3. Sienna #2
Bellweather always had terrible reception inside because of the old stone walls. The resort had private communication systems for security and staff, but guests had to wander near windows or terrace doors to get anything through.
I moved toward the glass wall.
No signal.
Toward the terrace doors. Nothing. I went outside.
The terrace was damp, the stone slick beneath my heels. My phone found one bar, then lost it again before the call connected.
I tried my mother first.
No answer.
Then my father’s office line. Straight to assistant voicemail. My usual driver. No answer. I sent messages, but they stuck halfway, grey and undelivered.
“Perfect,” I whispered.
I walked along the terrace until I found a little covered section near a stone balustrade, away from the doors.
The rain had stopped, but water still dripped steadily from the ivy above.
I stood beneath the cover, rubbing one arm with the opposite hand, trying to get enough signal to exist outside this place.
The door opened behind me.
I straightened immediately and pasted on my smile before turning.
A man stepped onto the terrace with two cups in his hands.
He was tall, but not Crow-tall. His face was handsome in an easy way, with kind eyes and a mouth that looked much more familiar with smiling than cruelty.
I recognized him after a second.
Alistair Ashbourne.
From a dynasty of polished heirs whose family owned rail corridors and half the medical shipping routes between Harlan and St. Cross. I had seen him at events. He was usually surrounded by cousins and older women trying to introduce him to daughters with good bloodlines.
Tonight, he was alone.
“Sorry,” he said, stopping a polite distance away. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t.” My smile brightened automatically. “I’m just trying to find signal.”
“Ah.” He looked around the rain-damp terrace. “Bellweather’s greatest tradition. Losing guests to the gardens while they try to send one text.”
I laughed.
It surprised me.
So did he, apparently, because his smile warmed.
“I brought coffee,” he lifted the cups slightly. “One of them was for my cousin, but he decided to start an argument about land trusts with a ninety-year-old duke, so now I have a spare. Would you like it?”
My instinct was to say no.
Because accepting things from people created little obligations, and I was already so tired from managing everyone else’s moods.
Then another cold drip from the ivy landed on my bare shoulder, and I shivered.
“It has sugar,” he added. “A criminal amount, according to my aunt.”
“I like sugar.”
“Excellent. Then I accidentally became useful.”
He held it out.
I took it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Are you stranded or hiding?” he asked.
The question was so direct that my practiced answer almost tripped.
“Oh. Neither.”
His brows lifted.
I laughed too quickly. “Maybe a little of both.”
“That sounds more honest.”
I looked down at the coffee. “My driver isn’t here, and the signal is being dramatic.”
“Bellweather does love drama.”
“It suits the building.”
“It does. These walls were designed to make people confess things near fireplaces.”
I smiled again. Another pause. I didn’t know what to do with open.
Usually pauses around me were things I rushed to fill before someone got annoyed. With Jamison, silence felt like a test I was always failing. With my parents, silence meant I had said something wrong. In Harlan rooms, silence could be social calculation.
Alistair’s silence felt as if he was simply waiting.
“Were you enjoying the event?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s lovely. The flowers are beautiful, and the auction pieces looked wonderful.”
He watched me for a second.
“Were you enjoying it?”
I stared at him. My fingers tightened around the cup.
“I…” I started, then stopped.
He waited.
“I liked the flowers,” I said, too fast. “I did. I know that sounds shallow, but I did. They used winter roses and those little white berries, and it made the room feel less severe. Bellweather can feel severe, don’t you think?
It’s beautiful, but in a way that makes you sit straighter.
I liked the coffee service too, but dinner was tense because everyone kept talking about conservation while half the people in that room probably own enough private land to make the concept a bit ridiculous. ”
Alistair’s smile grew.
I took that as permission and kept going.
“And there was this woman in gold who kept saying charity should be elegant, which is such a Harlan thing to say. Charity doesn’t need to be elegant. It needs to be useful. But if you say that, people look at you as if you’ve spilled soup on the family crest.”
He laughed.
I stopped, mortified. “Sorry. I talk a lot.”
“I noticed.”
My face burned. “Right. Sorry.”
“That wasn’t a complaint. I asked.” He took a sip of his coffee.
