By then, the Ashbourne estate had gone quiet. The fire in the front salon had burned down to embers, casting a dull red glow across the marble hearth. The chandeliers had been dimmed, and only the wall sconces remained lit, throwing thin gold light over the dark wood panels and the portraits of dead men who had built the family empire with blood and gunpowder. The dinner prepared for Cassian sat untouched in the dining room, the steak cold, the wine breathing for no one.
His mother and aunts stayed far longer than they should have, as if lingering in the house might somehow cover the disgrace he had left behind.
But some things could not be covered.
Not when the heir to the Ashbourne name had failed to come home.
Before she left, Cassian’s mother took both my hands in hers. Her fingers were warm, but I felt the slight tremor in them. Vivienne Ashbourne had always treated me well. From the first night Cassian brought me to a family dinner, she had looked at me as though my place beside him was already settled, as though I belonged in this house, in this family, in this world.
Now there was shame in her eyes.
And something worse than shame.
Helplessness.