Chapter Six
Ivy
My car’s engine ticks as I sit in the massive brick-paved driveway.
"You're making a mistake," Dad had said less than twenty-four hours ago when I’d flown back to Brooklyn. I spent two days loading my sensible, used Mercedes with three months’ worth of living. "The Blackstones destroy everything they touch."
I'd promised to be careful.
But driving up Thorne’s mile-long brick-paved driveway to his freaking palace masquerading as a house, I wonder if cautious is possible with a Blackstone. Especially this Blackstone.
I'd known of Thorne before all this. You don't grow up in bourbon country without knowing the Blackstone name.
But I'd made the mistake of actually researching him after too much wine the other night. Doomscrolling through his social media had confirmed what everyone already knows: Thorne Blackstone collects vices the way other men collect watches. Women, gambling, bourbon. He doesn’t just indulge, he curates excess like an art form.
"Your mother thought Louis was different too," Dad had said while I packed my work clothes. "She thought he'd leave his wife. Thought he'd make her legitimate. Look how that turned out."
"I'm not Mom."
"No? You're running to Kentucky to live with a Blackstone. You're defending that girl instead of cutting ties. You're—"
“That girl is my sister! And she has no one.”
The fight ended with him apologizing and pulling me into a rare hug, saying, “I can't lose you too,” he'd whispered. "Not to that family."
I'd promised he wouldn't.
Parking my car, I open the window and take a slow breath. I’ve forgotten how rich the air smells here. Sweeter. Thicker. Real, instead of New York's exhaust and ambition.
Part of me missed this. The pace, the green, the fact that people say hello to strangers.
But the library I passed while driving through downtown is where I spent most of my weekends and afternoons while Dad was at work and Mom was sneaking around with Louis.
The family restaurant I passed after exiting the highway is where Mom told me she was leaving Dad.
There are too many reminders that she chose this over us.
I'm not sure if I'm home or in enemy territory.
Maybe both.
“Holy shit,” Madison breathes from the passenger seat.
“Language,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes. I should say more, but she’s right.
Of course Thorne Blackstone can’t live in a house like a normal mortal.
No, it has to be something from a damn romantasy.
Red brick and white columns rising two stories high, a sprawling plantation-style mansion that looks like it was lifted from a different century.
His place doesn’t merely scream wealth, it whispers legacy. Generations of it.
Doesn’t have room, my ass.
The funerals feel like a lifetime ago. We’d started at Mom’s. Hers was small. That didn’t surprise me. Even when I lived with her, she’d never had many friends. What surprised me was the tears that spilled from me. I thought all I could feel for her was anger.
That was followed by an argument with Madison. I didn’t want her to go to Louis’s funeral. We'd fought about it, sharp words about respect and closure and things fourteen-year-olds shouldn't have to understand.
I'd lost that argument. Will probably lose most of them.
What do I know about raising a fourteen-year-old? I can barely keep a plant alive.
"You're doing the thing again," Madison says.
"What thing?"
"That line." She points between her eyebrows. "Right there."
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. She's right. I run my thumb along it, muttering, “I'm fine.”
What the hell am I getting myself into? Three months living with Thorne Blackstone.
Madison was right, my boss, Bill at Huntsman & Fellows, nearly shit himself when the name Blackstone was mentioned. Working remotely was not an issue.
Dad was considerably less thrilled. “The Blackstones will take and take until you have nothing left to give,” he’d said, his voice thick with decades-old resentment.
“No wonder your mother lasted with Louis all those years. They were cut from the same cloth. Selfish to the core. She chose him over us without a second thought, just like he kept her hidden away from his real family. You need to get away from them. That family is as destructive as the bourbon they make.”
I’d heard variations of this bitterness my whole life. Dad might have stopped drinking before it killed him, but the wounds left by Mom never healed. And I get it. His wife had abandoned him.
She’s the mother who left me behind for a new family with a wealthy man. And now I am walking straight into the lion’s den.
The black Rolls-Royce that Thorne and Lillianna got into after the disastrous meeting isn’t sitting outside.
But this isn’t the kind of house where the cars sit outside.
No, he probably owns twenty cars that he never drives, and they’re parked in a massive garage that’s along the side or back of this monstrosity.
