“Got caught in traffic,” he says, winking at Vivienne.
I roll my eyes. He’s not fooling anyone, but we’re all happy to let him think he is. By “traffic” he means street racing, although I doubt my father would deign to call it anything other than “reckless behavior that is a disrespect to your upbringing.”
Something else you should know about Oliver Wilson—everything is about him, and every mistake you make can be construed as disrespecting him, his family, or his legacy. Consider yourself warned.
“Where’s your dinner jacket?” he snaps now, looking at Bash as though he’s walked in covered in horse manure.
Bash looks down at his black-and-white Balenciaga T-shirt and winces. “Fuck. Must have left it in the car.”
Mum gives him what I’m sure is meant to be an admonishing look, but it loses its effectiveness by the time it reaches him. She has a soft spot for him the size of the Atlantic. “Language, Bash.”
I slice another bite of steak and pop it into my mouth.
My family might be dysfunctional, but at least they’re doing a great job keeping my mind off that kiss.
That stupid bloody kiss that hasn’t given me a moment’s peace, not even when I’m sleeping.
Last night I dreamt— Well, I’m not telling you what I dreamt, because it was inappropriate and you don’t need to know.
I’ve had enough time and distance from the event itself to properly analyze it, and the conclusion I’ve come to is this: the reason I keep hyperfixating on Pierce and the kiss is twofold.
One, HavenNet. If we weren’t forced to work together so closely on something so important, this would be a non-issue.
Two, the challenge. Fighting over our friends sounds stupid and childish, I know.
But how am I supposed to back out now? I can’t just let him claim our group and push me out.
Which means I’m stuck in purgatory for the foreseeable future. The best thing to do is to find a way to relax. If I can manage that, I can stop envisioning stripping the clothes off one of my oldest—former—friends.
“So, Maeve,” Bash says, a wicked gleam in his eye I don’t care for, “I heard Pierce was your date the other night.” He keeps his eyes locked on mine as he chugs his wine.
I also do not appreciate being used as a means of diverting our father’s attention, and Bash knows it. But my brother is one of the most selfish people you’ll ever encounter, so you can’t really expect much else. I tighten my glare. “It wasn’t a date. He was assisting.”
“Whatever you say, sister dear.” He holds up his glass, and one of the servers waiting in the shadows refills it.
My mother clears her throat, and my stomach clenches. Both of my parents are exceptional at communicating without words. Throat clearing is a favorite tool in both of their arsenals, which is how I know exactly what’s coming next.
“Perhaps—”
“No, Mother.” I hold up my hand before she can finish her thought. “There is absolutely nothing between Pierce and me. Besides, he has a girlfriend.” Maybe if I say it enough times, my brain will finally get the hint.
She raises one perfectly arched brow. “I was only going to say, perhaps it’s time you find someone and make a commitment.”
I close my eyes for a brief second before forcing a smile.
“Sure. I’ll get right on that.” Of course, none of them know about Preston.
My dad would have a coronary if he knew I was seeing a married man.
God, the scandal it would cause. That would be his one and only concern.
How would it reflect on the Wilson name?
So I plaster a fake smile on my face and pretend I don’t have a boyfriend who is currently with his wife, and whom I haven’t thought much about these past two days because my former best friend kissed me in an elevator while we were having a row, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it ever since and I don’t know what kind of person it makes me that my body wants another go the way it wants oxygen.
* * *
Over the weekend, I try everything. The spa, naturally—you really should get the La Mer Signature Facial the next time you’re there; it’s exquisite—a three-hour massage, an Audrey Hepburn movie marathon, and shopping with Lux.
That last one I only did because she invited me and I thought it might help.
But have you ever shopped with Lux Colombia-Clarke?
God, it only heightened my anxiety, and I remembered immediately why I prefer to shop alone.
The only exception was when I went with Pierce.
It was rather nice to have someone to hold my bags and tell me I looked stunning, even if I know he was only saying it to gain points in the challenge.
By Sunday night, I don’t feel any less stressed. I can’t fall asleep, my thoughts go all hazy when I try to focus on anything work-related, and there’s a jitteriness running through my veins as though I’m on Adderall. I popped a Valium earlier, but it only made me tired.
I pull my phone from the bedside table, and it slips from my grasp and lands on the floor. Stifling a very loud “fuck,” I get out of bed and retrieve it. I send a text to Preston, asking if there’s any way he can come over tonight. I need that orgasm. Besides, he kind of owes me one or two.
His reply comes several minutes later. I can’t tonight. So sorry. xx
I toss the phone onto the bed beside me. Don’t ever date a married guy, okay?
Reaching into the drawer of my nightstand, I find my vibrator.
It’s been a hot minute since I’ve used it, but if Pierce is right, maybe it’s time to dust it off a little more often.
Thinking of him makes me think of the kiss, and by the time I have my panties pulled down, my need for a lubricant has greatly decreased.