Chapter 8
We take three steps into the hallway before Arthur’s phone trills behind us.
The dining room’s suffocating grip has barely loosened. Yet, despite the interruption, Cillian’s hand remains steady against the small of my back. I can already taste the sharp night air. I can feel the phantom crunch of snow beneath my boots as we escape.
Three steps toward liberation. That is all we get.
“Cillian.” Arthur’s voice calls out. He materializes from a side corridor, cell phone clutched in his hand, face taut with practiced urgency. “A moment, please. It’s important.”
Cillian’s fingers press more firmly against my spine. “We’re leaving. Whatever it is can wait until morning.”
Arthur steps closer, lowering his voice. “It’s Harrington. The Singapore deal—something’s happened with the investment portfolio.” He glances at me, then back to his son with deliberate emphasis. “Emergency.”
The words hang between them, weighted with meaning beyond their surface. Family. Emergency. I feel Cillian’s resolve wavering through the tension in his fingers.
“Ten minutes,” Arthur continues, cell phone extended like an offering. “That’s all it will take.”
I turn to face Cillian, searching his eyes for the determination I saw in the dining room.
It’s still there, but now clouded with conflict.
The businessman battling the son battling the partner.
I know which version of himself he’s trying to be for me, but thirty years of conditioning doesn’t dissolve in a single act of defiance.
“Go,” I murmur, making the decision for him. “I’ll be in the car.”
It is a small mercy, but one he earned. I haven’t forgotten Arthur’s clumsy attempts to help the conversation earlier. The gesture was faint, but it was there. He is flawed, certainly. But unlike his wife, he is not a lost cause.
Cillian’s jaw tightens. “Very well.”
He follows his father toward the study, before disappearing around the corner. I fully intend to wait for him in the safety of the car, when Mary’s voice slips in behind me.
“Star. What perfect timing. I was hoping for a moment alone with you.”
I turn slowly, schooling my features into neutrality as I face her.
Mary stands three feet away, her posture perfect, her smile practiced to the precise degree of polite interest. Nothing in her demeanor suggests the woman who just watched her carefully constructed world collapse in the dining room.
“I’m waiting for Cillian,” I say, having no interest in listening to whatever she wants to say.
“Of course, dear.” Her smile doesn’t waver. “But surely you can spare a few minutes for a little chat while Arthur discusses boring financial matters with Cillian? Woman to woman?”
I consider refusing, walking outside to wait in the cold car rather than follow her deeper into this house. But the confidence in her eyes makes me hesitate. Mary isn’t a woman who accepts defeat. She’s regrouping, not retreating.
“Just a quick chat,” she adds, already turning as if my agreement is inevitable. “In my office. More comfortable than standing in hallways, don’t you think?”
I follow her against my better judgment, drawn by a need to understand what she’s planning.
My heels click as we move away from the foyer, into a long corridor I haven’t seen before.
The walls are lined with portraits staring down with the same assessing gaze Mary has. Their eyes seem to track our movement.
Not a single face smiles.
“The family gallery,” Mary explains without turning back. “Every generation since 1892. Arthur’s great-grandfather built this house, you know. Quite the visionary. He started with nothing and built an empire.”
I say nothing, watching her perfectly coiffed silver hair bobbing slightly with each step. The emerald silk of her blouse catches the light from wall sconces, making her glow with artificial warmth against the shadowed hallway.
“It’s quite a legacy to uphold,” she continues when my silence extends too long. “Not everyone is equipped for that kind of responsibility.”
We reach a heavy door at the corridor’s end. The door swings open to reveal her private office—a space as impersonal and cold as its owner.
Marble surfaces gleam under recessed lighting. A massive mahogany desk dominates the center, its surface bare except for a sleek laptop and a single folder. Leather-bound ledgers line built-in shelves, their spines uniformly aligned.
What strikes me most is the complete absence of personal touches. No photographs, no mementos, nothing to suggest the office belongs to a woman with family rather than a corporate machine. Even Cillian’s sterile workspace in the city has my painting hanging above his desk.
