3. Sienna
CHAPTER THREE
SIENNA
The next event was at Bellweather Country Resort, which meant lawns trimmed into perfection, white-gloved staff, and dynasty men pretending that shooting clay pigeons at sunset was charity work.
I arrived with Jamison.
Technically.
We came in the same car, but he spent the entire drive on his phone, his body angled away from me.
Rain had passed through Harlan earlier, leaving everything beautiful.
The roads to Bellweather curled through dark trees and high iron gates, with lanterns glowing along the drive.
I watched them pass one by one through the window and tried to count them instead of looking at Jamison’s reflection in the glass.
He looked worse than usual.
Jamison Crow was terrifyingly beautiful in the way storms were beautiful before they destroyed things. He was wearing a black suit, black shirt, no tie. Because apparently event rules were suggestions for men with enough power. His tattoos disappeared under his collar and cuffs.
His mood, though, was awful. Cold enough to make the driver keep his eyes fixed on the road.
“I don’t fucking care if he panicked,” Jamison said into his phone. “Panic is what small men do when they realize they’ve borrowed from the wrong family.”
I played with my bracelet.
Jamison ended the call.
The silence afterward felt dangerous, so I filled it.
“The resort looks beautiful after rain,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
I looked at his profile. “The lights in the trees are sweet. It almost looks enchanted.”
His jaw moved. I tried again because apparently I had no survival instincts where he was concerned.
“Have you been here before?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” I smoothed my skirt. “For an event?”
“For business.”
“Right.” I nodded, still smiling. “Crow business.”
His eyes cut to me. “Don’t say shit you don’t understand.”
My smile froze.
“Sorry,” I said softly.
Jamison looked away first, back toward the wet road and the line of lanterns drawing us toward the resort. His phone buzzed again before I could think of anything else to say, and he answered it immediately.
I turned my face toward the window.
The lawns opened around us. Bellweather appeared ahead. Deep green shutters and a long terrace. Cars curved around the fountain. Staff stood beneath black umbrellas.
The car stopped.
A valet opened Jamison’s door first. He got out while still talking.
I waited for my side to open, then stepped carefully onto the gravel. My heels sank a little, and I had to grip the doorframe to steady myself.
Jamison didn’t notice.
A staff member offered me an umbrella.
Jamison was already halfway up the steps.
I hurried after him, one hand holding my skirt up from the damp gravel, the umbrella tilted awkwardly over my hair. His guards moved around him in black formation. One slowed just enough to make sure I didn’t get left behind before the entrance.
That was nice.
Inside, there was a huge hearth in the entry hall, taller than me. The event was a dynasty conservation fundraiser, which mostly meant men with too much land gave speeches about preserving more land. Jamison crossed the entry hall without pausing.
I touched his sleeve before I lost him.
“Jamjam?”
He stopped so suddenly I almost ran into him. His eyes dropped to my hand on his sleeve. I removed it quickly.
“Sorry. I just—hand, please?”
His stare lifted to my face.
There were people around us. A woman near the registration table looked over, then away. Two men by the fire pretended to discuss their drinks.
Jamison’s expression went flat.
“No.”
I blinked.
It was such a small word.
It should not have hurt that much.
“Oh,” I said, because my mouth needed something to do.
“I’m not doing that tonight.”
My fingers curled at my side. “Okay.”
His eyes narrowed, almost as if my agreement irritated him too. “Don’t follow me around asking for shit every ten seconds.”
Heat climbed my throat. “I won’t.”
Jamison didn’t say anything else. He turned and walked toward the main room with two guards behind him, already raising his phone again.
I stood in the entry hall with my umbrella still folded in my hand.
For a second, I forgot how to move.
Then someone from the event staff approached with a smile that was far too gentle.
“Miss Bellemere, may I take that for you?”
I looked down at the umbrella.
“Yes. Sorry. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
She took it, and I gave her the kind of smile that told strangers I was fine because I could not survive the alternative.
The main room stretched out beyond a pair of open doors. Tall windows. A long bar. Firelight and chandeliers. Dynasty families gathered in glossy clusters, speaking quietly under mounted antlers and garlands of winter greenery.
Beyond the windows, the terrace overlooked the resort grounds, where lanterns had been strung between old trees.
Jamison stood near the bar.
Whiskey was already in his hand.
That made sense. Whiskey always reached him faster than I did.
