Page 44 of State of Ruin

I mostly get it, more accurately. I know how crazy speculation around Sinclair’s love life can get. Who’s he dating? When will he settle down and make an honest woman out of some socialite or celebrity? Is it serious between him and that random person he was snapped talking with at such-and-such gala? As long as the public is interested in the private lives of glamorous folks like him, the press will fuel that interest relentlessly, no matter how tenuous or inaccurate its stories are. And I want no part of that.

But there’s a tiny, fragile voice somewhere deep inside my head that has other takes on why Sinclair Voss is keeping a nobody like me on the down-low, and it likes to whisper its theory far too often. That theory is that I’m a nobody. Worse: I’m a server from a blue-collar family, and there’s no way I’m worthy of a man like Sinclair making a public statement with me. I’m not the kind of woman he wants on his arm at the Fall Fashion Gala, or any other of his fancy events.

I’m the kind of woman he spots behind the bar, decides he wants to fuck, and then hooks up with as transactionally as possible, with payments and NDAs. Clean and tidy and, above all, discreet. And when he wants more, he hides me in his apartment. He has his driver usher us to Alchemy and drive me home at night. The only people who see us together are either on his payroll or members of a club with the most watertight NDAs in Manhattan.

It’s all very carefully managed.

Carefully contained.

Let’s face it: I’m a novelty. A plaything. I’ve caught his eye, and God knows how long that will last. I’d do well to enjoy feeling like the center of Sinclair Voss’s universe, because I’m sure it will soon be a memory.

These exact thoughts torment me as I lie here in his arms, only interrupted when he says, “I want more time with you, though.”

Take that, intrusive thoughts. “Yeah, me too,” I say in the tone of someone who has absolutely no hope of getting what they want.

He hesitates. “I was wondering… is there any way on earth that we could free you up so you could come spend a weekend at Fairwater with me? We’d be totally alone—no one in my family will be there through November. Not until Thanksgiving, anyway. What do you think?”

CHAPTER 24

Elyse

Fairwater is like… Camelot. That’s the only way I can think to describe it. It’s shrouded in mystery, for one. While a Google search serves up a million images of its beautiful waterfront on the Sound and a few aerial shots of the grounds, no journalists have ever been allowed onto the property. And, aside from photographs from the Voss family’s annual holiday card that have been shared online—always in front of an oversized fireplace in a wood-paneled room—no images of the interior seem to exist.

(Can I just say that floppy-haired, teenage Sinclair in some of those leaked holiday card photos is devastating? High school Elyse would not have survived him.)

The morning after Sinclair’s shock invitation, I drive myself crazy searching up all the information I can find. An Architectural Digest article from a few years back describes Fairwater as that quintessential middle finger from the establishment to the rest of us unwashed masses. It is difficult to overstate both the financial value and social, cultural, and architectural significance that a property such as Fairwater holds, although, as with most intentionally kept secrets, its mystique only adds to its lore.

It’s too tempting to reference the Dutch term, vaarwater, which alludes to a waterway with overtones of safe passage. One can’t help but wonder if the Voss family had a keen sense of irony when naming their compound—because, while the cedar walls of Fairwater have certainly provided a haven for those lucky enough to be born with Voss blood, the clan has done an excellent job of keeping absolutely everybody else out.

The article goes on to describe the architectural origins of the estate and what is known of the exterior layout: one grandly gorgeous house, apparently a perfect example of shingle style, encircled by four smaller versions. Sinclair mentioned that one of these is his.

He also told me that it was the most peaceful place he knew, his own sacred escape.

And he wants to take me there with him.

I can’t believe it.

Sure, it’s not like he’s asked me to step out with him at Madison Square Garden. It’s no grand declaration that we’re together. But this feels more special, more significant, than any public appearance. He wants to uproot this, us, from the safety of Alchemy and his home and take me to the place where he feels most at peace and most secure. He wants me to be his guest at the home his family guards from the world so jealously.

The romance of it has me spiraling into a fantasy as I sit on our lumpy couch with my phone. In my mind’s eye, our weekend together is a fairytale of chunky knits and eating apples and playing board games and making slow love in front of a roaring fire. I want this time away with Sinclair more badly than I can ever remember allowing myself to want anything in my entire life. More than I wanted that Voss ad campaign, even. Because that was a means to an end, and this would be two days and nights of perfect happiness… even if it’s a means to absolutely nothing.

I say that, but I’d be lying if his invitation hasn’t sown some tiny, dangerous seeds of hope in my heart. I can tell myself he only wants me in secret, but his whisking me away to his family’s mysterious waterfront estate takes our arrangement to a whole other level, surely? Hiding out there together would take the secrecy from kind of tawdry to full-on swoony. And—I’m gonna let myself think it quickly and then tamp it down—it feels like a stepping stone to something, to a possibility for the future that’s not Sinclair growing tired of me and moving his Alchemy hand stamps back from red to black. It’s as though the view of our future is pitch-black, and this is the first teeny chink of light I’ve seen.

And when you get a chink of light, you have to follow it, right? You have to at least take a step forward into the darkness, even if it’s terrifying? Even if you have no business thinking there’s anything out there at all?

There’s nothing for it but to talk to my dad. So, when I’ve unpacked the grocery delivery and made sure that Sylvie is busy with work stuff, I sneak out of the house with Jambon and walk the eight blocks to Dad’s auto repair shop, a couple to-go cups of his favorite coffee wedged into a cup holder from the coffee shop nearby.

His company occupies an open-fronted building around the width of four garages, painted pale blue with dapper navy-blue signage saying Ward Auto Repairs. Dad always claims that you can’t trust someone to treat your car with respect if their shop looks like a shit hole. He gets the façade and the signage completely repainted every couple of years for that reason, but I guess he has a point, because business is steady.

One of his guys, Danny, is out front, tinkering with an open hood when I show up. Shit. He straightens up and winks as soon as he clocks me.

“Hey, Elyse. Long time no see.”

I smile politely and drop the leash so Jambon can go say hi. “Hey, Danny.”

“How’s it goin’?” He bends to give Jambon’s ears a good rub.

“Good, thank you.” I hesitate, not wanting to seem rude but wanting to make awkward conversation with Danny even less. “Is my dad around?”