“Please, sit,” Mary gestures to a straight-backed chair positioned across from her desk. It looks deliberately uncomfortable.
I perch on its edge as Mary circles her desk with unhurried confidence. She settles into her leather chair—throne-like in its proportions—and swivels to face me. For a moment, she simply observes, her blue eyes cataloguing every detail of my appearance with clinical detachment.
“Now then,” she says, folding her hands on the desk’s polished surface. “I think it’s time you and I had an honest conversation about my son’s future.”
My mouth goes dry. Mary watches my discomfort grow, patient as a spider allowing its prey to exhaust itself before moving in.
I’ve never felt more alone.
“I’ve been following your little gallery project with interest,” Mary begins, the word “little” carrying enough condescension to fill the room.
Her fingers tap once against the desk’s polished surface before reaching for a leather folder I hadn’t noticed.
“Quite charming, in its way. Accessible.” She manages to make accessibility sound like a terminal disease, something to be pitied rather than celebrated.
I say nothing, watching her manicured fingers. She slides it toward me.
“Open it,” she instructs.
My fingers feel numb as I reach for the folder.
Inside, are documents printed on heavy paper.
They’re financial statements, investment portfolios, trust agreements.
Cillian’s name appears throughout, alongside figures with more zeros than I’ve ever seen.
Gallery funding proposals. Real estate investments.
Stock holdings. My eyes catch on a familiar name.
The Klein Gallery where my upcoming show is scheduled.
I see percentages, ownership stakes, funding arrangements.
“What is this?” I ask, though the answer is already forming like ice in my stomach.
Mary’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Reality, my dear. Something artists struggle with.”
She taps a document showing Cillian’s signature beside a substantial investment in the Klein Gallery’s expansion. “Did you think your little exhibition was secured based solely on talent?” Her eyebrows lift with practiced sympathy. “Oh, you did. How sweet.”
The implication lands like a physical blow. I struggle to keep my expression neutral as my mind races through implications. Cillian mentioned supporting the gallery, but never suggested his investment was connected to my show.
“Cillian didn’t—” I begin.
“Of course not,” Mary interrupts smoothly. “My son believes in maintaining the illusion of independence. Both for himself and those he cares for.” She gestures toward the documents. “But as you can see, the reality is more complex.”
She reaches for another page, sliding it atop the others with deliberate slowness. “He thinks he is independent,” she says, her thin smile never wavering, “but I hold the strings to the very net that catches him.”
The document she’s highlighted shows a family trust structure. A complex web of financial control with Mary as the primary trustee. Nestled within the legal language is the devastating truth: Cillian’s apparent financial independence exists only at Mary’s discretion.
“Most of these investments require my signature to continue,” Mary explains. “The gallery expansion. The building where your studio is located.” Her finger moves to another line. “Even that charming artist residency program you’ve applied to for next summer.”
My blood turns cold. I haven’t told anyone about that application except Cillian. The invasion of privacy makes me nauseous.
“How did you find all this?”
“Research is a specialty of mine,” Mary says, waving away my question. “Information is power, after all.”
She closes the first folder with finality and reaches for a second one, this time red leather instead of black. The color choice feels deliberate, mocking my dress, my defiance.
“Now this,” she continues, opening the folder and turning it to face me, “I find genuinely admirable.”
I stare down at documents about my art therapy initiatives—the children’s cancer ward project, the community workshop proposals, grant applications still pending. Private correspondence with hospital administrators. Preliminary sketches never shown publicly.
“Such compassionate work,” Mary says, her voice a parody of warmth. “Using art to help sick children process their trauma. Truly touching.”
My hands tremble. I clench them in my lap, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing how deeply this violation cuts. The cancer ward project is personal, and one inspired by my cousin’s battle with leukemia as a child. It’s the work I’m most proud of.
“The Governor is a dear friend, you know,” Mary continues, retrieving a specific document from the pile.
A funding approval requiring his signature sits on top, waiting for final authorization.
“We serve on three boards together. Play bridge and bingo every other Wednesday.” Her finger traces his name on the paper.
“His signature is needed for the project to continue, I see.”