Chapter 10
Cillian
The conversation with my father drags until midnight, financial minutiae and legal jargon blurring together. I check my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes, thinking only of Star waiting. When my father finally closes his leather portfolio with a soft snap, relief washes through me.
“We’ll continue tomorrow,” he says, not meeting my eyes.
Something in his tone catches—hesitation, perhaps regret—but I’m already halfway to the door, thoughts racing ahead to Star’s warm smile, to apologizing for this disastrous evening, to promising that tomorrow we’ll leave this mausoleum of family expectations behind.
That’s when I see it. The cream-colored card propped against the baseboard in the hallway.
My heart stops, then races double-time to compensate.
Star’s handwriting. I’d know it anywhere, those artist’s loops and precise angles.
My fingers feel numb as I pick up the card, the paper unexpectedly heavy in my hand.
Cillian, I’m sorry, but the pressure from your family is too much for me. We’re too different, and I can’t bear to watch you suffer. Please forgive me.
I read it again. Again. A fourth time. My breath comes shallow now, the room spinning slightly at its edges.
This isn’t right. This isn’t Star.
I know her handwriting, yes, but these aren’t her words.
Star doesn’t run. Star doesn’t surrender.
She stood in my mother’s dining room wearing defiant red, fifteen feet of mahogany between us, and never once looked away first. She challenged the entire fortress of Brown family tradition without raising her voice.
This note is not her voice nor her heart.
“Star?” I call her name into the emptiness, knowing already she won’t answer. I pull out my phone, call her number. It rings until voicemail picks up. I try again. Again. Nothing.
“What did you do?” I whisper to the empty hall, but I already know. I’ve always known, somewhere beneath conscious thought, what my mother is capable of. I just never believed she’d go this far.
I find her in the parlor, perched on the edge of the leather wingback. She’s still in her emerald silk, not a wrinkle, not a hair out of place despite the late hour. The crystal decanter beside her catches firelight, amber liquid sloshing gently as she pours herself a precise two fingers of scotch.
She isn’t surprised to see me. She’s been waiting.
“She’s gone, isn’t she?” I say, the note crushed in my fist.
My mother’s face arranges itself into a mask of concern, practiced sympathy drawn on with the same precision as her makeup. “Oh, darling.” Her voice drops to match the expression, modulated to precisely the right pitch of maternal worry. “I was afraid this might happen.”
“What did you say to her?” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s too low, too controlled, the calm before something shatters.
“I didn’t say anything.” The lie flows smooth as silk from her lips.
“She came to me, actually. Said she felt overwhelmed, out of her depth. I tried to reassure her, but...” She trails off with a delicate sigh, lifting her glass.
“Some people simply aren’t built for this life, Cillian.
They run at the first sign of difficulty. ”
I stare at this woman—this stranger with my mother’s face—and wonder how I never saw the monster beneath the glammed-up mask. Sure, I’ve always known Mother is particular and demanding, but not this.
“That’s not Star,” I say, my voice steadying. “She doesn’t run from difficulty. She runs toward it with paint brushes and determination. What did you threaten her with?”
Surprise flashes across her features before the practiced sympathy returns. “I’m hurt that you would think I’d threaten someone you care about. But I understand you’re upset. It’s natural to look for someone to blame when you’ve been abandoned.”
The word hangs between us, carefully chosen for maximum impact. I feel my jaw clench, teeth grinding against rage that threatens to overwhelm rational thought.
“I should have protected her from you,” I say, the realization burning like acid in my throat. “I knew what this house does to people. What you do to people. And I brought her here anyway.”
My mother stands, moving toward me with the practiced grace of someone who’s never lost control of a conversation in her life. “Darling, you’re distraught. Let’s not say things we’ll regret in the morning.” Her hand reaches for my arm. I step back, beyond her reach.
“Where is she?” I demand. “Where did she go?”
“I believe she called a car. Probably heading to the train station.” She checks her watch. “Though at this hour, I doubt there are many trains running. Such poor planning. Another sign she wasn’t quite suited for our world.”
I turn to leave, but my mother’s voice stops me, sharp now beneath the synthetic concern. “Cillian. Don’t chase after her. She’s made her choice. Have some dignity.”
