Page 10

Jade

B ack at the hotel , good feelings from my run with Rhys propel me all the way through my morning routine. He seems to get my sense of humor in a way even my family doesn’t, and he’s steady and calm no matter what I throw at him. Didn’t even seem fazed by my sobriety. He might be the perfect fit for my trust issues right now.

I get myself out the door, and in no time, I’m pushing open the door to my sanctuary, my studio. The familiar scent of clay and glaze greets me, a comforting embrace, but something is off. There’s a presence, an unexpected shadow that sends a prickle of unease down my spine.

“Mom?” My voice echoes slightly in the loft space.

She’s perched on a stool by the kiln, her legs crossed elegantly.

“Jade, darling,” she says without a trace of surprise, as if it’s perfectly normal for her to be here.

I freeze, keys still in hand, my heart thudding against my ribcage. “How did you get in?” Disbelief colors my words, my mind struggling to catch up with this unexpected intrusion.

A dismissive wave of her hand accompanies her answer. “I called a locksmith.” She states this matter-of-factly, as though it’s perfectly reasonable.

“You broke into my studio?” I say, anger rising in my chest. “That’s not just invasive. It’s illegal.”

She tilts her head, studying me with sharp, assessing eyes. “For all I knew, you were passed out in a drug haze on the floor.” Her tone is casual, but the insinuation stings, a barbed hook that catches me right where I’m most vulnerable.

I suck in a breath. “That’s not fair,” I say quietly, my hands clenching at my sides. When she doesn’t respond, I press my lips together, mustering the necessary composure. “What do you want?”

“Sunday dinner,” she declares, as if it’s a royal summons I can’t refuse. “You’ll come.”

My fingers tighten. “I have a deadline, over eight hundred pieces to finish.” I glance at the clay forms scattered across the studio. “And there’s an issue with one of the plates. It’s not structurally sound.” The problem looms large in my mind, a puzzle demanding my full attention. “If I can resolve that, maybe I’ll come.”

She tsks, shaking her head with that blend of exasperation and condescension only she can perfect. “You need to be there, Jade,” she says. “I’ll wait all day if I have to.”

“Mom—” I start, but she barrels on.

“Living at the Inn Above Tide, licking your wounds… It’s time to move on.” Her voice softens a fraction, likely an attempt to veil her command in concern. “Forgive Cooper and Elise.”

A humorless laugh escapes me. Forgive? As if betrayal is a trinket easily set aside. And what does it matter if I forgive them? I’m not going back to that wedding, that life. I close my eyes as my hands itch to lose themselves in the clay, to mold and shape something tangible instead of navigating the murky waters of family expectations. “I’ve got nothing to say to Cooper and Elise.”

The silence stretches, a tense cord between us, until she shatters it with words that ring false immediately. “Elise feels just awful about what you think you saw, but you didn’t. Trust me, I believe her.”

I grind my teeth. I heard what Cooper said to her. But it doesn’t matter. Elise’s guilt or innocence, real or feigned, changes nothing. I don’t regret leaving, and the moment is seared into my memory, undeniable in their betrayal. “Mom, I know what I walked in on.” My voice is a blade, thinly veiled by calm. “And neither Cooper nor I wanted to get married. We just didn’t know how to tell each other or our parents.”

Mom sighs, as if I am a child missing an obvious lesson. Her hands, the ones that once soothed fevered brows, now fly up in exasperation. “At least Cooper would have understood our family life. You know, people who are old money… They live differently.”

A bitter taste fills my mouth.

Mom continues, oblivious to the chill creeping through me. “You need to be careful, darling. Be careful with regular people before you fall for some charlatan who’ll bleed you dry.”

Regular people? She was a fucking flight attendant when she met my married father. A charlatan? Cooper was a charlatan. She doesn’t understand. It’s not about the money. It never was. It’s about trust, something neither Cooper nor Elise could grasp, wrapped up in their gilded lies. “Old money, new money—it’s all the same when it lacks integrity,” I mutter.

“Your father wants the land the Waldorfs have outside of Sacramento. You need to do your part to help him acquire it.” Her lips press into a thin line, and once again, we’re locked in a silent battle of wills.

I glance at the kiln, then back at my mother. Her fingers tap on the wooden workbench, each click ticking down to an inevitable confrontation.

“Mom,” I start, the word laced with a weariness that feels older than my years, “Dad’s likely going to leave everything to JP. You need to accept that.”

The color rises in her cheeks, a storm brewing in her eyes. “And JP won’t give me a dime,” she hisses, the truth of her visit finally surfacing like a shark fin cutting through calm waters. “If you or your sister had some control over the estate, I’d be secured.”

Her real agenda lays bare before me, as transparent as the glass plates lining my shelves. I turn my gaze to them, each piece reflecting a fragment of the studio, of our strained dialogue. It’s a dance we’ve done before, only this time, I’m tired of following her lead.

“Then maybe it’s time you let go of these golden strings,” I suggest. “You’re covered by the prenup, anyway.”

