7. Chloe
CHLOE
The car winds up the private drive for what feels like miles, aspen trees giving way to pine as we climb higher into the Crystal River Valley.
Mountains rise on three sides, their peaks sharp against the afternoon sky.
When the estate finally comes into view around a bend, my breath catches despite myself.
Stone and timber stretch across a natural clearing, the architecture designed to complement rather than compete with the landscape.
Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the surrounding peaks, and a wraparound deck extends from what must be the great room.
Everything about it whispers luxury without shouting—which means Dad paid extra for the whisper.
The car stops at the front entrance where staff wait to handle luggage. A woman in pressed khakis and a polo introduces herself as the house manager.
Her smile is professional and warm as she explains the layout, the meal schedule, the arrival times for tonight's guests. All the details that transform a family gathering into an event.
Adam climbs out of the car ahead of me, his height making the movement look effortless. Chris follows, then Harry, who has to duck slightly to clear the doorframe.
Three men in dark jeans and button-downs, looking like they belong in magazine spreads about successful brothers who vacation in Colorado.
The staff notice them—of course they do. The house manager's professional smile turns slightly more genuine when she addresses Chris about the wine selection.
I smooth my travel clothes and follow the procession inside. The great room soars above us, exposed beams drawing the eye upward while the stone fireplace anchors the space.
Fresh flowers fill multiple arrangements throughout the room—white lilies, mountain laurel, something that smells like pine and snow.
A photographer moves quietly through the space, capturing angles for whatever social media narrative Dad has planned.
"Miss Rutherford?" The house manager appears at my elbow. "Your room is upstairs, second door on the right. Dinner begins at seven, cocktails at six. The dress code is semi-formal."
She hands me a key and gestures toward a staircase that curves along the stone wall. Behind me, Adam's low voice asks about the bar setup while Harry requests directions to the balcony.
The sound of their voices grounds me for a moment—familiar now in a way they weren't four days ago.
But the train bubble has burst. Here, we have separate rooms. Here, staff hover and guests arrive and parents perform. Here, the rules shift back to what they've always been, and I'm not sure I remember how to play by them anymore.
My room faces west toward the mountains, decorated in cream and sage with touches of copper. Someone has already unpacked my suitcase and hung my clothes in the closet.
The bathroom stocks expensive toiletries I didn't bring. Every detail considered, every comfort provided, all in service of Dad's story about being the kind of man who spares no expense for family.
I close the door and lean against it, listening to the silence. On the train, silence meant we were all thinking the same thing. Here, it just means I'm alone.
An hour until cocktails. Time to get ready for whatever performance tonight requires.
The dress hangs in the closet like a dare. My best friend shoved it into my hands the day before I left, insisting I needed something that would "make a statement."
Deep emerald green silk that skims my curves and plunges low at the back, showing skin from my shoulder blades down to just above my waist. The kind of dress that makes people look twice.
I know exactly who I want looking.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I work the zipper up slowly, watching the silk settle against my body. The fit is perfect—snug enough to show my shape, elegant enough to belong at this kind of dinner.
The color brings out my eyes and makes my black hair look glossy under the vanity lights.
Adam will like it. The thought appears unbidden, followed immediately by images of his hands on this silk, his mouth at the nape of my neck where the dress dips lowest.
Chris will appreciate the lines of it, the way it suggests rather than reveals. Harry will go still the way he does when something catches his complete attention.
Dad will hate it.
Allison will hate it more.
I zip it the rest of the way up and reach for my lipstick. Deep red to match the confidence I'm pretending to feel. If I'm walking into the lion's den, I might as well look good doing it.
Voices drift up from the great room as I descend the stairs—guests arriving, wine being poured, the gentle chaos of a party finding its rhythm.
The photographer moves through the crowd, capturing candid moments that will look spontaneous in tomorrow's social media posts.
Women in designer cocktail dresses cluster near the windows, their laughter bright and practiced. Men in sport coats and expensive watches hold bourbon and discuss things like market volatility and real estate investments.
