“Forgive me for calling bullshit on . . . all of that.” This woman has sass, and she’s not afraid to use it. I can respect the hell out of that. She tucks one hand beneath the opposite elbow and stares out the window, looking like she could use a drink and a cigarette. “You’re on my father’s payroll. And you work for her.”
“Her?”
“My wicked stepmother.” Her pretty blue eyes roll, and her voice is tinged with unconcealed annoyance. “The incomparable Veronica Kensington-Randall.”
The name sounds familiar, and I’m sure I skimmed over it when my father dropped the conservator assignment in my lap this morning, but as far as working for anyone, it’s not like that.
“I don’t know her,” I say. “Serena, I work for you. No one but you. The judge appointed a conservator to your estate. Rosewood and Rosewood was chosen as a non-biased solution. And here I am.”
“You think I’m paranoid, don’t you?”
“Not at all.” I lie. Sort of. I have no fucking clue what to think of this woman, but I’m completely absorbed into everything about her. The way she talks. Her fluid body movements. Her flair for dramatic eyebrow arches and the way she unabashedly jumps to conclusions and refuses to apologize.
She has my full attention, be it good or bad.
“Veronica has the entire world convinced I’m crazy. I can’t set foot in Manhattan now. None of my friends have so much as sent a single well-wish. Not that I’m unwell, but you know.”
“With friends like that . . .”
She whips her gaze to me, letting it drip down to my lapel, slow, like honey, before rising again. “You sure you’ve never heard of Veronica?”
“Never.”
Serena blows a light breath, her pink lips pulled up at the side as if she’s amused. “What rock have you been living under?”
She glides back to the sofa once belonging to some woman whose name now escapes me, and she floats down, wrapping her hands around her teacup. I take the spot next to her, slowly, gingerly.
“My priorities don’t involve keeping up on the who’s who. The lifestyles of the rich and famous aren’t of any interest to me. No offense.”
“None taken. And why would they be?” She smiles a fleeting smile, an unexpected hint of compassion in her tone. “Glitz and glamour is nothing but a façade. Our lives are incredibly mundane, and we spend a tragic amount of money trying to prove we’re some kind of special.”
She laughs. Once.
“Do you think you’re special, Mr. Rosewood?” she asks.
“I don’t think I’m qualified to make that judgment.” I run my palm down my thin, black tie. “I can tell you who’s special to me, but I can’t tell you if I, myself, am special. That’s not for me to decide.”
“Wise man.” She sips from her teacup, staring ahead.
A gardener with a large pair of sheers clips away at the overgrown boxwood bush in front of the parlor’s picture window, shaping it and paying close attention to the edges. We watch in silence until he moves along, the bush trimmed into a faultless rectangle by the time he’s finished.
“Your home is lovely,” I say. “The grounds, the gardens. Impeccable. You’re very fortunate to spend your time recovering in such a beautiful place.”
“This place is a prison fortress in disguise. No one under the age of seventy should have to live here.” She huffs, taking a sharper tone with me. “No internet. Spotty cellphone service on the best of days. I’m completely cut off from the outside world.”
I clear my throat, looking away.
“I’m sorry.” She turns my way. “This medication I’m taking makes me irritable and scrambles my thoughts. I can’t keep a single train of thought going before it derails. I swear, my mood is all over the place, and this isn’t me at all.”
Her voice is pillow-soft now, and her face is winced.
“And these headaches. God, they’re awful. It’s why I keep the house so dark.” Her voice softens to an apologetic whisper.
I waste no time in rising, pulling the centuries-old tapestry closed. “Better?”
“Thank you.” Her dramatically beautiful features are reduced to shadows in the dark, but it does very little to mask her beauty. “I apologize if I’ve been curt with you, Derek. You’re the first person I’ve spoken to in over forty-five days who doesn’t have their paycheck personally signed by Veronica.”
“Is that so?”
She nods, elegantly lifting one leg across the other and resting her hand atop her knee. Her gaze is fixed on a gilded clock resting on a marble mantle. The face of the clock glows white in the dim room. I have to venture to guess that the minutes drip a little slower in these parts, and that alone is enough to make any normal person a little insane, all else aside.
“I used to have a life,” Serena says. Her lips arch into a tepid smile as she stares at her still hands. “A beautiful, exhilarating, fulfilling life. I had friends. And a fiancé. And a charity organization. People who depended on me. A purpose. I had a good life, Derek. And then I lost it. I lost every last part of it, and I don’t know how that happened. Then they said I was crazy, and now you’re here, and all I know is nothing makes sense anymore.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened? Your version of everything. Start at the beginning.”