Chapter 2

BRONWYN

The next morning, before I'd even finished packing, Ophelia knocked and slipped into my room.

"Bronwyn, I hate to bring this up, but... the way the house is decorated—I just don't feel at home here."

I took out the black card Darius had given me and held it out.

"Change whatever you want. Once I'm packed, you and Milo can take the master bedroom."

She blinked, then smiled. "Oh, no. I'll just stay in my room."

Her room.

No matter how many places Darius and I owned—the apartment in the city, the lake house, this one—there was always a room kept ready for her.

The Calders and the Crofts had been planning on Darius marrying their daughter since he was in grade school. Then I came home, and suddenly the Croft daughter was me. He married me. But he never stopped keeping a room for her.

Back then, I was jealous enough to fight about it more than once.

"Darius, this is our home—"

He always shut it down with the exact same line. "Ophelia and I grew up together. I'm not going to make her feel abandoned just because you showed up."

Hugo and Genevieve said it, too, almost word for word.

But I was the Crofts' biological daughter. I was Darius's wife. So why was I always the one expected to move over?

I smiled. "The master gets the best light. Milo's little. He needs the sun."

Genevieve came in behind her and took my hand—actually smiling at me, which almost never happened.

"Look at you, Bronwyn. You've finally grown up."

Ten years, and it was the first compliment she'd ever given me.

To her, I'd always be the small-town girl with the wrong accent and the wrong clothes, never quite fit to be seen with. Never the daughter she'd spent all those years shaping Ophelia into.

Once, I'd grabbed the wrong cardigan off the hall bench. It was Ophelia's. Genevieve had snapped loud enough for the staff to hear. "Ophelia has already lost everything. Now you want her clothes, too?"

It would have been funny if it didn't hurt so much.

The contractors showed up that very morning. Ophelia had clearly come prepared, orchestrating the whole thing down to the minute. Watching the crew haul their tools and paint through the hall, I felt a cold, hollow spark of amusement. She truly hadn't wasted a single second.

By late afternoon, Darius was home.

Ophelia instantly drifted out to the hallway, throwing her arms around him the second he reached the top of the stairs. "Darius, look! I'm doing it the way we always talked about when we were kids. Bronwyn gave me the master, and she's letting me turn her study into a nursery for Milo!"

She paused, glancing back through the open doorway at the wall. "I just don't know what to do with this painting."

The painting. Darius had spent a whole month working on it. For me.

Before he could open his mouth, I stepped toward the frame of the door. "Just burn it, then."

His face turned to stone.

"Darius?" Ophelia said softly.

He pulled free of her grasp and came straight to me. His eyes were red and raw.

"I painted that for you. And you want to burn it?" His voice cracked. "Why do you keep doing this, Bron? What do I have to do for you to forgive me?"

But every birthday since they were children, Ophelia had gotten a painting from him. A new one, every single year.

I'd begged him for one. A hundred times. But he was always too busy, always armed with another excuse.

"After this deal closes, Bronwyn. I promise."

"Then how do you always find time to paint for her?"

He'd been lying with his head in my lap, completely at ease. "When we were kids, I promised I'd paint her one every year until she turned eighty."

And the painting I had treasured so much? I found out later it was just a sketch he'd tossed out—a rejected draft of one of hers—hastily touched up and handed to me.

I swallowed the old, bitter ache. "Milo needs a father, and Ophelia clearly needs you. Just take the master with them. Be the family you've always wanted to be."

He let out a short, hollow laugh.

"Fine. Great." He shook his head, looking at me like I was the unreasonable one. "I promised I'd always listen to you, didn't I? If you're so desperate to push me into the master with them, I'll go. Just remember you asked for this."

I didn't say a thing. I just turned away and went back to the guest room.