Dad's people. The audience he performs for.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs, scanning the room. There—Adam by the fireplace, bourbon in hand, listening to a man with silver hair. Adam nods at appropriate intervals, but I catch the moment his gaze drifts across the room and lands on me.
His expression doesn't change. Doesn't shift into anything the other guests would notice. But his eyes move from my face down the length of my body and back up again, slow and deliberate.
When they meet mine again, there's heat in them that makes my pulse stutter.
Chris stands near the bar, conducting what appears to be a business conversation with two women in their fifties. He's nodding, playing the role of interested stepson at his mother's party.
But his peripheral vision catches my entrance, and his head turns just enough to see me fully. The conversation continues around him, but his attention has shifted completely.
His gaze lingers on the low back of the dress, and I see his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly.
Harry leans against the windows overlooking the deck, listening to someone. At six-foot-seven, he dominates the conversation simply by being present. But when I appear in his line of sight, he straightens away from the glass.
The movement is subtle, automatic—like a predator scenting prey. His dark blue eyes fix on me with an intensity that makes the space between us feel electric despite the forty feet and dozen people separating us.
Three different reactions from three different men. Three separate acknowledgments that the train wasn't a fever dream and this dress is doing exactly what I hoped it would do.
Across the room, Allison holds court near the flower arrangements, resplendent in navy silk and pearls. She's still beautiful at sixty-five, still commands attention when she enters a room. Her laugh rings out at something one of her guests has said, musical and warm.
Then she sees me.
The laugh doesn't falter. The smile doesn't slip. She's far too practiced for such amateur mistakes. But her eyes narrow slightly as they take in my dress, calculating angles and assessing threats.
When a woman half her age walks into her party looking like sex in silk, Allison Rutherford notices. And she doesn't like sharing the spotlight.
Her gaze moves from my dress to the guests around us, gauging reactions, measuring the attention I'm drawing. When it returns to my face, her smile has acquired an edge sharp enough to cut glass.
"Chloe!" Dad's voice booms across the room with performative warmth. He detaches himself from a group near the photographer and approaches with open arms. "Doesn't she look lovely, everyone? My daughter, the university student, top of her class."
The group murmurs appropriate approval. Dad beams like he's personally responsible for my appearance, which in a way he is—he paid for the dress, the education, the everything that makes me presentable at his events. His arm slides around my waist in a gesture that looks paternal and proud.
But I know his face. I've been reading it for twenty-two years. Beneath the public smile, his eyes hold disapproval.
The dress is too much. Too revealing. Too attention-grabbing. Wrong for this kind of evening, wrong for his image, wrong for the story he wants to tell about his well-behaved daughter.
His fingers press against my back where the silk dips low, a reminder disguised as affection. The touch makes my skin crawl, but I keep smiling because that's what we do. We perform.
Twenty minutes into cocktail hour, Dad's hand appears at my elbow. Not rough, not obvious. Just insistent enough that I understand the message.
"Chloe, could I speak with you for a moment?"
His tone is casual, conversational. To anyone listening, it sounds like a father wanting to check in with his daughter. I know better, but I follow him anyway because the alternative is making a scene, and scenes aren't allowed at Dad's events.
He leads me down a hallway lined with landscape photographs, away from the party noise.
Allison appears as if summoned, her heels clicking against the hardwood. She closes the distance between us with the practiced grace of a woman who's spent decades managing family crises away from public view.
The hallway feels smaller with both of them in it. Darker. The party sounds muffled here, reduced to background chatter that emphasizes how far we've moved from witnesses.
"That dress." Dad's voice drops its performative warmth. This is his real voice—measured, disappointed, cutting. "It's inappropriate for this kind of evening."
The words hit exactly where they're meant to. Not harsh enough to be called abuse. Just pointed enough to draw blood.
"It draws the wrong kind of attention," he continues. "Makes you look desperate for male approval. Frankly, it's embarrassing."
Embarrassing. The word he's used since I was fifteen and started developing curves. Since I grew into a body that drew looks he didn't want me drawing. Since I became something more complex than a prop in his perfect family tableau.