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And they say I’m the charming one.

I find myself thinking how great it is that Clara gets along with my friends. She’s just herself, paying attention and asking questions that aren’t decorative. I watch her more than I ought to. Fuck, I drink her in. She’s so fucking lovely, I just can’t help myself.

I invited these reprobates to dilute the day, to flatten whatever charge builds when we’re alone. But the longer the evening goes on, the less that seems to matter. And when Clara laughs at something Hugo says and reaches for her wine the same time I reach for my drink, our fingers brush. The charge feels larger than just an exchange of electricity or lust.

Maybe my friends aren’t here as a buffer, or to insulate me from my feelings. Because, right now, it feels more like I need them here to witness the proof of what she means to me.

Later, after the others have left, and the night air is cool as we wait for our car, Clara steps closer, and I assume she’s seeking my body heat as I wrap my arms around her.

“You didn’t have to bring reinforcements,” she says quietly, her eyes searching my face.

She thinks I asked them here to keep us decent. To keep me from breaking the rules.

“I thought it would be easier,” I say, offering her a truth.

“Was it?”

I look at her, then shake my head. Despite everything—the past, our present, the way this is supposed to end—I find I want her more than ever.

Chapter 38

Clara

Past

“You take care of yourself, Clara. And that lovely young man of yours.”

“Thank you, Bessie, I’ll be sure to.” I press my lips to her papery cheek before her companion leads her away. 9:00 p.m. Time for her bed, I guess.

Elizabeth Landry is our elderly neighbor and such a sweet lady. She reminds me of my grandmother. It was nice to see her after so long, and she was very taken with Troy. I give in to a tiny smile, wondering if he’s managed to find her that glass of sherry yet.

“Clara, a word.”

At the sound of my father’s voice, my stomach shrinks in on itself. I straighten my spine and turn to face him.

“Can’t we do this later?” I drawl, my tone bored.

“No,” he snaps. “My office, now.”

I pull an unimpressed face, glad that Troy isn’t here. The way he defended me earlier . . . I was literally stunned into silence. No one ever stands up to Edwin Forbes, and no one ever stands up for me. The way he told my father I deserved respect made tears jump to my eyes. I felt uplifted. Treasured. But also feared a little on Troy’s behalf. So that’s when I stepped in and moved the target. Some blatant underage drinking was bound to get my father riled.

Fingers crossed, that’s what he wants to talk to me about.

Talk at me, more like. Belittle. Humiliate.

But better me than Troy.

“What about your guests?” I give a bored sigh along with my last-ditch attempt. It wouldn’t be wise to give a straight-out no.

“They can spare me a moment,” he says in that well-used brooks-no-argument tone of his.

I’m still watching for the warning signs as he makes a grab for my elbow. I try not to flinch, shame flooding my veins that I would allow him to treat me like this. There are people watching, people who might say I get what I deserve. I feel like I’m twelve years old as my father moves me away from the party, his hold firm. Possessive. Like he ever really cared that I’m his.

He pastes on a smile as he passes Vanessa and murmurs that he’ll be back “in a jiffy” with a glass of Armagnac for the senator she’s boring. “Clara needs to speak with me for a moment,” he says with a pleasant nod. “A catering concern.”

She isn’t fooled, but she also doesn’t care.

The hallway grows quieter the farther we move along it, my heels clicking loudly as we move toward his private office. This is a vacation home; the clue is in the title. Yet Daddy Dearest spends most of his time cosseted away in there.