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Eden watched the next chukkas and resisted the urge to rub her itchy, watery eyes.

After the fourth, and more changing of horses, the riders left the field.

Around her, people streamed from their deck chairs and left their picnic blankets to swarm the field.

Laughing and chatting, they started to stomp down divots in the bright green grass.

Eden made her way down the bank, the hem of her sundress fluttering around her knees.

Instead of heels, she wore very sensible trainers, and she’d slathered her skin with sunscreen.

But stupidly she’d forgotten to bring a hat.

She fought a never-ending battle with freckles in the summer, and she could feel them popping out on her chest, shoulders, nose and cheeks.

And what on earth was wrong with her eyes? Why were they watering?

Walking away from the field, Eden turned to look at the country house behind her, taking in the many rectangular, precise windows along the ridiculously large facade of the three-storey house.

The early nineteenth-century house was owned by Troyden Castle, mega-billionaire, polo aficionado, bon vivant and…

Apparently, her uncle on her father’s side.

At least that was what her genealogical DNA test had revealed six years ago.

Eden rocked on her heels as a five-year-old boy ran into her, and with a brief ‘sorry’ he was off again.

His father chased after him, the slight breeze lifting his shirt.

A pregnant woman carrying a toddler trundled after them, and she caught Eden’s eye.

Her smile was tired but good-natured. ‘Have kids, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. ’

Eden wished her luck.

‘I’m going to bloody need it,’ she muttered, but laid a hand on her bump, and Eden caught the affection in her eyes. She looked like she was exactly where she wanted to be.

Had her mum ever looked at her like that? No, she never recalled seeing that easy affection on her mum’s face. Frustration and resentment, sure, sometimes what she thought was flat-out dislike.

God knew her mother had never been the warm-and-fuzzy type. As an emergency foster carer, she’d been hailed as a saint, a selfless crusader for vulnerable kids. And she’d believed the hype and took immense pride in her good works, her sacrifices and her hand-to-mouth life.

To her mum, Eden hadn’t needed saving. Eden was just there– silent, steady, waiting.

Their house was never hers, not really. It had been too full, too loud, too temporary.

A revolving door of faces, names and stories, all so much more important than hers.

Up until earlier this year, she’d dreamed– foolishly and desperately– that one day, just once, she’d be chosen.

That her mother would look at her and see her. That she’d be her mum.

It never happened.

She’d always been the afterthought, the one who stayed while everyone else came and went.

The one who didn’t need attention, or love, or to be put first. The daughter who could be discarded.

Her mum dropping out of her life annihilated any hope of a mother-daughter relationship.

She couldn’t avoid the hard truth any longer: she wasn’t her mum’s first choice. And never would be.

Eden hauled in a deep breath, then another and shoved the memories away into her mental junk cupboard. One day it would fly open and projectile vomit a stream of unresolved emotional gunk, but it wouldn’t happen today. Hopefully not tomorrow, or anytime soon, either.

Suddenly thirsty, she headed toward a refreshment tent, wishing she could dodge the crowds.

She sighed at the long line of people waiting to be served.

G on the other, she would do anything to go back six months, a year. To unknow .

To not light the fuse that would, sometime soon, blow up their world.

She, Troyden Castle and the Bancrofts were a messy, knotty skein of human wool.

Six years ago, after taking a DNA test, she’d discovered that Troyden Castle, the popular billionaire, was her paternal uncle.

Most people would’ve rejoiced at the connection, but Eden was wary.

Most people had disappointed her, especially anyone related by blood, and she was pretty certain Troyden Castle would do the same.

After all, it was a truth universally acknowledged that a multi-divorced man in possession of a good fortune must be an arsehole.

But she couldn’t let go of the nagging thought that she needed to take another look at him, to dig deeper.

A quick internet search had informed her he was the Bancroft Foundation’s biggest benefactor, so she’d approached Tara and Vincent, offering to work as their unpaid intern for three months, hoping that she’d gather some information on her ‘uncle’ to help her decide whether he was someone she wanted to meet or avoid.

Months passed, her responsibilities increased, and soon she was employed as their right-hand person.

She’d loved her job, happy to stay in the background at the foundation, unseen but useful.

Time rolled on, but she kept delaying the decision to acknowledge her connection to Troyden.

Busy at work, it had been enough to collect scraps she could from the Bancrofts, gathering intel that Troyden, despite his reputation, was a nice guy, sweet and generous.

His only bad habit seemed to be his inability to stay married– five ex-wives were a lot!– and being a magnet for gold-diggers.

Year after year, she put off the decision to meet him.

The DNA site would’ve told him that he had a close family member, but she chose to keep her details private until she was certain whether she wanted to meet him or not.

Until recently it had been enough to know he was there .

If she kept him at a distance, he couldn’t disappoint her.

But the last few months had been an emotional watershed– with her mum permanently exiting her life and the Bancrofts’ criminality forcing her into making hard decisions she never expected to make.

As her life continued to flip inside out, her curiosity about Troyden Castle, her only blood relative, increased.

Hewas connected to the Bancrofts, was their donor, and despite being ordered not to by the police, a part of her wanted to warn him of the Bancrofts’ behaviour.

Because that’s what families did, right?

But she needed to decide whether they were family first. Arrgh! Complicated.

You’re overthinking this, Eden . She hadn’t come to Elmsleigh today to meet him, but thought that being on his property might help clarify her thinking about whether she wanted to walk through life with or without family…

Eden saw a path and veered left, grateful for the huge branches of the oak trees providing respite from the hot summer sun. She lifted her dress off her hot chest and flipped through her mental dossier on Troyden.

Elmsleigh House was the property– he had several– where he spent the bulk of his time.

He’d been married numerous times but had no biological children of his own.

However, various stepchildren lived on the grounds.

The house had a billiards room, two libraries, more than a dozen living rooms ranging from huge to cosy, and God knew how many bedrooms.

From her position behind the trunk of a wide oak, looking down into the walled courtyard behind the house, Eden watched an SUV swing in and park close to what she thought might be the kitchen door.

A lithe woman of Indian descent, dressed in ragged denim shorts and a man’s oversized, knotted, button-down shirt, jumped out of the car.

She lifted a little boy out of the car. A girl, older, jumped down and the kids ran into the house.

The woman bundled her long, thick dark hair up onto her head, and tied it into a messy bun.

Eden sighed at her effortless elegance, her long, slim legs and cut-glass cheekbones. Even from a distance, she was gorgeous.

Another path skated off to her right. She couldn’t go back to the polo match, not when Tara and Vince were there, but she might be able to walk around the house and leave via a circuitous route.

At the end of the path was the stable block, which, she figured, would be deserted.

She just needed a cool place to sit and think.

Even if she was ready to meet Troyden, this wasn’t the right time or place to approach her uncle. They needed privacy for what would be, she was sure, a difficult conversation.