Page 20 of What You left in Me

The cold water does nothing. My pulse won’t settle.

I brace both hands against the tile, head bent, muttering under my breath. “Get her out of your head. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I don’t cross lines I can’t come back from. Not with her. She’s family. She’s my fucking step-sister. My engaged fucking step-sister, in fact.

I shut the water off, towel myself down, and catch my reflection in the fogged mirror. Same jaw, same eyes, same man who’s built an empire on control. But under the surface, I see the crack. Last night split something open in me, and it’s impossible to seal it back up.

I slam the mirror shut and storm out of the ensuite.

###

The house is a chaos when I step into the hall. Staff rushing, voices echoing, Eleanor barking orders ruthless enough to cut skin. I avoid them all. I’m in no mood of wanting to hear it, becoming another pawn in Eleanor’s perfect little pageant.

I hole up in my bedroom for the rest of the day. Hours bleed away, but I can’t seem to get any work done. Somehow, I lose a whole day without checking a balance sheet or a contract. I can almost feel Eric’s panic buzzing at the back of my phone, but I don’t care. He’ll manage. He always does.

All I can do is wait.

Wait for nightfall.

Wait for this goddamn anniversary party to play itself out.

Wait for tomorrow when I can get the fuck out of Willowridge and leave Ariane behind.

I shave because I need the ritual. Hot water, steam curling off the mirror, blade dragging precise lines along my jaw until the face staring back at me looks like it can take a punch and keep going. I splash cold water after, feel the shock bite into my skin, then I towel off and stand there a minute, hands bracing on the counter, watching my breath fog in and out. Last night presses behind my ribs like a knot I can’t undo. I tell myself I’m done thinking about it. I’m lying, but the lie gets me moving.

My suit is like a second skin. White Dior shirt open at the collar, no tie, cuffs rolled once and then undone because I don’t need to look civilized to be dangerous. I slide the expensive jacket on, settle the line along my shoulders, and feel the armor click into place. With the weight of my Rolex on my wrist, I’m feeling like myself again.

The hall outside is unrecognizable. It used to smell like lemon oil and dust, like long summers and mildew and someone burning toast in a kitchen that never learned. Now, it smells like money that went to finishing school. Staff move in quick, coordinated lines, all black and white uniforms that blur if you don’t look right at them. Someone’s stringing rented glass chandeliers along the corridor with the same reverence you’d hang relics; electricians trail cables that disappear behind arrangements of roses spilling over gold pedestals.

Eleanor’s done what she always does, she’s sanded history down to a glossy and photogenic sheen.

It's like my mother never lived here. The framed crayon disaster I brought her from kindergarten used to sit crooked ona sideboard but now? There’s a silver-framed donor list in its place. There’s a slim brass sculpture of a dancer twisting into a shape no human could hold beside the console.

I know for a fact Mom would’ve hated it.

The old warmth is as dead and gone and buried as she is. I feel it pressing against my ribs like a ghost that hasn’t decided whether to haunt or be merciful.

I take the back staircase to avoid getting conscripted into centerpieces or sound checks. Even that stairwell got a facelift: fresh paint in a color expensive enough to be called something like Bone or Salt, runner carpet that swallows footsteps, sconces that throw flattering light on nothing in particular.

On the mezzanine floor, I pass two rental photographers in muted suits with lenses like sniper rifles. They’re comparing shot lists. “Family candid’s by the oak allée before nightfall,” one says, and I keep walking because I’d rather be shot with a gun than his camera.

Downstairs is a hive. The caterer I remember as a nervous kid with a truck and a dream is now a man with a staff that moves like a drill team. Platters flash past, oysters on ice followed by crostini topped with something forest-green and smug. The bar is a cathedral of glass: champagne flutes lined like teeth, lowballs waiting for bourbon, martinis already sweating under a film of frost. A woman adjusts the lighting, and the whole foyer warms two degrees, like the room’s been taught to blush on cue.

“Mr. Wagner.” Maria, the old housekeeper, pauses mid-stride with a tray of votives balanced in hands that don’t shake anymore. Usually, she wouldn’t look at me but today she risks it. “If you need anything…”

“I won’t,” I say, but I soften it with a wooden smile. She adjusts the tray, relief loosening her mouth by a millimeter, and disappears into a ribbon of staff flowing toward the front doors.

Eleanor’s voice slices through the hum. “No, sweetheart, the roses face the lawn, not the house. We want themseen. And where is the quartet? Tell them to stop tuning in the driveway; it sounds like a cat going through a screen door.”

I step into the shadow of a doorway and watch her marshal the chaos. She’s wearing a dress the color of champagne. Pearls, hair perfect, clipboard stacked with timelines and Plan Bs. I remind myself that there’s no reason to hate her. But when she moves through the rooms she remade, I feel the place I grew up get pushed another inch into a museum I can’t fucking stand to be inside.

Dusk leans into the windows, violet bruising the edges of the lake. Someone opens the front doors and the evening rushes in, cool and grassy, carrying the smell of bonfire smoke and damp earth.

That’s my cue.

I slide a hand along my hair to make sure there’s nothing left to fix, then head outside.

The front lawn is a set piece from a dream that bills by the hour. Fairy lights are strung between the oaks like galaxies caught in cobwebs, strands layering depth over depth until the trees feel taller, the night thicker. Tents rise in graceful peaks—white canvas, gilt poles, sides cuffed back to make rooms out of air. Tables under them are draped in linen that falls like water, bordered in gold, groaning with silver and crystal and porcelain so thin the rims glow when the candles flare.