10. Consequences
Consequences
The car’s engine purrs softly as we wind through the tree-lined driveway, golden leaves swirling past the windows like sparks from a flame.
Early autumn in New York bites crisp—the kind of cold that makes you burrow into your coat.
I sit poised, watching the blur of color outside, praying for the strength to survive the long weekend.
I hadn’t seen Broderick since Boston a few days ago, since we broke a rule from our arrangement. Broderick brushed it off like nothing, but I know better.
Philippa sits beside me, impeccable as always. Her coat dress is tailored to perfection, legs crossed at the knee, phone resting on her lap. But her eyes give her away. She sneaks glances when she thinks I’m not looking.
“Out with it,” I murmur, still staring at the window.
“It’s nothing…” she stammers.
I roll my eyes. “I can feel you staring.”
She exhales slowly—bracing.
“Elena, I know you haven’t spoken to Dad, and I’m pleading with you to please be good this week.”
I drag my eyes from the blur outside and arch a brow at her. “Define good?”
Her lips press into a thin line. “Don’t start anything. Don’t bait Dad. Don’t—”
“I know, Pip,” I cut in smoothly, leaning my head back against the leather seat with a lazy smirk. “I’m going to be a perfect angel.”
Riley, sprawled behind me like she’s heading for a beach vacation instead of straight into a minefield of family drama, snorts. “Since when?”
“Since now,” I say sweetly, twisting in my seat just enough to shoot her a look before turning back to Philippa. “Honestly, Pip, I wouldn’t ruin your wedding festivities.”
“You’re right,” Riley chimes in, voice too bright to be innocent. “She wouldn’t ruin it. She’ll just…spice it up.”
A laugh slips out of me, but Philippa isn’t amused—her fingers drum against her lap, restless.
“If I have to referee between you and Dad…” she begins, voice tight.
I groan, sinking lower into my seat, feeling more like a sulky teenager than a grown woman allegedly capable of keeping her cool.
Allegedly. And if I was honest, my track record didn’t exactly prove otherwise.
Philippa slides me a look over her sunglasses—calm but edged with warning.
“Just…try,” she pleads softly.
“Yes,” I hiss. “I solemnly swear to be on my best behavior this weekend. But make sure you pass the message on to dear old Dad, will ya?”
She tuts.
Even to my own ears, the words feel heavy—like a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep.
The iron gates to Ravenswood Estate groan open as our SUV approaches, and I catch sight of the guys following close behind in the rearview mirror.
The thought of seeing Broderick again sends a sharp, traitorous thrill through me.
“Almost there, ma’am,” Luca says, catching my eye in the mirror.
“Thanks, Luca.”
Luca and Chris—have been assigned my personal security for the next few days. I like Luca; he’s in his early thirties, quiet but friendly.
Chris is nice enough, in his forties, I think. He probably has kids, but I haven’t pressed him for details. He doesn’t strike me as the forthcoming type.
There was a time I would have hated having someone shadowing my every move. But success brings attention—and risk. I’m learning to appreciate the extra set of eyes.
“God, this place is insane,” Riley mutters, leaning forward between the seats to catch the view of Ravenswood looming ahead. Stone and ivy, chimneys curling smoke into the cool morning sky. “Reckon they have a dungeon we can lock you up in if you misbehave?”
“Kinky,” I quip back, laughing as tension slips from my shoulders.
Philippa stifles a giggle, shaking her head.
“Did you rent a castle for this wedding, or what?” Riley whistles, raising her brows as she takes in the view.
Philippa smiles proudly, chest puffed out. “No—we own it.”
“And by we—she means his royal highness Mortimer Montgomery,” I mutter under my breath.
“You’ll behave?” she asks again quietly, her voice hesitant, like she needs to believe I mean it.
I tug my coat tighter, meeting her gaze.
“I’ll be good,” I mutter. “For you.”
“And for yourself,” she adds gently.
Riley coughs into her hand—loud, deliberate. “Liar.”
I don’t bother turning, just throw a slap behind me that doesn’t quite land as she bursts into laughter.
Luca pulls smoothly to a stop at the estate’s grand entrance. Staff in black coats and gloves line up to greet us, ready to whisk our luggage away. In the mirror, I see Broderick’s SUV pull up close behind.
The door opens, but I hesitate, tugging my sunglasses down to take in the scene—stone steps, wrought-iron fixtures surround the windows.
Philippa touches my arm lightly as I swing my legs out, her voice low. One last warning.
“Angel,” she says.
I flash her a smile that feels a little too sharp. “Halo’s on.”
