Chapter 4
We returned to the mansion before midnight.
The engagement dinner was over.
Guests gone.
Flowers still perfect.
Champagne half-finished.
Mother’s chair remained empty.
I stood beside it.
For the first time, I saw the room as Estelle had intended others to see it.
Julian Blackwood.
Estelle Pierce.
Mother absent.
No conflict.
No questions.
A picture of voluntary handover.
Clever.
I called Estelle into the private dining room.
Marcus came too.
I told him to leave.
He did not move.
I looked at Rafe.
Marcus left.
Better.
Estelle sat across from me.
No tears yet.
Good.
“Why my house?”
She stared.
“What?”
“Not my title.”
I leaned back.
“You weren’t trying to become boss.”
Silence.
“You wanted control of the people around me.”
Her expression changed.
There.
“Why?”
She finally answered.
“Because your mother already does.”
Interesting.
Not denial.
Comparison.
“She decides who gets near you.”
“Sometimes.”
“She decides which women are respectable enough to be invited.”
True.
“She decides which staff are trustworthy.”
Also true.
“She decides which relatives get private dinners instead of formal meetings.”
Yes.
Estelle’s voice tightened.
“You call it tradition because she’s your mother.”
That landed.
Because some of it was accurate.
Eleanor Blackwood had been running the social architecture of this house long before I took command.
I allowed it.
Sometimes appreciated it.
Sometimes hid behind it.
Estelle continued.
“After we married, I would still be a guest in your home.”
“Then you talk to me.”
“I did.”
I frowned.
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
She reminded me.
A conversation in my study.
She said she felt every household decision required Mother’s approval.
I told her:
“She knows how the estate works.”
Then ended the conversation.
I remembered.
Damn.
She had brought me the problem.
I dismissed the feeling.
That did not justify what followed.
But it explained where the resentment entered.
“I should have listened.”
Her eyes filled.
Then I continued.
“You should have spoken again.”
“I tried.”
“You should have left me before using my mother as a piece on the board.”
She looked down.
Yes.
Both truths.
Then I asked:
“Why Hazel?”
Her face hardened.
“She chose your mother.”
“No.”
I spoke quietly.
May you like
“She told the truth.”
Those are not the same thing.
