Page 70 of Morally Black Betrothal

I nodded when she didn’t push for more of an explanation.

“Finish your coffee and get ready for the day.” She set her black shoulder bag on the counter and took out an iPad bearing a neatly written to-do list. “I’ll start with inventory.”

When I emergedfrom the bathroom, showered and dressed in my favorite old jeans and a vintage Jim Croce T-shirt, Ruth had already brewed another pot of coffee, compiled a list on her iPad of everything in my kitchen, and was now ticking off items in the living room half of the apartment.

I sat at the kitchen table with a second cup of coffee and thumbed through my phone, looking for messages from Brendan. Anything to explain what was happening today.

After accepting the good wishes of his staff last Friday and the dubious gazes of his brothers, he had escorted me to the elevator, kissed me on the cheek in front of the receptionist, and murmured in my ear that he would be in touch. A town car was waiting for me on the curb to take me back to Jamaica Plain.

That was the last time I had heard from him directly.

He had, however, done everything he said he would do. The money had arrived in my account by the time I’d fallen asleep that night. A curt email bearing the names of several tax and family law attorneys, along with some financial planners I hadn’t asked for, had landed in my inbox.

Brendan, however, hadn’t so much as texted.

I still hadn’t spent a penny other than to transfer the money Selena needed into her bank account. I hadn’t even called my dad, knowing that if I told him I suddenly had enough cash to stave off his creditors and hire much-needed staff for the dairy, he would want to know where it came from.

Instead, I kept checking my account balance, mesmerized by the number of commas in the number.

It hadn’t seemed real.

It still didn’t seem real.

Not until this woman, whose picture was probably next to the word “competence” in the dictionary, showed up at my front door.

“Nothing in your kitchen looked particularly sentimental.” Ruth appeared at the table, pulling me out of my daze. “Anything you really need, I’ll have stocked in Mr. Black’s kitchen.”

I frowned. “Can’t we just bring it all? Why make him spend more money than he has to?”

Ruth looked dubiously at the frying pan I’d picked up on Marketplace for ten dollars. It was a Le Creuset knockoff, and the enamel was starting to crack through the center.

“He won’t mind,” was all she said as she hung the pan back on the rack. “Unless you have something of personal value?—”

“I do, actually. That cast iron loaf pan with the flower handles. It was my mom’s.”

“Understood.” She ticked off a box on her spreadsheet, then crossed the room back to the area containing my bed, the tiny sofa, and the armoire holding my clothes. “You’ll have a new wardrobe shortly, but I can pack an overnight bag for the next few days from what you have here.” She opened the door of the armoire. “Anything you want particularly?”

I frowned. “Just an overnight bag? But I’mmoving.”

Ruth gave me that look again. “Yes. But where you’re going, I don’t think you’ll need these.” She pulled out a pair of torn corduroys I’d been wearing since I was fourteen, wrinkled her nose, and pushed them right back in.

I glared at my hands, then pulled out my phone while Ruth continued to move around the apartment, marking down things I would apparently be permitted to take to Brendan’s penthouse (my favorite book, yes; a moth-eaten wool sweater, no).

I was done waiting for Mr. Too Busy to Text Me.

A lady is at my house nixing everything I own. Know anything about that?

To my surprise, his answer was almost instantaneous.

Brendan

Good morning. That’s Ruth, my assistant.

Yes, she mentioned that. She also mentioned that I am apparently moving to your house TODAY and need to be ready for some kind of photo op???

I sighed as I typed the words. What even was a photo op? Was it a professional photo shoot meant for an engagement announcement or something equally ridiculous only rich people did? Was it playacting for paparazzi and reporters where I was supposed to smile for the cameras? Where were these photos even going to be published?

Brendan