But as my heels crunch against the gravel driveway, my chest tightens. This would be the first time I’ll see my father since Alex and I broke up.
And I’m not sure I could stomach the smugness of his I told you so.
Riley slips out beside me, tugging her coat tighter as she nudges me with a playful grin. “Ready for duty, Maid of Honor?” she whispers.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
As I glance up, Broderick steps out of the SUV behind us. His dark hair is tousled, like he’s just ran a hand through it, dimples bracketing that half-smirk curling his lips. Our eyes lock.
It sends a jolt straight between my thighs.
He looks like trouble.
Flashes of our hot, heavy tryst in Boston burn through my mind—impossible to ignore.
Best behavior, I breathe to myself.
Linking her arm through mine, Riley leans in, voice low and amused. “I, for one, will not be on my best behavior,” she says, bumping my shoulder. “Have you seen Luca? Broody Italian, dark and sexy...oft.”
The sentiment makes me laugh, and my shoulders relax a little.
“God help us all,” I murmur, eyes still on Broderick. His smile widens with that knowing look of exactly what kind of trouble he was going to have me tied up in this weekend.
The thought scares and thrills me.
I solemnly swear to be on my best behavior.
Apparently, Ravenswood Estate was built by my great-great-grandfather.
It stretches across acres of parkland beside the Hudson River—sprawling gardens, grand ballrooms, an indoor pool, tennis court.
It was the pinnacle of high society, boasting endless bedrooms set to host some of New York’s elite—most of whom, unfortunately, I was related to.
The union of the Montgomery and Sinclair families is destined to be a grand affair, even if Philippa insisted on keeping the guest list tightly curated.
The groom’s party is placed in a separate wing of the estate, far from the bridal suite.
My room is just down the hall from Philippa’s, with her bridesmaids, Avery and Sienna, flanking either side.
Riley is tucked away near my father and Carole.
Jack arrives tomorrow, Chris will leave in the morning to fetch him from the airport.
This place has been in our family since the Gilded Age, and yet—it’s my first time here.
The suite I’m assigned was absurd—something out of an Austen novel. Opulent brocade curtains and oil portraits that looked like they are watching me.
Golden light streaming through tall arched windows, casting soft shadows across pale walls and floral wallpaper that probably cost more than most people’s rent. The bed is draped in cream linens and perfectly arranged pillows, practically begging to be messed up.
No bed sex.
I cringe at our broken rule.
While most of the primary guests are settling in before the rest arrive tomorrow, I take some time to hide away and work on the maid of honor speech.
I curl up in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, legs tucked beneath me, a notebook balances on my lap. A half-empty glass of wine sits on the table beside me, next to a tray of untouched welcome treats.
The itinerary card rests on the armrest where I tossed it earlier—crisp, cream-colored, embossed with Philippa and Andrew’s names in swirling gold script. The kind of thing that’ll be photographed and gushed over online.
I pick it up now, running my thumb over the lettering, rereading the words I already know by heart.
“Welcome Soirée & Cocktail Reception—7 P.M.”
I sigh, dread creeping in—just a few hours away from being surrounded by people I can’t fully avoid.
Including Father.
With another sigh, I let the card drop and stare down at my notebook. The blank page mocks me.
The words swirl in my head, half-formed sentences that all feel wrong. Too stiff. Too rehearsed.
“My sister and I have always been close...”
Lie.
“When Philippa met Andrew, I knew...”
Knew what? I knew nothing. I was drowning in grief when they met.
I lean back with a groan, dragging a hand down my face.
Why had I agreed to this?
Because she’s my sister. Because she asked. Because even when we fought, I still wanted to be there for her.
Still, writing this feels impossible—like trying to stitch something together from threads that don’t quite match. Too much truth. Not enough heart.
Or not my heart.
The fireplace crackles softly. I let my head fall back against the chair, watching flames dance as I try to figure out how to say something genuine without sounding like a polished fake version of myself everyone—especially Philippa—expects.
The truth is, I don’t want to ruin her day.
But I can’t stand up there and pretend to be someone I’m not.
A sudden wave of inspiration hits when I remember the small, messy moments. Like the first time she visited me in Australia. Barefoot in Mom’s kitchen, laughing as a wombat she’d somehow lured inside waddled past like he owned the place.
“I thought he looked friendly,” she’d said, barely holding back a laugh as I tried to shoo him out.
I smile at the memory.
Then there was that summer she finally stopped acting like Miss Manhattan and let Riley and me talk her into trying alcohol for the first time—sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, grimacing as she sipped cheap stolen vodka from a plastic water bottle.