Chapter 9 #2
She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "Then let's go meet the lions."
"Oh Jane… you and your animal analogies…"
"You love it."
Thirty minutes later, we're walking through the resort toward my parents’ casita, and Jane looks like she's headed for execution.
She's in a white sundress that shows off her tan—well, spray tan—and her hair is down, She looks perfect. Polished. Exactly like someone who belongs in my world.
Except her hand is shaking in mine.
"Breathe," I murmur.
"I am breathing. Very efficiently. Practically hyperventilating."
"Jane."
"What if she asks about my family? My job? My pedigree?" She's spiraling again, her words tumbling out faster.
"I don't have a pedigree, West. I have a GED and a business license from the state of Massachusetts. I fix people's problems for gas money and grocery store wine."
I stop walking, turning her to face me.
"Look at me."
She does, those whiskey-colored eyes wide and anxious.
I cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. “You're smart. You're resourceful. You walked into this resort with zero backup and made Veronica Vance flee in under five minutes with nothing but audacity and a fake backstory. You can handle my mother."
I lean in, mouth hovering over hers. "And you've already got me in your corner."
"Your mother is a lawyer."
"So am I. Technically." I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. "And you're tougher than both of us."
"I don't feel tough. I feel like I'm about to puke on very expensive marble."
"Don't puke on the marble. It's imported." I tease.
That startles a laugh out of her. Small, but real.
"There she is," I say, smiling despite myself.
She takes a breath, nodding. "Okay. Okay, I can do this."
"You can."
"What's the worst that can happen?"
"My parents disown me, my Aunt Milly writes me out of the family trust, and I get banned from all future Prescott events."
Jane blinks. "That's... weirdly comforting, actually."
"I know, right? So, let's go."
My parents’ casita is twice the size as mine with floor-to-ceiling windows frame the ocean view.
A round table set for six, crystal and white linens, fresh orchids in the center is already set.
They've had brunch catered—silver chafing dishes gleaming on the sideboard, mimosa fixings already set out.
My mom is already seated, smiling as we approach, though there's a sharpness to it that means she's curious. But there's caution there too.
My father stands, extends his hand toward the empty chairs. "West. Jane." He's assessing, the way he does with expert witnesses in depositions—kind but careful, reserving judgment.
And at the head of the table, tiny and formidable in lavender linen, is Aunt Milly. Her bright eyes watching us with unconcealed interest.
The three of them united front when it matters. And apparently, meeting Jane matters.
Jane sits very still beside me, her hands folded in her lap.
My mom wastes no time.
"So," she says, her tone light but lethal. "There's been some interesting conversations circulating about you, West."
Here we go.
"Has there?" I say mildly.
"Veronica Vance called me yesterday night. Quite distressed. Said you have a boyfriend in Tribeca who sculpts."
"David," Aunt Milly supplies helpfully. "Emotionally unavailable, apparently."
My father's mouth twitches.
Mom continues, undeterred. "Penelope Davenport heard you have a four-year-old son named Mason. And another one coming."
“I’ve never been prouder of you, West. Way to sow the Prescott oats.” Aunt Milly adds, clearly enjoying this. "Though I heard something else altogether different. Something about a casual sexual partner or a team of partners. The details get fuzzy."
"And someone—I won't name names—" my mom's gaze could cut glass now, "—suggested Jane here is simply... what was the phrase? 'Keeping your bed warm while you figure things out.'"
Jane goes very still beside me.
"So." Mom folds her hands on the table. "Which version is true? Or are we operating in a world where all of them are somehow simultaneously accurate?"
Then Jane squeaks.
"Information warfare."
My mother blinks. "I beg your pardon?"
"It's a tactical strategy," Jane says, her voice now carries a false bravado I recognize. "When you're facing unwanted attention—persistent, organized attention—you deploy misinformation. Flood the zone with conflicting narratives. Make it impossible to identify what's actually true."
My father leans forward, interested. "Overwhelming the target's ability to process."
"Exactly."
Mom stares at her. "You deliberately spread false rumors about my son."
"I gave different answers to different people who were asking invasive questions about West's personal life." Jane meets her gaze directly. "Questions he didn’t want to answer."
“Why would you do that?”
I step in. "Because I asked her to."
My mother’s attention snaps to me. "Excuse me?"
"Veronica, Penelope, Vivienne, they’re just another candidate. Another setup. Another conversation I didn't want to have." I lean back in my chair, deliberately casual. "Jane gave me an out. I took it."
"By letting these women from prominent families believe you're—"
"Living my truth?" I offer dryly. "Embracing authenticity? Exploring my options?"
My father makes a choking sound that might be a suppressed laugh.
My mother does not look amused.
"This isn't funny, West. Your reputation—"
"My reputation is fine, Mom. And even if it wasn't, it's mine to manage."
"Not when it impacts the family—"
"Eleanor." Aunt Milly's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. Small but absolute.
My mother stops mid-sentence.
Aunt Milly's gaze shifts to Jane, assessing. "You. I know you."
Jane blinks. "Me—huh?"
"You helped me." Aunt Milly's expression sharpens with recognition. "Few days ago. The concierge desk. That insufferable man tried to dismiss me, and you intervened."
Oh.
Oh, that's perfect.
Jane's face clears with recognition. "The luggage. You were trying to get your bags sent up, and he said you weren't platinum level—"
"And you told him to get his act together.” Aunt Milly's mouth curves, sharp and pleased.
"You were being treated like you were invisible," Jane says, her voice firm. "That's not okay. I don't care what level anyone is."
Aunt Milly studies her for a long moment. Then she laughs, a sound like crackling paper.
"I like her," she announces to the table at large.