When I turn back, Bea has materialized in the doorway behind my mother. The emerald sweater hangs loose on her frame, her face pale with something that might be fear, might be determination. My mother notices my gaze and seizes the opportunity.
“Bea’s been so worried about you,” she says, reaching back to draw her forward. “She understands what you’re going through. Perhaps the two of you should talk.”
Bea steps into the room, but not toward me. Her eyes meet mine across the distance, and I see a quiet strength I’d never seen from her before.
“Cillian,” she begins. “There’s something you need to know. She didn’t run. Mary made her leave.” My mother freezes beside her.
“Bea, darling, you’re confused,” my mother interjects. “Perhaps a glass of water—”
“No.” Bea’s refusal cuts through the air with surprising force. “I’ve been confused for years. Not tonight.” She takes a step away from my mother, physically separating herself from Mary’s influence. “Your mother blackmailed Star. Threatened everything that matters to her if she didn’t leave you.”
“What an absurd accusation. I simply had a civilized conversation with the girl—”
“In your office,” Bea continues, speaking over my mother as if she’s not even there. “With the folders. Black for financial control, red for personal destruction. I know because she’s done it before. To me. To my father. To anyone who threatens her vision.”
The room tilts slightly around me as pieces fall into place. I steady myself against the back of a chair, knuckles whitening around polished wood that’s been in my family for generations.
“What did you threaten her with?” I ask, my voice so quiet it forces everyone to lean in slightly to hear.
Bea answers before my mother can form another denial. “Her art therapy program at the children’s hospital. She told Star she’d make one call and the funding would disappear overnight. The gallery show too.” Her voice catches. “And she would have. She’s done it before. Plus, your business.”
My mother’s face transforms, the mask of concern hardening into something cold and defensive. “I was protecting you,” she says, no longer bothering to deny. “That girl was using you to advance her career. I simply exposed the truth.”
“By threatening sick children? That’s your version of protection?”
“Don’t be dramatic, Cillian. It’s business. Leverage. The girl made her choice.”
“Her name is Star,” I say, each word precise and separate. “And she didn’t choose anything. You forced her hand.”
“Everything I’ve done has been for this family. For your future. That girl—Star—she was never going to fit. She would have made you miserable eventually, pulling you away from your responsibilities, your legacy.”
“She also threatened your position at the firm,” Bea adds quietly. “Said she’d withdraw the family investment if Star didn’t leave. And she threatened me with... something personal.” Her voice drops. “Something that would hurt more people than just me if it came out.”
My mother turns on Bea with cold fury. “You ungrateful little—”
“Enough.” The word slices through the room, silencing both women. I barely recognize my own voice. The rage building inside me has crystallized into something colder, clearer. A decision.
My phone is in my hand before I consciously reach for it. The number I dial isn’t Star’s. Not yet. It’s James, my finance manager. He answers on the third ring, voice thick with sleep.
“Cillian? It’s after midnight. What’s going on?”
“I need you to liquidate my position in the family trust,” I say, eyes fixed on my mother’s increasingly pale face. “All of it. Immediately.”
James coughs, suddenly alert. “The Brown Trust? Cillian, that’s your inheritance. Your security. We’d need your mother’s signature on several—”
“No, we don’t. Check the terms. On my thirtieth birthday, my grandfather’s provisions kicked in. I can withdraw unilaterally. I want every penny out by morning.”
My mother steps toward me, hand outstretched as if to physically disconnect the call. “Cillian, stop this nonsense. You’re upset, but this is madness. That trust is your birthright!”
I turn away from her, continuing as if she hasn’t spoken. “Sell my shares in the estate too. And my position in the firm.”
James’s voice rises in pitch. “Your shares in Brown Investments? But sir, that could destabilize the entire—”
“Let it go bankrupt if necessary. I’ll start over.
” The words should terrify me. Three generations of wealth and security severed in a single phone call.
Instead, each syllable feels like breaking a chain I’ve carried so long I forgot it was there.
“I’m cutting every financial tie to this family, effective immediately. ”
“This will take time, paperwork—” James stammers.
“Then start now. Call Judge Harrington if you need emergency authorization. Wake him up. Tell him it’s a family emergency.” I hang up before he can raise more objections.