I walked in slowly, keeping my shoulders relaxed and my chin lifted. It was important to look as though I had meant to arrive separately.
I found Emmie near the fireplace with Marcel and Harrison. Relief moved through me so fast.
“Sienna,” Emmie said when she saw me. Her face brightened in a real way, and then softened when she must have read something on mine. “Come here.”
Harrison lifted his glass. “Sunshine survives another Crow entrance.”
“Barely,” Marcel said dryly, glancing toward Jamison.
I tried to laugh before anyone thought I needed rescuing.
“He’s busy tonight,” I said.
Emmie squeezed my hand. “Stay with us for a while.”
For a little bit, the night almost became good.
Marcel told me about Bellweather’s history, how the old resort had once hosted private political negotiations under the cover of hunting weekends.
Emmie asked about ballet, and when I told her my rehearsals were getting longer because of the winter gala piece, she listened as if every detail mattered.
“Are you still doing the turn sequence from the last performance?” she asked.
“A harder version,” I said, unable to hide my excitement. “Madame Aveline added another traveling turn and then a pause on pointe before the fall. She said if I can hold it long enough, the audience will feel the break before the music does.”
Emmie asked what the costume would look like. Marcel asked how many performances had sold out. Harrison demanded to know whether ballet people hissed at one another backstage the way opera people did, and I spent several minutes trying to explain that dancers were terrifying in a more silent way.
Jamison did not come over.
He stayed at the bar. Then near the windows. Then in a corner with two men who nodded too much and smiled too little. He drank. He checked his phone. Once, his eyes passed over me without stopping, as if I were part of the furniture.
I told myself it was fine.
I did not need Jamison to be nice.
I only wished he were.
Dinner was served in a long glass conservatory attached to the resort. The room was full of winter flowers and white candles, with a dark sky. It should have been romantic. It should have been magical.
Jamison sat beside me because the seating chart forced him to. His body angled away from mine for most of the meal.
I tried once.
“They did a nice job with the flowers,” I said.
He cut into his steak. “It’s a tax write-off.”
I smiled because that was nearly a joke if I tilted my head right. “Still pretty.”
“Pretty is what people use when they don’t have anything useful to say.”
“Jamison.” Harrison said, across the table and stopped mid bite.
Jamison looked up. “What?”
The table went quiet.
I moved quickly to save it because that was what I did. I gathered broken pieces before anyone cut themselves on them.
“It’s okay,” I said. “He’s right. I was just saying something to say something.”
Jamison went back to eating.
I did too, even though every bite felt thick in my throat. The rest of dinner blurred into noise and candlelight.
Afterward, people returned to the main hall for coffee and speeches.
The fundraiser had an auction later, then fireworks over the west lawn, weather permitting.
I tried to stay near Emmie, but she got pulled into a conversation with a woman from the St. Verity family, and Marcel had to speak with resort donors.
Harrison disappeared to take a call.
Jamison vanished completely. I found him twenty minutes later near the side exit, coat already on, phone pressed to his ear.
Panic made me move before pride could stop me.
“Jamjam?”
He glanced at me.
“I have to go.”
“Oh.” I stopped beside him. “Okay. I’ll get my coat.”
“No.” His voice was impatient. “You stay.”
I stared at him, not understanding. “Stay?”
“It’s an event.”
“Yes, but I came with you.”
“Then leave with your driver.”
“My driver isn’t here.” I hated how small my voice sounded. “You told them we were arriving together. I thought—”
“Hold.” He spoke into the phone. Then he looked at me fully, and somehow that was worse.
“Sienna, I don’t have the capacity to manage your transport tonight.”
Manage. As if I were luggage. I kept my expression neutral.
“I can call someone,” I said quickly. “I just thought—”
“Then call someone.”
His phone went back to his ear.
That was it.
The side door opened. Two guards moved around him, and Jamison Crow walked out into the wet night without touching me, without checking if I had a ride, without saying goodbye.
The door shut behind him. For a few seconds, I stood there staring at the dark wood.
A waiter passed behind me carrying a tray of coffee cups and pretended very hard not to notice I was standing alone by the exit.
I breathed in.
Out.
In again.
Then I turned and walked back toward the bar.
I would call someone.
Of course I would. I was twenty. I had a phone, and a family name that gave me access to drivers and enough money to be stranded only in the emotional sense.
Still, my hands shook when I opened my little purse.
No signal.
I frowned down at my phone. One bar appeared, then disappeared.