Chapter Six #2
I trail behind Lillianna as we leave the kitchen, Madison staying close to my side, her earlier excitement about the pool now tempered by the weight of where we are. The hallway opens up, and suddenly we’re standing in an entryway that makes me stop mid-step.
“Holy shit,” I breathe before I can stop myself.
“Language,” Madison quips, echoing my words from earlier. I look at her genuine grin and can’t help matching it.
The space soars two stories high, all cream marble and gold accents that scream money. A massive, dripping-with-crystals chandelier hangs from an ornate coffered ceiling like something out of a palace. The thing probably costs more than my annual salary. Maybe two years’ salary.
In the center of the circular foyer sits a round mahogany table with a vase of white peonies so perfect they look fake. The flowers probably aren’t, though. Everything here is real, expensive, and designed to remind you exactly whose house you’re standing in.
A double staircase curves up on either side of us, the banisters gleaming dark wood, each step carpeted in plush neutral tones. The steps sweep upward symmetrically, meeting at a landing framed by three arched windows that flood the space with natural light.
This isn’t a home. It’s a statement. I have more money than you’ll ever see. I have power. Don’t forget it.
“The bedrooms are upstairs,” Lillianna says, already heading toward the right staircase.
I follow, my hand sliding along the cool, smooth banister, Madison’s footsteps quiet behind me on the carpeted treads.
Lillianna stops at the first door. “Madison, this is your room.”
She opens it to reveal a bedroom that's bigger than most people’s homes. There’s a king bed, a sitting area, and French doors leading to a private balcony. Through the windows, I can see the woods stretching out beyond the property line.
“The bathroom’s through there,” Lillianna points. “Walk-in closet there. Your luggage should already be there.”
“This is... wow,” Madison breathes.
“It’s the guest room,” Lillianna says with a shrug. “Nothing special by Blackstone standards.” But there’s something in her tone—not quite kind, but not cruel either, like she’s trying to find the line between hostage and host.
“Thank you,” Madison says quietly, going over and sitting on the bed.
“Yours is across the hall,” Lillianna gestures toward the door opposite.
“Get settled in and then come to my room,” I tell Madison.
She nods, and I turn to Lillianna, who has stepped into the hallway. “I’m across the hall, all the way at the end.”
“Where’s Thorne’s room?” Heat rushes to my cheeks. Why did I ask?
Lillianna’s brows shoot up, and her smile is…it’s trouble. My heart begins to pound. Does she know something? “Any reason you’re asking?”
“I want to know which areas to avoid. You know, to give everyone their privacy. Space.” Shut up. Stop babbling. I clamp my mouth shut.
Her expression tells me she’s not buying it, but all she says is, “Let me show you your room.”
She opens the door to reveal a room decorated in soft grey-blue tones. Modern furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the pool. The door to the walk-in closet that is bigger than my apartment sits open, and I see my luggage.
“The pool is heated year-round,” Lillianna says.
“Gym is in the walk-out basement. That’s where you’ll find the second pool.
You can get to it from inside and outside the house.
The home theater is in the east wing. There’s also a library.
It’s next to the entry. Also, on the main floor at the back of the house is Thorne’s bedroom.
” She looks directly at me, and I swear there’s a trouble-making glint in her eyes.
I clear my throat. “Good to know. I’ll be sure not to wander in there by accident.”
A grin spreads across Lillianna’s face. “Yes, not by accident.”
“Lillianna…” But I’m not sure what I want to say. Thank you? I'm sorry? Do you somehow know I slept with your brother?
“Look, I get it,” she says. “You’re her guardian. You didn’t ask for this either. Neither did I…”
“But she’s fourteen and alone. Looking for a family,” I add.
Lillianna tilts her head from side to side. “And she’s a sister from my dad’s mistress. It’s complicated.” Her gaze moves between Madison’s door and me. “So let’s go with being civil. We’ll figure out the rest as we go.”
It’s not warmth, but it’s not hostility either. It’s the best we can hope for under the circumstances.
“Civil works,” I agree.
“Good.” Lillianna checks her phone. “I have some calls to make. Settle in, take a shower, whatever. Dinner’s at seven. Patricia will send someone to get you if you can’t find your way back.”
She leaves without another word, her footsteps fading down the hallway and then the stairs.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it from my purse. It's from Dave.
Hey. Just checking you made it. Let me know when you're settled. Dinner this week?
I should jump at the chance. A man who is genuinely happy to hear from me, uncomplicated and easy, no hidden agendas or cold blue eyes that see straight through me one minute and look right past me the next.
We never ended up meeting. Not after the bomb Madison dropped.
I'd told him about my three month stay. He had been way too happy about the news for my casual hook-up guy.
Since I want nothing serious, I considered breaking things off with him.
But I need a reminder that there's life beyond Blackstone drama.
That there are men beyond the man I'll be living with for the next three months.
I type back.
Made it. It's complicated. I'll be in touch.
Vague. Noncommittal. Fair, given everything.
I toss the phone on my bed and unpack.
I'm hanging the last of my blouses in the walk-in closet when Madison appears, arms wrapped around her middle. “Lillianna hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you. She’s just... processing.” I’m not sure that is true, but what else can I say?
“She should hate me. I threatened her family.”
“You did.” There’s no point in sugarcoating it. “But she’s also trying to be decent about it. That counts for something.”
She hunches her shoulders as if making herself smaller. The calculating blackmailer from the conference room has vanished, leaving behind a kid whose mother just died and who has nowhere else to go.
