Chapter 5- JADE
The Crawford estate takes my breath away, and not in a good way.
I've seen pictures of mansions like this in magazines, sprawling Mediterranean villas perched on the cliffs of Pacific Palisades with views that stretch all the way to Catalina on a clear day.
I've imagined what it might feel like to walk through rooms where a single piece of furniture costs more than my yearly rent.
But imagination is nothing compared to reality.
The driveway alone is longer than the street I grew up on in Boston.
We pass through iron gates that open automatically at our approach, then wind up a path lined with perfectly manicured hedges and flowering trees that scent the air with jasmine and something citrusy I can't identify.
By the time the house comes into view, my palms are sweating and my heart is pounding so hard I'm sure Phoenix can hear it.
"Breathe," he says softly, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "It's just a house."
"It's a castle," I correct him. "There's a difference."
He laughs, but I'm not joking. The main house rises three stories high, all white stucco and terracotta tiles and arched windows that glow warm with light.
Cars are parked along the circular driveway, a fleet of luxury vehicles that probably cost more collectively than most people earn in a lifetime.
Valets in matching uniforms scurry between them, opening doors for guests who emerge in clouds of expensive perfume and designer fabric.
Phoenix pulls up to the entrance and hands his keys to a young man who looks barely old enough to drive. I watch his Porsche disappear around the side of the house and feel a small piece of my escape route vanish with it.
"Ready?" Phoenix asks, offering me his arm.
No. I'm not ready. I'm wearing a dress that cost more than my first car, borrowed jewelry that could be a downpayment for a great condo, and shoes that pinch my toes with every step.
I don't belong here. I don't know the rules of this world or the language these people speak.
I'm going to embarrass myself and Phoenix and everyone will know I'm a fraud.
But I take his arm anyway and let him lead me inside.
The interior of the house is somehow even more overwhelming than the exterior.
The foyer opens into a great room with ceilings that soar at least twenty feet high, supported by exposed wooden beams that look like they were salvaged from some ancient European monastery.
A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, flanked by oil paintings in gilded frames.
Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over clusters of guests who hold champagne flutes.
The smell hits me next. Fresh flowers, expensive candles, something roasting in a distant kitchen that makes my stomach growl despite my nerves.
Underneath it all, the faint scent of money itself, that particular combination of fine leather and aged wood and the confidence that comes from never having to worry about anything as mundane as bills or budgets.
"Phoenix!" A woman's voice cuts through the crowd, and I watch a tall blonde in a red dress descend on us with air kisses and exclamations. "Darling, it's been ages. And who is this gorgeous creature on your arm?"
Phoenix introduces me with practiced ease, and I smile and shake hands and say the things I'm supposed to say.
The woman's name is something with a V, Victoria or Veronica, and she's married to someone important whose name I immediately forget.
She looks at me the way you might look at a new piece of furniture, assessing whether I match the decor.
More introductions follow, an endless parade of names and faces that blur together in my memory. Everyone wants to know who I am, where I'm from, what I do. I trot out the answers Phoenix and I rehearsed on the drive over.
Writer, Boston, working on a novel. The responses are warmer than I expected.
Several guests lean in with genuine interest, asking about my genre and my publishing plans.
A woman in emerald silk turns out to be a screenwriter who's adapted three bestsellers for Netflix, and she spends ten minutes telling me about her agent and offering to make introductions.
A man with silver hair and kind eyes mentions that he produced a film that won at Sundance last year, and would I be interested in discussing adaptation rights when my novel is finished?
It should feel validating. These are the kinds of connections writers dream about, the doors that open when you know the right people.
But every conversation reminds me that I'm only here because of Phoenix.
They're not interested in me. They're interested in Phoenix Crawford's new girlfriend, and if that girlfriend happens to write, well, how charming, how quaint, let's see if we can use that somehow.
I'm beginning to wonder that myself when I spot them across the room.
Nicholas Crawford stands near the fireplace, greeting guests with the easy confidence of a man who owns everything he surveys.
He's tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders that fill out his charcoal suit perfectly.
His dark hair is slicked back, mostly straight, though a strand has fallen across his forehead.
He has the kind of jawline that belongs on magazine covers, and dark eyes that seem to assess everyone they land on.
Phoenix has his father's height, his build, but where Phoenix runs hot, Nicholas is all controlled power.
He looks like a man who's never lost at anything in his life.
Beside him, Olive Crawford is receiving compliments on the flower arrangements from a cluster of women in designer dresses.
She's not what I expected. She's beautiful, yes, the kind of effortless elegance that comes from decades of wealth.
Her dark hair is swept back in a simple chignon, and she's wearing a dove-gray dress that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe back home.
But there's something sharp in her eyes as they scan the room, an intelligence that's assessing and calculating.
This is a woman who sees everything. This is the woman who was once my mother's best friend, before something shattered that bond beyond repair.