“You did,” I said, still suspicious of kindness. “But people ask things all the time.”
“Do they?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“And then they usually wait for the smallest possible answer so they can talk again.”
His expression changed. I wished I could grab the sentence back.
“That sounded rude,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean you. I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.”
I pressed my lips together.
He leaned against the stone balustrade, still keeping that careful distance. “What would you have done differently?”
“With what?”
“The event.”
I blinked. “You want my opinion?”
“I asked for it.”
I almost smiled, but it came out stunned instead. “No one asks me that.”
“That seems unlikely.”
Inside, applause rose briefly from the main room, then faded.
Alistair studied me, in the way men sometimes did. He looked at my face as if it contained the important information. I lowered my eyes first.
“I would have made it less stiff,” I said.
“Still beautiful, but warmer. More fire pits outside, maybe blankets on the terrace, a proper dessert room instead of tiny plates with gold leaf, because everyone likes dessert even if they pretend not to. I would have had the younger dancers from the Harlan scholarship program perform between speeches. Not a full ballet. Just small pieces. Something that reminds people the fundraiser has actual people attached to it, not just names on pledge cards.”
“That’s a good idea.”
I looked up sharply.
“What?”
“That’s a good idea,” he repeated.
I waited for the teasing. It didn’t come. So I smiled, uncertainly this time.
“Thank you.”
“Do you dance with that program?”
“I used to. Now I help sometimes. I’m rehearsing with the Winter Ballet Society.”
“The sold-out performance?”
“You heard about it?”
“I saw the clip. The final turn was extraordinary.”
I stared at him. My cheeks warmed for an entirely different reason.
He smiled. “Did I say that correctly?”
“Yes.” My voice was embarrassingly quiet. “You watched that?”
“A lot of people watched it.”
“Most people watched because Veil posted it with dramatic music and a headline about tragic heiresses.”
“I watched because your control was impressive.”
I had no idea what to do with that.
None.
I looked down into my coffee because if I kept looking at him, my face would tell the whole truth of how hungry I was for one simple compliment.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
The terrace door opened, and a couple stepped out laughing, then paused when they saw us. The woman’s gaze flicked between Alistair and me with immediate interest.
Alistair noticed.
“Would you rather go inside?”
I looked at my phone again. Still no signal.
“Have you reached your driver?”
“No. Bellweather is eating my messages.”
He set his coffee on the stone rail and pulled out his phone. “Mine works. Family network booster. One of the few perks of having relatives who hates dead zones.”
“That sounds useful.”
“It is tonight.” He glanced at the screen. “I can call someone for you.”
I hesitated. It was kind. Kindness always made me search for the cost.
“My driver is probably stuck near the city,” I admitted. “And my parents don’t always answer during events.”
“Do you live in Harlan proper?”
“Yes.”
“I’m heading back into Harlan now.”
“Oh.”
“I can give you a ride.”
The sensible part of me knew what people would say if they saw me leave with another dynasty heir after Jamison had abandoned me at a resort.
The trained part of me knew I was supposed to wait, quietly, for proper transport.
Alistair must have seen the conflict move across my face.
“My driver and security will be in the car. I can have one of the Bellweather staff confirm with the front desk if that makes it more comfortable. Or I can call a car and wait with you until it comes.”
My throat tightened.
He had thought of the optics.
“That’s very kind,” I said.
“It’s not difficult.”
I looked through the glass doors, here nobody seemed to have noticed I was missing except possibly Emmie, who would worry if she knew.
“Yes,” I said softly. “Please. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” His smile was small.
I nodded, clutching my coffee in both hands. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Sienna.”
He remembered my name.
Everyone in Harlan knew everyone’s names. That was not special.
He opened the terrace door and let me go first.
At the front desk, Alistair spoke quietly with staff while I sent Emmie a message using his working signal.
Going back to Harlan. Safe ride with Alistair Ashbourne. Thank you for tonight xx
Her reply came almost immediately.
Are you okay?
I looked at the message for a long moment. Write back yes. Her response came with three dots, then stopped, then came again.
Text me when you arrive. Marcel is furious.
I swallowed hard and locked the phone. Alistair’s car pulled up beneath the awning, with a driver and two security vehicles. The staff held the door open as we stepped out.