Chapter 13 Rhea
THIRTEEN
RHEA
The venue is everything I expected—picture-perfect, magazine-ready, and just sterile enough to remind you that real life doesn’t happen here.
White hydrangeas line the path to the entrance. A harpist plays something delicate in the lobby. It’s the kind of place where even the air feels curated.
Carter spots me first.
“There’s my baby sister,” Carter calls out from across the room, already making his way toward me.
He pulls me into a hug that’s—surprisingly—not awkward. At least, not for my brother, who doesn’t exactly do feelings. Not unless there’s a holiday or a eulogy involved.
“Serena’s around here somewhere,” he says, scanning the room.
As if summoned by her cue, she appears at his side.
Her ivory sheath dress clings as if it were airbrushed on. She offers a smile that stops just short of genuine and steps in for a two-handed hug, like she’s bracing herself for contact with something contagious.
“Rhea. You made it,” she says, with just enough emphasis to make it sound a little like disappointment.
“I did,” I reply. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Serena blinks—just once—like I’ve suggested scrubbing the baseboards.
“I think the wedding staff has it under control.”
Right. Of course they do.
Translation: We hired professionals, sweetheart. No need for your small-town elbow grease here.
Before I can retreat to the nearest potted plant, Carter’s dad, Brad, and step-mom, Laurie, appear.
They actually light up when they see me.
“Rhea!” Brad says, his voice warm and familiar as he pulls me into a big bear hug—the kind that really means something. Laurie follows with a softer, motherly squeeze and a hand on my arm that lingers.
“We've been waiting to see you all afternoon,” she says. “Although, if we’re honest, we have to admit we were a bit disappointed that little nugget wasn’t coming along.”
Brad winks, “So, of course, we’re going to need to see pictures. Lots of them.”
My heart stutters thinking of Esme. Far away.
“She is pretty great. Growing fast,” I say, trying not to let too much emotion crack through the words.
Brad nods. “She’s got your eyes, I can see that. And probably your spirit, too.”
And just like that, I feel it—this impossible swell of gratitude and jealousy all tangled together. Because they’re kind. Truly kind. Always have been.
They don’t treat me like an outsider. They never have.
Even though I never lived with Brad. Even though he was married to my mom for just three years, long before she met my dad and long before I was born.
Somehow, Brad—and eventually Laurie—always made me feel like I belonged. Like I might’ve been part of something bigger, something secure. The kind of family that gathers for every holiday and sends handwritten birthday cards and remembers the names of your friends.
The kind of family Carter got to step into full-time the moment prep school started.
Meanwhile, I was with my mom—both of us reeling. We’d just learned my father had been involved with someone else for years. And a baby growing in the belly of the younger woman?
That was the final nudge he needed to leave for good, never looking back.
My mom’s depression grew so dark, it practically swallowed our house whole.
Meanwhile, Carter got laughter and structure and Sunday dinners. I got silence. And a note on the fridge that said, Frozen meal for dinner.
It’s not that I didn’t love my mom. I did. Fiercely. But so often, life with her felt… heavy. Isolated. And so achingly alone.
Brad and Laurie were a window into what it might have felt like to live with people who waited for you to come home just so they could ask how your day was, because they genuinely wanted to know.
Brad leans in a little, his voice lower now.
“Rhea, I just have to tell you again, what you did for your mom in those last months... it was everything. She wasn’t alone because of you.
That means more than I can ever say. And I still want to kick Carter in the ass every now and then for how little he helped you out. ”
My throat tightens. I nod, unable to speak.
Then Laurie touches my arm again, her hand warm and familiar. “You know we’d love to have you and Esme come for a visit sometime. We really would. Lord knows Carter and Serena aren’t in any rush to give us grandchildren.”
The kindness—and the quiet inference—guts me.
They actually think of Esme as a grandchild.
And that thought makes me miss her even more in this moment—my little anchor. My living proof that I can build something warm and real, even if this life doesn’t look the way I once imagined.
Eventually our conversation winds down.
I press the button for the elevator, hoping to disappear upstairs before anyone else tries to make conversation.
My shoes pinch. My heart aches in that quiet, familiar way that comes from holding too much in for too long. And all I want is five minutes alone to call Esme, hear her tiny voice say “Hi Mama,” and remember why I’m here.
The elevator dings.
I’m about to step inside when the front doors to the inn swing open behind me, and something in the air shifts.
I glance over my shoulder, more out of instinct than curiosity.
And there he is.
Spencer Devereaux.
My chest tightens before my brain catches up.
He’s not in a tux this time. Not in the sleek, hyper-polished armor he wore in D.C. Instead, he’s wearing jeans—expensive ones, sure, but still denim—paired with a soft, heather-gray T-shirt and a navy sport jacket.
Casual. Confident. Effortless.
Of course.
Then I see her on his arm.
Petite. Blonde. So blonde. The kind of blonde that glows under soft lighting and probably has a name like Saffron or Skye.
She’s wearing a fitted ivory jumpsuit that clings in all the right places, showcasing her curvy figure and tiny waist. Her heels click daintily on the stone floor. She barely reaches his shoulder.
They stand at the reception desk, holding hands like teenagers at prom.
He leans down, murmurs something into her ear, and she laughs—soft and musical, like she’s never had to fake it a day in her life.
Then, as if it couldn’t sting any more, he presses a kiss to the top of her head.
Gentle. Familiar.
My stomach twists.
This isn’t the brunette woman from the picnic photo. That woman had dark hair, long legs, an easy elegance, and child with a caterpillar drawing her in.
This is someone else.
New. Different. Weekend-worthy.
Because what else would Spencer Devereaux be doing at a luxury inn in the middle of nowhere if not booking a few days of sex and seclusion?
I retreat behind the nearest marble column like a coward, praying they don’t see me.
What an absolute cliché.
And yet—here I am. Hiding. Hurting.
And the worst part? Feeling the longing for him - like a bruise I didn’t remember was there until someone pressed on it.