Mom looks like she's been hit with a two-by-four. "Aunt Milly—"
"She has spine." Aunt Milly waves a dismissive hand. "More than those vapid candidates you keep parading in front of him, Eleanor. What was the last one?”
My father coughs into his napkin.
My mother recovers quickly. "Jane may have been... helpful. But that doesn't mean she's an appropriate match for West. We know nothing about her background. Her family. Her education—"
"I'm sitting right here," Jane says quietly.
The table goes silent. I brace for impact.
My dear mom blinks. "I'm sorry?"
"I'm sitting right here," Jane repeats, louder now. "If you want to know about my background, you can ask me directly."
I watch my mother recalibrate, clearly not expecting resistance.
"Very well." Mom folds her hands. "What do your parents do, Jane?"
"My mom's dead. Overdose, seven years ago. I don't know who my father is."
The bluntness of it lands like a slap.
My mother pales. My father shifts uncomfortably.
But Jane doesn't flinch.
"I raised my younger sister," she continues. "Put her through high school, and now she's in nursing school. I run my own business. It's small. Not impressive. But it's mine."
"I see." My mom's voice is carefully neutral. "And your extended family?"
Jane shrugs. "Working class. Boston. We multiply like rabbits, if that's what you're asking."
I freeze.
So does Mom
But Aunt Milly—Aunt Milly tips her head back and cackles.
"Multiply like rabbits!" she repeats, delighted. "Well, that's refreshing. Better than Eleanor's scheduled ovulation spreadsheets."
"Aunt Milly!" My mother's voice is strangled.
"What? It's true. You sent me that fertility tracker app, Eleanor. Wanted me to weigh in on optimal conception windows for West's future spouse. As if I care when the girl gets pregnant so long as she's not a coward."
Jane makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. I squeeze her hand under the table.
"Rabbits," Aunt Milly repeats, grinning at Jane with sharp approval. "I like it. Means you come from people who know how to survive. How to work. How to breed without a manual."
"Aunt Milly, please—" Mom tries again.
"Oh, hush. You asked about her pedigree. She doesn't have one. Good. Pedigrees make people soft."
Aunt Milly taps the table with a pointed finger. "This girl helped an old woman she didn't know, told off a man twice her age, and just stared down the entire Prescott inquisition without blinking. That's worth more than any boarding school resume."
"West, bring Jane to New York for the summer gala. I want to see Eleanor's book club friends try to out-snob a girl who multiplies like rabbits."
Suddenly, my mother’s snickering at the idea.
"Now." Aunt Milly waves a hand. "Someone get me more Egg Benedict. And stop interrogating the poor girl. She's already won."
***
Brunch passes in a blur.
Jane holds her own, answering questions with a mix of honesty and strategic vagueness that I'm starting to recognize as her trademark.
She doesn't apologize. Doesn't shrink. Doesn't perform… well, maybe a little. But she mainly holds her ground and answers appropriately. And somehow, that’s more impressive than any polished act.
Because she’s defending me.
My mother warms incrementally—or at least stops looking like she's planning Jane's social execution.
My father asks polite questions about her business, genuinely curious.
And Aunt Milly, the terrifying gatekeeper of the Prescott legacy, has fully adopted Jane as her personal project.
She turns to me, eyes bright.
“You look alive, boy. Less like a handsome gargoyle and more like a person. It’s an improvement. Credit where credit’s due.”
“You make him smile, Jane. Really smile. Not the polite, empty thing he’s been doing for the past three years. We haven’t seen that since…” She trails off, the unspoken Caroline hanging in the air.
“Since the Dark Ages,” Mom finishes bluntly. “When he’s engaged with that walking mannequin with the emotional range of a teaspoon.”
I shift in my seat, suddenly the center of attention. My parents are looking at me like I’ve sprouted wings. Because of her. Because of Jane Cooper.
"You keeping her?"
The question punches the air from my lungs.
Keeping her.
As if it's that simple. As if the deal doesn't expire in three days. As if I haven't been lying to myself about the clean break we both agreed to.
"We're together," I say carefully.
"That's not what I asked."
Jane's hand tenses in mine.
I look at her. She's staring at the table, her cheeks pink, her jaw tight.
"Yes," I hear myself say. "I'm keeping her."
The lie tastes different this time. Heavier. Because three days ago it would've been strategy, and now it's just… wanting.
Jane's hand goes tense in mine. She keeps her eyes lowered, won't look at me. Won't look at anyone. Like she can't bear to see their faces while I lie to them.
“Good. And you know what… it’d be even better if you two get pregnant soon.”
I hear Jane gasp next to me.
“Aunt Milly. We just met. Just got together!” I quickly remind her.
“Doesn’t matter!” Aunt Milly retorts. “Boy, you were practically a ghost before Jane. Haunting your own life. Now?” She gestures at me with her mango slice. “Look at you. Practically glowing. Positively… human. It’s unnerving, and preferable.”
Jane excuses herself to refill her coffee, her cheeks pink. The moment she’s out of earshot, the family huddle begins.
“She’s real, West, despite all the tall tales she’d spun about you,” Mom says softly, her eyes following Jane as she wrestles with the Nespresso machine again. “Genuine. Not like…”
“Caroline,” My father finishes, his voice low. “No comparison. That woman was all polish and no substance. A beautifully wrapped empty box. Jane?”
He nods towards her. “She’s… solid. Interesting. She sees you.”
“And she doesn’t take your brooding crap,” Aunt Milly adds approvingly.
Their words sink in, warming me from the inside. They see it too. What she is. Not the persona, not the shield, but the fierce, funny, gloriously messy core of her. And they approve. More than approve.
Jane returns, carefully balancing two coffees. She sets one down in front of me. “Your poison, Captain Brood.”
My face hurts from smiling. I can’t remember the last time that happened.