“Five million dollars isn’t exactly a fortune, not with our lifestyle,” Mom shoots back, her words sharp with panic.

I want to laugh. Five million should be enough for anyone, but I’ve learned that appetite often grows with feeding. “It’s a lot more than most people will ever see,” I remind her. “You’ll manage.”

She scoffs, already dismissing my attempt at perspective.

Turning away, I start unloading last night’s firing and once again notice the flaw in the appetizer plate. I breathe out. “I’ll be at dinner on Sunday. But you need to leave now so I can work.”

A triumphant glint flashes in my mother’s eyes. “Roger will pick you up at five,” she declares. “Try to be dressed appropriately.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I reply, my voice a mere whisper this time. It’s not worth giving her the oxygen to fight.

She nods and, with a flourish of expensive coat, exits the studio, leaving behind a silence that feels oppressive. I drop into my office chair, the cool leather doing nothing to soothe the heat of frustration simmering beneath my skin.

The door clicks shut, and my mother’s words replay in my mind, demands wrapped in manipulation, her version of love always tied to what I can do for her or the family.

It’s always the same with them. Expectations I didn’t agree to and strings I never asked for. And yet I keep letting them pull me along, one tug at a time.

I lean forward to pick up my sketchpad. Focus, Jade. This is your space, your life. No one gets to take that away.

I glance around the room, which only moments before buzzed with potential and inspiration but now feels stale and confining. The run I took earlier, the banter and conversation with Rhys… It seems like a distant memory, washed away by the tidal wave of family.

With a sigh, I set creativity aside to shuffle papers around my desk, attending to the mundane tasks I’ve been putting off. Bills, emails, inventory—I deal with each one mechanically, my mind elsewhere, divided between the looming family dinner and the rebellious piece of pottery that is giving me so many problems.

After what feels like hours, though the clock tells me it’s only been one, I push back from the desk and walk over to the problem child of my collection. A single plate, its form perfect in conception but flawed in reality.

I sink into the leather chair, and the plate stares back at me, its imperfection a stubborn reminder of everything I can’t control. My thoughts drift to Rhys—his easy charm, the way his laughter seemed to infuse even the gray morning air with color.

“Stop it,” I mutter, setting the pencil down with more force than necessary. Curiosity, an itch I can no longer ignore, nudges me back toward my computer. I open the browser, telling myself this is merely due diligence. After all, Rhys is likely doing his homework on me, so it’s only fair that I return the favor.

I type his name into the search bar, my heart thumping as I hit enter. Page after page of results load, a digital dossier that makes my own online footprint seem tiny in comparison. There he is. Rhys Smalls in articles about business ventures, at philanthropy galas with a different woman on his arm each time, and attending innovation summits. His image smiles back at me from screens across the globe, his presence larger than life even in pixels.

“Wow.” The word escapes before I can catch it. He’s not just successful, he’s a titan. Each click reveals more opulence, more influence, and I feel a twinge of unease. Dad would scoff at this, deriding Rhys’s new money, as if wealth were an antique one must inherit, not earn. But honestly, the sheer magnitude of Rhys’s empire intimidates me. It’s a turn-off, this reminder that some people live in worlds where numbers in a bank account can rival the stars in the sky.

I glance at my phone to find Rhys’s name on the screen.

Rhys: How’s the masterpiece coming along?

I set the phone down without replying, looking back over at the problematic plate in front of me. Square plates can’t be thrown on a wheel, they need to be built. But suddenly I have a new idea.

I take a deep breath, running my fingers over the plate’s uneven surface. Maybe I’m overthinking this.

And maybe there’s a way to let someone like Rhys in without losing myself.

Pushing away from the computer, I return to the plate, trying to channel my disquiet into something tangible. I stack and unstack slabs and bits of clay several times, but still to no avail. I can’t get it right. Now both my mother and Rhys are swirling in my head.

I return to my computer and scroll through the images again, each one a glossy snapshot of Rhys’s life. He’s smiling, always at the center, with a woman on his arm. They’re all different—one blonde, another brunette. There’s even a fiery redhead in a sequined dress that glitters like something out of a fairy tale. But none of them appear more than once. I can’t help but think he collects these women like trophies, showing them off for a night before moving on to the next conquest.

I lean back in my chair as a sigh escapes me. He’s a big player, no doubt. The kind of man who thrives under flashing lights and curious eyes. My heart should be racing at the thought of being part of his world, but instead, a quiet relief settles over me. It’s not fear. It’s clarity. This isn’t the version of him I know, but maybe I don’t know him at all. His life is a storm I don’t want to step into.

So perhaps I can show him around a bit, but I’m grateful we won’t be going down that path. I close the browser with a decisive click. Rhys might be many things, but he doesn’t get to pull me into his orbit. Not when I have my own world to rebuild, one where trust isn’t just an accessory you wear until it’s inconvenient.

I sweep one of the flawed plates and several drawings into my canvas bag, the fabric stretching around the awkward ceramic bulge. I’ll take it home with me and hope inspiration strikes when I least expect it.