Chapter 46 #2
“You were made aware,” Daniel continues, “that the Winthrop family requires certain standards of conduct. You had to be discreet about the men you . . . choose.”
There it is.
Not be careful. Not protect yourself. Just be discreet. Like my life is a stain they want to hide. Like Monty is a scandal. Like Vesper is collateral.
My grip tightens on the phone until my knuckles ache.
And all I can think, fiercely and stupidly, is, Not her. Not him. Not them.
Not Vesper, with her brave smile and her filthy jokes and her eyes that look like she’s already fought wars nobody knows about. Not Monty, who watches doors and sleeps like a soldier and touches me like he means it. Not the family we’re building out of wreckage and stubborn hope.
“I’m thirty-four,” I say, and my voice is calm now, which scares me more than anger. Calm is what I get right before I do something irreversible. “Not thirteen. What I choose to do with my life is my problem.”
“That is irrelevant.”
I swallow, because my mouth is suddenly dry. “What exactly are you calling about, Daniel?”
Another pause.
Then, “Your parents have been advised that you are currently cohabitating with . . . certain individuals.”
My heartbeat doesn’t spike. It slows. That’s the thing about real fear—it doesn’t always come with adrenaline. Sometimes it comes with clarity.
“Ah,” I say lightly. “So we’re doing this.”
“We’re doing what is necessary to protect the family.”
“There it is again,” I say. “Protect. Handle. Control. Pick your favorite.”
Daniel ignores the sarcasm like it’s a fly buzzing near his ear. “Your parents will be issuing a statement.”
My coffee turns to acid in my gut.
“A statement about what?”
“About your personal life,” he says. “And about your suitability as a representative of the Winthrop organization.”
My fingers curl around the mug.
“Do not,” I say, voice suddenly too calm. “Do not drag my personal life into your corporate masturbation fantasy.”
“That language is unhelpful.”
“I don’t care.”
Daniel continues as if I didn’t speak. “There is already—” he pauses, then chooses his words carefully, “—some interest. Your father prefers to address it before it becomes uncontrolled.”
Interest.
The word is a trap.
Interest means someone knows something. Interest means someone has eyes. Interest means there’s already a file with my name on it and a list of people I love written underneath.
Or . . . and this is the part that I’m thinking is really happening. “They’re using this as leverage.”
My gaze flicks instinctively to the stairs.
Vesper.
Monty.
The baby.
It’s not their war. It never should’ve been.
But my family doesn’t understand the concept of things that matter to me. They only understand things they think they can own.
“What exactly is the threat here?” I ask, because naming it matters. “Let’s stop dancing.”
Daniel exhales again, patient. “Your father is requesting that you return to New York and attend a board meeting. Within seventy-two hours.”
I let out a sound that’s half laugh, half disbelief. “No.”
Silence.
Then, softer, “If you decline, he will consider you in breach.”
“Breach of what?” I ask again, harder. “Spell it out.”
“Breach of your family agreement,” Daniel says, and the phrase lands like a slap because of course it’s called that. Of course they gave coercion a cute name.
“And what happens if I’m in breach?” I ask.
It means press.
It means leverage.
“You can’t,” I say quietly.
Daniel’s response is immediate. “He can. The press will be very eager to learn what’s happening with the youngest Winthrop, who always evades the press.”
I set the mug down carefully, because my hands are shaking now and I refuse to show it.
“Is that all?” I ask, voice bright again, almost cheerful. “Or is there more?”
There’s always more.
Daniel clears his throat. “Your mother is also concerned about the . . . optics of your relationships.”
Relationships.
Plural.
My jaw clenches so hard it hurts. “Is she now?”
“She’s not suitable,” he states. “That woman . . . and we found out she’s pregnant. You’ll have to get rid of the child. The Winthrop DNA doesn’t mix with just anything.”
“You hired someone,” I repeat slowly, “to investigate me.”
“It’s standard procedure.”
“No,” I say. “It’s stalking.”
“It’s risk management.”
“It’s stalking,” I repeat, and my throat is tight now because behind my anger is something worse: the image of Vesper being watched. Followed. Photographed. The idea of Monty’s past—his foster system, his grief, his entire life—being dug up by strangers with cameras and bad intentions.
The idea of their baby becoming a headline.
I swallow hard.
“Your father believes,” Daniel continues, “that if the rumors evolve—”
“Stop talking,” I say.
This time it isn’t a request. It’s a command.
Daniel goes quiet.
Good.
I press my free hand to the counter, grounding myself in something real. The wood. The cool surface. The fact that Vesper is upstairs. The fact that Monty is somewhere in this house and if he knew what was being said right now, he’d go absolutely still in that terrifying way he does before he acts.
“Tell my father,” I say, each word controlled because if I let myself go, I will roar, “that if he comes anywhere near Vesper Lafontaine or Alberto Wade, I will destroy him. I will bury him in legal action until he forgets what sunlight feels like.”
Daniel makes a small sound. “Mr. Winthrop—”
“No,” I cut in. “You don’t get to ‘Mr. Winthrop’ me like I’m a boy you can steer. You’re calling because you think I’ll panic and run back to New York like a good heir with a pretty smile. I’m not doing that.”
“Then you leave your parents no choice.”
I inhale through my nose. Slow. Controlled.
Fine.
If they want choices, I’ll give them choices.
Just not the ones they’re expecting.
Just not the one they expect.
“Send me,” I say, “every document you believe gives my father the right to do what you’re threatening.”
“Of course.”
“And Daniel?” I add, voice sweet. “Tell my mother I said hi. And tell her this isn’t a game. It’s war.”
He pauses, and for the first time I hear something like caution in him. “I advise you to be careful.”
“Too late,” I say. “You should advise them that they might lose every cent they have. . . and more.”
I hang up.
For a second, the kitchen is too quiet. The house hums around me—the security system, the soft whirr of climate control.
There’s a lot I have to do, like discussing my current situation, and explain what my family is like with Mills Aldridge. Also, let Harvey know that everything he’s been gathering to crush my family should be used now. I’m done playing games. They want a war? I plan on winning it right now.