Chapter 8
Peyton
I wake up to morning light filtering through a set of cheap blackout curtains. It’s weak, gray, the kind of winter dawn that promises nothing good. Blake's still asleep, which surprises me. His breathing is deep and even, one arm draped across my waist like even unconscious, he's protecting me.
I study his chiseled face in the pale light.
He looks younger like this. The hard edges softened.
There's a scar through his left eyebrow I hadn't noticed before.
Another along his jaw. A roadmap of damage written on skin that's seen too much, survived too much.
He's beautiful in the way dangerous things are beautiful, compelling, terrifying, impossible to look away from.
Last night was... I don't have words for what last night was.
Incredible. Inevitable. The kind of intimacy that changes you at a cellular level.
I don't regret it, but I can’t pretend that it didn’t end awkwardly either. The connection between us was fucking hot, and then suddenly it became ice cold, like he built an invisible wall between us the moment he came.
If I hadn’t had years of therapy, the sudden switch could have really made me feel like shit. But since I’m evolved and whatnot, I know that the distance he created is his problem, not mine. Maybe he can’t multitask–protect me and fuck me too. Not everyone is blessed with that skillset.
Okay, maybe I feel a little shitty about it.
Blake's eyes open, and they’re instantly alert, no grogginess, the shift from sleep to readiness so fast it's almost unsettling. He catches me staring at him, so I greet him first.
"Morning," I whisper.
"Morning." His voice is rough, warm. His hand splays across my lower back, pulls me closer. "You good?”
“Yep.”
"No regrets?"
He could be referring to last night or what we’re about to do today, but regardless, my answer is still the same. “Not even one."
For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, but then his phone buzzes and reality crashes back in. There’s a lot to do in very little time. I don’t have time to worry about juvenile things like: Does he really like me or not?
He reaches for it, checks the screen, and his expression hardens. “It’s Talia. The results are in."
My heart hammers. "Already? I thought it would take longer.”
"Dr. Richardson expedited it.” He hands me the phone. “He’ll expect an extra stack for that.”
I read the messages, and my stomach knots up.
Talia: DNA confirmed. 99.7% certainty—Peyton is a direct maternal descendant of Edmund Kingsley through the Catherine Kingsley-Morrison line.
Documentation is complete and legally defensible.
I can file the paperwork after you give me the thumbs up.
Blake, she's legitimate! Which means tonight it’s on like hot-buttered popcorn.
Talia: Also—Silas knows about the results. Richardson swears it wasn’t him who told. He's already calling an emergency family meeting this afternoon. You need to get ahead of this.
Ugh.
Talia: One more thing. The FS gals want a meeting with Peyton. Before the gala. They're claiming neutrality, but we both know that's bullshit. Your call.
I hand the phone back, my hands shaking despite my best efforts to stay calm.
"I'm a Kingsley," I say. The words feel foreign in my mouth. "Officially."
“Congratulations,” he deadpans.
"Which means tonight, Edmund can't dismiss me or claim I'm an imposter or a fraud. I have legal standing."
“But it also means he'll have to acknowledge you, in front of everyone, at his gala." Blake sits up, runs a hand through his hair. "He's either going to offer you a deal or make an example of you. We need to be ready for both.”
"What kind of deal?"
"The kind where you sign over your proxy votes in exchange for a trust fund and a promise not to dig into your mother's death." His jaw tightens. "Money for silence. Power for compliance."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then he'll try to destroy you publicly and privately. He'll find every skeleton in your closet, fabricate the ones you don't have, and make sure you're too damaged to be useful to anyone."
I process this, trying to think tactically instead of emotionally. “But I’ll still have money. Damaged reputation or not.”
“True, but what’s the use of money if nobody lets you spend it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it this way. Many billionaires have enough money to buy, let’s say, a professional football team, but not everyone is permitted to do so. Money or not. It’s about whether or not the big boys want to play with you.”
“Should I care about that?”
“You’re the daughter of a senator. You already know the answer to that.”
He gets out of bed, and I try my best to keep my eyes off his huge morning wood. It’s ridiculous. I feel like a horny sixteen-year-old girl when the only thing I should be contemplating is my new life as a Kingsley heir.
Get it together, Peyton.