“What else was I supposed to do?” she demands. “Let you drag me to New York? Live in some city where I don't know anyone? Where everything reminds me that I'm the leftover daughter nobody wanted?"
"That's not—"
"It is, though. You didn't want me before Mom died. You never visited. Never called. And now you're stuck with me because there's no one else."
The accusation stings because it's partially true.
"And the Blackstones?" Madison continues.
"They want to pretend I don’t exist. Dad probably felt the same.
So yeah, I'm using what I have.” She turns away from me.
“Mom loved him. My dad. Louis. She loved him her whole life, even though he never chose us. Even though we were always the secret. And I hated her for it.”
The guilt in her voice is palpable, but it's mixed with something harder. Angrier. The poor girl has lost so much. Sure, I lost my mother too, but I let go of her when she cast aside Dad and me.
Yet neither of us is free. We're both leftovers from the same mess, just sorted into different piles.
"I hated her for settling. Accepting and being willing to be someone's secret was acceptable.
For loving a man who couldn't even acknowledge his daughter in public.” Madison's voice cracks.
"And now she's gone and I can't tell her that.
Can't tell her I hated watching her wait for him.
Can't tell her she deserved better. Can't tell her anything. "
She swipes at her face with both hands. "And I hate that I'm still so mad at her when she's dead. What kind of shitty daughter does that?"
"The kind who's been hurt," I say quietly. "The kind who watched her mother accept less than she deserved."
"I don't want Blackstone money. I just want them to see me. To let me stay in Kentucky. To be part of a family.” Her voice cracks. "Is that so wrong?"
I step toward her and wrap my arms around her in a loose hug. She doesn't fall into it, but doesn't push me away. “No. That's not wrong at all. But, honey, I am your family.”
“I don’t want to leave,” she whispers
“I’m sorry. I like it here too,” I say into her hair, only half lying. Sure, the last years here were awful, but there are good memories too. “But I can’t leave my job.”
“I know.” She sniffles, pulling from my hug. Then seems to shake off her sadness. “That’s a problem we’ll worry about in three months. Right now, let’s unpack and make sure we’re not late for King Bourbon’s dinner.”
I laugh. “Okay, I’ll meet you downstairs.”
She disappears into her room, and I’m alone in my room. I move to the windows and press my palm against the glass, looking down at the pool. My focus shifts to the woods beyond. The late afternoon sun gives everything a golden glow.
A thud sounds from above.
I freeze, my hand still on the window. What was that?
A shuffle, thud. Footsteps. Definitely footsteps. Pacing back and forth, the rhythm sharp and agitated.
Is there a third damn level? My heart kicks up. I slip out of my room and down the hallway. Another staircase I hadn’t noticed before curves upward at the far end, narrower than the grand double staircases in the foyer. Servant stairs, maybe? Or just another way to navigate this labyrinth?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I climb the steps. When I reach the top, I stop dead.
Above me is a massive stained glass dome, all deep blues and golds and crimsons cast colored shadows across the hardwood floor.
The late afternoon sun filters through, painting everything in jewel tones.
It’s breathtaking—the kind of architectural detail that belongs in a cathedral, not a private home.
But it’s what’s beyond the dome that makes my breath catch.
The entire third floor is open concept, one enormous space encased in glass on three sides.
An office. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the estate.
And in the Kentucky heat, with all this glass and all three levels of this estate, the constant battle to heat and cool a space built for show rather than sense is obscene. Wasteful.
Then I see him. My stomach drops like I’ve missed a step on the stairs.
Thorne stands at a massive desk, phone pressed to his ear, his back to me.
He’s shed his jacket from earlier, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, and even from here I can see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid set of his spine.
The memory of those shoulders under my hands—smooth skin over hard muscle—flashes through my mind unbidden.
Heat pools low in my belly. My pulse kicks up, thrumming in my throat, my wrists, between my thighs.
This is bad. This is so bad.
I should go. I should definitely go.
Instead, I watch him slice one hand sharply through the air, clearly arguing with whoever's on the phone. Then he runs his other hand through his dark hair.
I recognize that gesture now. He did it when he claimed there wasn't room in his house. Did it on the train when I asked his name. Evander. When he lied.
Yet my fingers curl with the phantom memory of threading through those strands, tugging just hard enough to make him groan against my mouth.
Stop. Jesus, stop.
He turns slightly, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think he’s going to see me standing here. See me watching him like some kind of stalker.
But his gaze stays on whatever’s in front of him, papers, probably. Reports about the environmental disaster his father created.
Then he stills, and as if sensing me, turns in my direction.
His eyes lock onto mine through the open layout, and everything stops. The phone is still pressed to his ear, but his hand has frozen mid-gesture. Those arctic blue eyes that had looked at me on the train like I was the only woman in the world, go wide.
Move, dammit. Or at least say something. But my tongue is glued to the top of my mouth.
His lips part slightly, and I see him inhale. See the way his grip tightens on the phone. See the exact moment shock shifts into something else. Something heated and hungry that makes my skin flush.
I hold his stare long enough to make the refusal to look away mean something. Then his expression shutters and he turns his back to me.
I walk down the stairs.
Slowly.
Because I'm not running from Thorne Blackstone.
Three months in this house.
Three months of running into him in hallways, at dinner, by the pool. Three months of remembering the weight of his body against mine, the taste of bourbon on his tongue.
Evander was supposed to disappear when I stepped off the train, becoming a scorching memory I could recall when needed.
But Thorne Blackstone isn't going anywhere. And neither is this ache in my body every time I think about him.