"Ready to meet them?" Phoenix murmurs in my ear.
I want to say no. I want to turn around and walk out the door and never look back. But I've come too far to retreat now.
"Let's get it over with."
Phoenix guides me through the crowd with a hand on the small of my back. Guests part for him instinctively, acknowledging his presence with nods and smiles. He belongs here in a way I never will, moving through this world like he was born to it. Because he was.
Nicholas sees us approaching and his face breaks into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Phoenix. You made it."
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"After last week's disappearing act, I wasn't sure what to expect." Nicholas turns his attention to me, and I feel the full weight of his assessment land on my shoulders. "And this must be the mysterious girlfriend I've heard so little about."
"Jade." I extend my hand, praying he doesn't notice how badly it's trembling. "It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Crawford."
His handshake is firm, brief, perfectly calibrated. "Welcome to our home, Jade. I hope you'll feel comfortable here."
Before I can respond, Olive appears at her husband's side. Her gaze sweeps over me from head to toe, taking in every detail of my appearance in a single glance. The dress. The jewelry. The way I'm standing too close to Phoenix, like I need him for support.
"So lovely to finally meet you," she says, and her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Phoenix has been rather secretive about you. We were beginning to think he'd invented a girlfriend just to get his father off his back about settling down."
"I assure you, I'm very real," I say, and immediately wish I could take the words back. Too defensive. Too eager.
But Olive just laughs, a polished sound that matches her polished appearance. "I can see that. Well, we must have you for a proper dinner soon. Just the four of us. I have so many questions."
The way she says it makes my blood run cold.
"We'd love that," Phoenix says smoothly, pulling me closer. "But for now, I should introduce Jade to a few more people before dinner is served."
"Of course, darling. Don't let us keep you." Olive waves us off with an elegant gesture, already turning to greet another guest. "We'll talk more later."
I let Phoenix lead me away, my legs unsteady beneath me. That wasn't so bad, I try to tell myself. They were polite. They were welcoming. There's no reason to think Olive suspects anything.
But I can't shake the feeling that she was looking right through me. That she saw every secret I'm trying to hide.
The next hour is torture.
Phoenix introduces me to tech billionaires who talk about their latest startup exits in numbers that make my head spin. Hedge fund managers who complain about capital gains taxes. Trophy wives who discuss their yacht purchases and Aspen vacations and the difficulty of finding good help these days.
I smile and nod and say nothing of substance. These people don’t ask about my writing or my interests or anything that might suggest I'm a person rather than an accessory. I'm Phoenix Crawford's new girlfriend, and that's all that matters. My entire identity has been reduced to my proximity to him.
"What does your father do?" a woman in a gold dress asks me, the fourth person to pose this question tonight.
"He's not in the picture," I say, and watch her face cycle through confusion, pity, and dismissal in rapid succession.
Phoenix rescues me with an excuse about needing to find the restroom, guiding me away from the crowd toward a quiet corner near the bar.
"If one more person asks me what my father does," I whisper through gritted teeth, "I'm going to scream."
Phoenix smirks, something wicked dancing in his eyes. "Want to get out of here?"
"God, yes."
He takes my hand and laces his fingers through mine. "Follow me."
We slip away from the party, moving through the house with the confidence of someone who knows every hidden passage and back stairway. The noise of the crowd fades as we leave the main rooms behind, replaced by the soft click of our footsteps on marble floors.
Phoenix stops in front of a set of heavy mahogany doors. "This is my mother's favorite room in the house," he says quietly. "I want to show you."
He pushes open the doors and leads me inside.
I gasp.
The library stretches before us, floor-to-ceiling shelves of dark wood that reach toward an impossibly high ceiling.
Rolling ladders on brass rails lean against the stacks.
A massive fireplace crackles in the corner, casting warm light across leather armchairs and antique reading tables.
And books. Thousands of books, their spines gleaming in the firelight, some leather-bound and ancient, others bright with modern dust jackets.
"These are all first editions," Phoenix explains, running his fingers along the spines. "Signed copies. My mother's been collecting them for decades."
I move through the room in awe, touching the books reverently. "This is incredible. Your mother has amazing taste."
"She does. In books."
I pull out a volume carefully, recognizing the title with a thrill of excitement. "Is this a first edition of Rebecca? Signed by Daphne du Maurier?"
"You know it?”
"I'm a writer. Books are kind of my thing." I open the cover carefully, reverently, and see the signature scrawled across the title page. "This must be worth a fortune."
"Probably. But my mother would never sell it. She says books are meant to be loved, not traded."
I look at him, this man whose family owns priceless first editions and California mansions. "I didn't expect that. From your family."
"We're full of surprises."
Our eyes meet across the room. The fire crackles softly. The party feels very far away.
"Phoenix," I start to say.
"Yes?"
"We should probably go back."
"Probably."
Neither of us moves.
And then, somewhere in the distance, I hear footsteps approaching down the hall.