“What about the FS meeting?” I ask him. “Should I go?"
“The FS are longtime friends of our family.” Blake considers.
"The Evermoore matriarch runs the Frost Society.
Helena Evermoore. She's brilliant, ruthless, and plays a longer game than the Hollow Club. The rumor in my family is that she once had a summer-long affair with Nonno. He won’t confirm or deny it.
But if she wants to meet with you, it's because she sees an opportunity. "
“An opportunity for what?"
"To use you. To control you. Or,” he pauses. "To help you. The Frost Society and the Hollow Club have been at war for decades. It’s a quiet war, but a war nonetheless.”
“A man’s social club versus a ladies’ social club?” I scoff.
“I need you to think of the names of their organizations as putting makeup on a pig. Neither of these clubs is social. They plan people’s rises or falls under the guise of golf dates and dinner dances.
If Helena thinks you can tip the balance of power, she might back you.
They’re always looking for stronger female alliances. ”
“But at what cost?"
"That's what the meeting will tell us." Blake stands and starts pulling on his jeans. “Put on your clothes. I’ll make coffee. Then we go, we listen, we don't commit to anything, and if it feels like a trap, we get the fuck out of there.”
"Everything in Wintervale feels like a trap,” I sigh.
"Yeah, well. Welcome to my childhood."
We return to Blake's actual apartment above Frost & Flame to shower and change. Now that the DNA results are in and half the town already knows, there’s no need to hide out at the safe house.
Of course, we still need to keep an eye out for stray bullets, but the only person to really benefit from my death at this point would be a Kingsley, and people are watching them tonight.
While Talia did her best to pick out some things for me, the dress and jewelry I want to wear tonight belonged to my mother, which means we need to make a stop I've been dreading.
My house.
"I'll come with you," Blake says when I tell him.
"No. If you show up with me, my father will have all sorts of questions that I’m not prepared to answer right now.”
"Peyton, I guarantee your father already knows you’re with me. Think about it. He hasn’t called, and the police haven’t come looking for you.”
“True.” But there's a difference between suspecting and confirming.
I check my reflection in Blake's bathroom mirror, still wearing yesterday's clothes, hair a damn mess, looking exactly like a woman who spent the night with a man her father would hate.
"I need to control this narrative. Make him think I'm still playing by his rules. "
"Are you?"
“Trust me, all my father believes is that I’m a spoiled brat who spends her time on social media and blaming him for my poor choices in therapy.
He was livid when I quit my job as the director of his nonprofit.
All he probably thinks is that I spent a drunk weekend with a guy who’s paid to protect me. He’s always underestimated me.”
Blake doesn't like it. I can see the objection forming in his eyes, the protective instinct that wants to shadow me everywhere.
“You even said that I’m out of immediate danger.”
“Uh, no, that’s overstating things.”
“Blake, this is what I need to do before I face the biggest night of my life.”
“Fine,” he nods. “You’ve got one hour. Say your hellos, get your shit, and go. If you're not back in one hour, I'm coming in guns blazing to get you. I don’t give a shit if it’s your father’s house or not.”
"Deal."
He walks toward me as if he’s going to go in for a kiss, but decides otherwise and gives me a playful pat on the ass. "Be careful," he tells me.
"Always."
Our Wintervale house sits in the area’s most exclusive neighborhood with old money, older secrets, and houses that have been in families for generations.
My father, Senator Richard Quinn, bought his way in years ago with campaign contributions when my mother was still alive.
It was supposedly a gift for her, so she could live in a neighborhood she had zero access to as a kid.
But I know better. My father loves the elitist hierarchy of Wintervale and has always wanted to climb its invisible ladder.
He bought it for himself. Funny enough, the neighbors barely tolerate us.
I use my key and let myself in through the side entrance.
The house is quiet. Too quiet. My father should be up by now.
He's pathologically early, usually working by six a.m. My stepmother is probably still in DC.
She rarely likes to stay in our home here.
The ghosts of my mother must keep her up at night.
"Dad?" I call out.
No answer.
I move through the kitchen, then the study, checking rooms with growing unease. I find him in his office, sitting behind his desk like a king on a throne. He's not alone, though, and I don’t even need to ask who’s with him.