Chapter 4

Ella's POV

I dropped my head, blinking up through wet lashes, my voice soft and small, the voice of a girl beaten down so often she no longer dared raise it.

"Uncle Cole… I'm so sorry. I made a scene in front of you."

Uncle.

I hit that word with perfect aim.

Zoey's face changed.

It drained to white, then flooded with a sickly green, and finally the color came rushing back in a panic, like someone stirring one spoonful of paint after another into a tray. Her hand still hung in the air, clutching that high heel, knuckles locked so tight they shook. In the end she managed to force something onto her face that was uglier than crying.

"Cole… Mr. Westmore," she stammered, her throat catching as though something were stuck in it. "How can it be you… why are you here…"

Cole didn't so much as look at her.

He pushed the door open and stepped out, his gaze sliding past Zoey to settle on me, still bowed low. It rested there for a beat.

"Go check on the old man," he said.

I swallowed the flutter in my chest and kept my face soft.

"Yes. I'll take you to him, Uncle Cole. Grandfather will be so glad to see you."

I reached out and pushed open the door of the estate for him, stepping aside to play the obedient little guide, keeping my footsteps light and slow.

Zoey stumbled after us, one hand hurrying to smooth her tangled hair, the other tugging her collar back into place—as if that alone could scrub the shrieking harridan from everyone's memory.

"Mr. Westmore, please, you have to understand—that person just now, that absolutely was not me." Her voice climbed high and frantic. "I'm not usually like that. I never meant to smash any car—"

"It's all her fault." A sharp fingernail stabbed toward me. "She's the one who chases my brother around all day, prying into everything, demanding to know his every move—she's insufferable. I was only trying to give her a little friendly advice, remind her to act like a proper fiancée..."

"Enough."

That one word choked the flattery off in Zoey's throat.

Cole still hadn't lifted his eyes. His brow drew together, just barely—the faint, contained irritation of a man swatting at a fly—yet his tone kept that flawless edge of gentlemanly courtesy.

"You're the Shaw girl? I don't know you."

The smile on Zoey's face froze over, inch by inch.

Watching that look on her was even more delicious than her fishwife performance had been.

My shoulders trembled and I ducked my head lower, terrified I'd slip and laugh out loud.

Cole turned. And the moment he faced me, the icy distance in his eyes eased somehow—when his gaze came down on me, it was almost gentle.

"Keep up."

He said it to me. To me alone.

I lifted my head timidly and fell into small, quick steps behind him. As I passed Zoey, I let one corner of my mouth curl up on purpose—just enough for her, and only her, to see.

Yes. I was taunting her. That slap had come with interest, and I was collecting the first half of it now.

Zoey's face twisted with fury. She jabbed a finger at my back and screeched, "Ella! It's you! You did this on purpose—you made me humiliate myself in front of Mr. Westmore! You've been faking it all along! Faking weak, faking innocent—Mr. Westmore, don't let this woman fool you, she—"

She never finished. Ryan had already stepped in front of her, blocking her path—polite, but immovable.

Walled off where she stood, she stamped her feet, chest heaving, and could only watch Cole and me walk away side by side without managing a single step after us.

A few paces on, I caught that defeated look on her face from the corner of my eye. The smugness nearly broke loose again, and I quickly bowed my head and swallowed it back down.

In the sunniest room of the estate, Grandfather lay in his rocking chair, his eyes glazed, drifting somewhere between sleep and waking.

Alzheimer's was hollowing him out a little at a time. He often failed to recognize people—one moment he'd call your name, the next he'd mistake the person dearest to him for a stranger. Sometimes he'd murmur to the empty air, asking about things from decades ago. His lucid stretches were growing rarer, his confused ones longer.

I crouched down beside him and softened my voice. "Grandfather, this is Cole Westmore. He served in the army with Dad, back in the day."

At the mention of Dad, my voice dropped on its own.

Grandfather's clouded eyes suddenly flickered.

Army. Comrade. The words worked like a key, turning some locked-away corner of his mind. He struggled to turn his head, his throat working, his hazy gaze straining to gather itself onto my face. Two thick, blurred words came rolling out.

"Is that… Ella?"

I threw myself down at his side, seizing his frail hand, my eyes reddening before I could stop them.

His hand gripped mine back, hard. But then the fog rolled in again, his eyes drifting loose, and he asked me with a cheerful little smile, "Why hasn't your father come home yet?"

My hand went still.

The tears didn't fall. I only answered softly, leaning close to his ear. "Dad… Dad will be home soon. Look—his old comrade came all this way to see you. He and Dad went through life and death together on the battlefield. He says Dad is doing just fine."

Then I turned to Cole, pleading in my eyes, and gave the faintest shake of my head. Don't tell him. Don't say Dad is gone.

Cole looked at me for a moment, then stepped half a pace closer toward Grandfather, his voice low and steady. "That's right. James is doing well. He'll be home soon."

Grandfather brightened at once and gave my hand a little shake. "Then we'll wait for your father, and when he's home, we'll take you riding, Ella."

I smiled and pressed his hand to my cheek, murmuring yes. But the tears slipped down before I could catch them.

This time, they weren't for show.

Aside from Grandfather, not a single person in all of Hartford treated me with any real feeling. And only in front of him could I set down every scheme and be, just once, a real granddaughter.

We talked a while longer, until the illness pulled him back under and he sank into a deep sleep.

I shut the door behind me. Out in the garden corridor, I spoke, choosing my words with care.

"Uncle Cole… would you be able to come see Grandfather more often, from now on? His memory keeps slipping, but he still holds on to everything about Dad. Could you tell him about the days you and Dad spent together—" I added one more line. "He loves hearing those stories most of all."

Cole was quiet. Something in his eyes loosened for a heartbeat, then quickly settled back to the way it had been.

It was a long while before he answered.

"Fine."

I broke into a smile through the last of my tears—part triumph at a scheme that had landed, part something genuinely grateful.

"Thank you so much, Uncle Cole."

He left.

I stood at the window, watching that black car pull away, inch by inch, until it was gone.

And the pitiful, fragile look on my face drew back with it, little by little—like a mask being slowly peeled off.

Back in my room, I bolted the door.

The wine had been chilling all evening. I poured myself a glass, sank lazily into the lounge chair, swirled the amber liquid, and lit a cigarette. The smoke unwound thread by thread beneath the light, hazy as a veil; the wine slid down my throat, cold and biting.

I narrowed my eyes, and the corners of my mouth curved into a satisfied smile.

Who would ever believe that this version of me, and the Ella up on that auction block who could do nothing but weep, were one and the same?

I picked up my phone and wired ten million to the deckhand who'd let me slip aboard the yacht.

The message was short. Take the money and get out of the East Coast. If you breathe one word about what happened on the Hamilton, you won't live to see tomorrow.