“Don’t tell Dad that.”
Royal stands, moving toward Demi’s side and placing his hand on the small of her back. She nuzzles her cheek against his chest and hums with this sickeningly dreamy look on her face. It’s too fucking cute, and it’s my sister and my childhood best friend, and I don’t need to see this.
“I’ll show myself out,” I say, reaching down and swiping the gossip rag. “Thanks for this.”
“Hey,” Demi says.
But it’s too late. I’m taking it. I won’t be caught dead buying one of these in public.
“I’ll bring it back,” I promise as I pull the front door closed. As soon as I’m in my car, I flip the light on and find Serena’s article.
It’s a two-page spread, the left side showing her in better days and the right side showing her being lead away from JFK airport in handcuffs, her hair a fiery, knotted mess and streaks of wet mascara beneath her eyes. The commentary below summarizes the reported events leading up to that fateful night, and several “sources” are quoted as saying “Serena hasn’t been herself ever since” or they’re “worried about the heiress” or they’re “hoping she’s able to come back from this stronger than ever.”
Which is funny, because I distinctly recall Serena mentioning that none of her old friends had been by to see her since things took a turn for the worse.
I toss the magazine aside like the garbage it is and back out of the driveway. Demi needs to find better things to do in her spare time.
Those things are nothing but lies anyway, and I’m not interested in that.
I’m only interested in the truth.
Chapter 4
Serena
I’m dressed by nine thirty, my stomach filled with a light breakfast and a hint of unexpected butterflies. This morning’s pills are flushed and long gone. I feel alert and coherent, ready to meet with Derek and let him see for himself how completely unnecessary this entire thing is.
I pace the north hall of the estate, home to fifteen or so useless rooms filled with useless artifacts. A few years ago, the plan was to turn Belcourt into a touring museum, a place of revenue. Veronica’s idea. It sat empty, save for the staff who maintained it, until I was sentenced to life behind these walls thanks to the behind-the-scenes manipulations of my lovely stepmother.
I hate Veronica, and I don’t particularly hate anyone.
Wait.
I take it back.
Keir. I hate Keir, too.
The house smells as old as it looks. Some people might find comfort in that. I don’t. This place does nothing but remind me of the summers we spent here as a child before Mom died. Granted, those are good memories, but they fill me with sadness.
And guilt.
Because the older I get, the less I remember of her, and I detest myself for it.
And smelling these familiar smells makes me miss her so much, it physically pains me.
I slip behind the double doors to the Magnolia room, a room my father’s second ex-wife named and decorated. I liked Catherine. She was regal and quiet and soft-spoken. Their union lasted a whole two years before he left her for some twenty-something hostess at his favorite NYC trattoria.
Poor Catherine. She really loved my father. She even loved him so much, she agreed not to sign a pre-nup.
Fool.
People with money live a life of convenience. And when you have all the money in the world, love often falls into that category.
Standing before a soaring window, I glance outside at the circle drive below and watch for Derek’s arrival.
I step away after a moment and head downstairs. Surely, there are better ways to occupy my time.
“Ms. Randall.” Eudora stops me at the bottom of the stairs. “Mr. Rosewood just pulled into the drive. Where will you be receiving him this morning?”
My shoulders rise and fall as I contemplate my answer. The space shouldn’t be too intimate. And it should be well lit. Neutral. Professional.
“Bring him to the dining room. We’ll meet at the table. And send for tea, please,” I say. “Thank you.”
A few minutes pass, and I’m seated at the head of a table at least as old as this house and still in near-mint condition. Kings and queens have feasted at this table, or so the story goes. The sound of footsteps echoes from the entry, and I clear my throat and smooth a strand of hair down my left shoulder.
“Right this way, please,” I hear Eudora say.
Derek appears a moment later, and I try to ignore his casual getup of dark khakis and a navy polo. He looks more fit for a round of golf than a meeting with a client. Then again, it is a Saturday. Had I not been so hard on him yesterday, I might tease him a little. Either way, he looks good, and I hate that I think so because that’s the last place my mind needs to be.
“Serena, good morning.” Derek’s dark chocolate hair is perfectly combed, not a strand out of place, and he walks my way with a hand extended. “Wonderful to see you again.”
I stand and meet his handshake, determined to treat him with the same respect and courtesy he showed me yesterday.
“Likewise,” I say. “Please, have a seat.”
Eudora lingers for a few seconds too long, like I’m incapable of handling anything on my own. I shoot her a silent request for space in the form of a quick look, and she quietly strides away.
“So.” Derek whips out a legal pad and a pen the color of polished onyx and lifts his gaze to me. “What I’d like to do today, Serena, is get an idea of your regular expenses, and from there, we can set up a baseline budget. And once that’s squared away, we can figure out a budget for the extras. I will say, as your conservator, that I’m going to recommend sticking to modest numbers give your . . . delicate state.”