Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The closer we get to the Steele estate, the quieter she gets.
Her fingers smooth the slit at her thigh in slow, absentminded patterns.
Her expressionless gaze stays fixated on the windshield, though I’m sure she’s not seeing anything.
The Camaro hums low beneath us as we turn down a tree-lined drive, and her spine straightens.
I have questions. About the adoption. About this house. About the people who tried to erase her from every record I tore through looking for her. I haven’t asked, and if she doesn't want to talk about it, I’ll get my answers another way.
Castle by Halsey plays through the speakers as the estate rises out of the darkness. White stone. Iron gates. Warm golden lights twinkle in the perfectly manicured hedges along the front of the house. It looks welcoming, but her jaw sets as we pass through the open gates.
It’s pretty. Polished. Carefully controlled. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as we round the circle drive. Control doesn’t impress me. If anything, I want to break it.
Pulling the car to a stop, a man in a tux makes his way to her door to open it as I step out. He stops in his tracks, looking me over in confusion.
“I got it, thanks,” I tell him evenly, already rounding the hood. He backs off without argument, turning and making his way back up the marble steps.
Good.
Opening the door, her soft palm slides into mine, steady despite the tension running beneath her skin.
I help her out, slowly, deliberately. Not because she needs it, but because I want them to watch.
My hand falls to the small of her back, and I guide her up the steps.
The beading of her dress catches the warm light that spills out along the porch.
Golden and inviting in a way that feels rehearsed.
“Still good?” I ask as we reach the front door, low so only she can hear it.
She pulls her shoulders back, turns her head toward me, and puts on a smile. The one that’s for show. It’s eerie and also impressive how easily she slips effortlessly into the facade.
“I’m fine,” she says confidently.
I nod then step inside first, just a half pace ahead of her, letting my eyes adjust.
The foyer rises three stories high, crowned with a chandelier the size of a small car.
Crystal catches the light and scatters it across marble floors that are veined in gold.
Every surface gleams. Every edge is sharp.
The air smells like polished wood, expensive perfume, and money that's been sitting untouched for generations.
A sweeping staircase curves along the back wall, the dark walnut railing gleaming beneath recessed lighting. Oil paintings in heavy gilded frames line the walls–landscapes, stern men in suits, women in pearls. Legacy, framed and watching.
A string quartet plays somewhere off to the right. Guests cluster in small groups beneath towering columns. Their laughter soft, almost muted in the vast space as servers in black weave through them carrying champagne and silver trays. One of them materializes in front of us.
“Champagne?” He offers smoothly, a tray balanced between white-gloved fingertips.
Ashlynn doesn't hesitate. She plucks a flute from the tray and brings it to her lips before I can say anything. The server moves on, and that’s when I see her.
I wouldn’t know for sure which woman in this room is Melissa Steele on sight.
But Ashlynn does. Her breath leaves her in a controlled exhale.
One that silently screams resignation. Her fingers tighten around the stem of the glass, and she steps forward on auto pilot, straight across the marble toward a woman standing near the base of the staircase.
She’s wrapped in a long, floor length blush colored dress, her dark brown hair twisted and pinned in a perfect updo. Not a single hair out of place.
That’s her.
I fall into step beside Ashlynn. Melissa catches us moving toward her, her bright white veneered smile faltering, just for a second, before it stretches wider.
Polished, practiced, and fake. Her eyes drag over me, calculating.
My hand settles at the small of Ashlynn’s back again, steady and deliberate as we close the distance.
I don’t look away, and neither does she.
“Ashlynn,” she breathes, stepping forward. Her arms open slightly but not fully committing to an embrace. My girl doesn’t speed up or slow down, and stops a polite distance away.
“Mother.” Ashlynn’s voice carries a slight edge to it. Melissa’s smile tightens at the edges, barely noticeable. But I catch it.
“I’m so glad you finally decided to join us, dear,” she says smoothly, her eyes flitting over the champagne silk. “You look…radiant.” I don’t miss the displeasure in her tone.
“Thank you.” Ashlynn’s chin lifts.
Melissa’s gaze shifts to me.
“And you must be…” She leaves it open for me.
“Karson,” I say evenly.
“Ah,” she looks me up and down. “And what is it you do, Karson?”
“I work in security,” I reply vaguely.
“Ah,” she says lightly. “Well, we do appreciate men who know how to protect what’s valuable.” Her gaze slides down Ashlynn’s dress again, then back to me. I hold her stare.
“Trust me,” I say, tightening my grip slightly on Ashlynn’s waist. “I do.”
“Jack,” she calls over her shoulder. “Your daughter is here. She brought a guest.”
The man who approaches moves slowly, as if the room parts for him like the red sea.
Jack Steele is broader and taller than I pictured. Silver threaded through dark hair with a tailored tux that’s fitted precisely. His eyes land on Ashlynn first. They soften–but only just.
“Ash,” he says evenly.
Not darling. Not dear. Just her name.
Interesting.
Ashlynn’s shoulders square. “Jack.”
He nods once, as if that’s enough affection for one evening, then he turns to me. His gaze is less theatrical than his wife’s, more assessing.
“And you are?”
“Karson.”
“He works in security, dear,” Melissa tells him, her arm hooking through his.
Jack nods. “A necessary profession,” he says with an edge.
“Well,” Melissa starts. “We’re thrilled you could join us.”
Jack doesn’t look away from me.
“Enjoy the evening,” he says, tone neutral but loaded. “We’ll speak later.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
The two turn and make their rounds around the room. Charming the guests, ensuring they wring every dollar possible out of their wallets.
“What is this gala for exactly?” I ask quietly, leaning down so my mouth is closer to her ear.
She turns, looking up at me under thick lashes. “The Children’s Legacy Foundation,” she snorts. “All the money raised at these events goes toward funding foster homes.”
I lift a brow. “Really?”
She lifts the glass to her lips, tossing back the champagne. The corners of her mouth lift, but there’s no humor in it.
“That’s what the website says.”
Across the room, Melissa laughs brightly at something someone says, one manicured hand resting over her pearl necklace.
“And in reality?” I murmur.
“In reality, they only fund specific homes,” she says. “Ones they can control. Ones that make good press.”
“And the others?”
Her jaw tightens, but says nothing. She doesn’t need to. I get it. They pick and choose.
My eyes sweep the room again. Crystal chandeliers. Marble floors. A silent auction table lined with vacation packages and signed memorabilia. A large projection screen cycling through photographs of smiling children in clean hallways with bright paint and brand-new toys.
Manufactured hope.
“Do they actually help anyone?” I ask.
She chews her lip. “Sometimes,” she says quietly. “Just not the way they pretend to.”
A donor approaches Jack, shaking his hand vigorously while a photographer snaps a picture.
Flash. Smile. Handshake. Brand. Legacy. Control.
“And you,” I say, eyes lowering to her. “You’re part of the display?”
Her gaze lifts to mine, her eyes void of any emotion.
“Front row.”
They’ve used her.
My hand lifts, cupping the side of her face. My thumb brushes along her jawline once.
“Not tonight,” I tell her.
Something in her expression shifts, and her eyes melt. She leans into my palm. Her eyes flutter closed and she lets out a soft breath.
Good.
She didn’t show up in emerald and obedience. She showed up in champagne and fire. And I’m about to see what this foundation is really built on.