Which means he’s inside. Waiting. Or more likely, off in one of the wings of this antebellum palace, planning to ignore us for the next three months. Good.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
“Are we going in?” Madison asks. “Or are we just going to sit here?”
“Give me a second.”
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.” I’m terrified. And I’m angry. I’m about to spend three months living with a man whose taste is burned into my memory, pretending we’re strangers. Pretending I don’t want to strangle him.
“You’re definitely nervous,” she says. “Your knuckles are white.”
I force myself to release the steering wheel and turn off the car, twisting to face her. “Aren’t you nervous? You have to know they aren’t happy to welcome us into their home.”
“I’m used to not being wanted around.” She sounds unaffected, but I catch the tightness around her young eyes.
She's used to being unwanted. My heart squeezes tight.
How many times had I let months go by without calling?
How many birthdays had I only acknowledged just a card and a guilt-fueled gift card?
I'd told myself I was busy, that Madison had Mom, that it was complicated.
But the truth was simpler and uglier: I hadn't wanted to see what Mom had chosen over me.
And Madison had paid the price for my avoidance.
My throat is tight with unsaid apologies when the massive front door opens.
But it’s not Thorne who emerges. It’s a woman in her fifties wearing dark slacks and a crisp white button-down.
She’s clearly staff. Behind her, Lillianna Blackstone appears dressed in athletic wear, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Madison and I exit the car at the same time.
The humid Kentucky air has my blouse sticking to my skin within minutes.
My heart hammers against my ribs, and not from the heat, but from knowing Thorne is somewhere inside.
That eventually I’ll have to see him. Speak to him.
Pretend that night on the train didn’t rewire something fundamental in my brain chemistry.
“Ms. West, Ms. Payne,” the older woman greets us with professional warmth. “Welcome. I’m Patricia, the house manager. I’ll get your luggage.”
“Oh, that’s not—” I start, but Patricia is already moving toward the trunk with practiced efficiency, telling us to head inside.
Unsure what to do, I listen. Inside, Lillianna stands in a foyer that's all gleaming marble and soft neutrals. Her expression is carefully neutral. You know, the expression of someone whose family is being blackmailed.
“Madison, Ivy,” she says. Not warm, not cold. Just polite.
“Thank you for having us,” I reply. Oh my God, this is so awkward. I’m talking like we’re guests, not staying here under duress. Everything in me wants to climb back in the rental and get the hell out of Kentucky. But my sister has no one but me.
“Okay, let’s just point at the elephant in the room,” Lillianna says.
“We’re being forced to host the person blackmailing my family.
But it would be rude to have Patricia show you around.
So I’ll do it.” She pauses and smiles. This might even be genuine.
“Consider it Southern hospitality under duress.”
Surprised laughter escapes me.
“Where’s Thorne?” Madison asks, looking around.
“My brother doesn’t share my sense of hospitality, forced or otherwise. He’s in his office, probably brooding.” Lillianna gestures toward the house. “You might run into him eventually. Or not. The house is big enough to avoid people when you want to.”
The subtext is clear: And he wants to avoid you. And why does my dumb heart dip in disappointment?
We follow Lillianna inside, and despite the tension, I can’t help but be impressed. The entryway opens into a massive great room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a pool and the woods beyond. Everything is natural light and clean lines, expensive but not ostentatious.
“Oh, a pool!” Madison bounces a little before hiding her fourteen-year-old glee.
For the first time since we arrived, genuine happiness crosses Lillianna’s face. “Do you like to swim?” she asks.
Madison nods. “I’m on the swim team at school.”
“It’s a favorite pastime of Thorne’s as well. Mine too. He has a pool on the lower level for the colder months.”
Well, we all have that in common. I love the workout and weightlessness of the water. But I keep that to myself, making a mental note to find the indoor pool.
“Kitchen’s through there,” Lillianna says, pointing. “Help yourself to anything. The fridge and pantry are always stocked. If you need something specific, tell Patricia and she’ll get it.”
I look around for Patricia. It seems she has already disappeared with our luggage, moving with the efficiency of someone who’s worked here for years.
“We don’t want to be any trouble,” I start.
“Too late for that.” Lillianna’s tone is matter-of-fact, not cruel. Just honest. “Come on, I’ll show you your rooms.”