Chapter 71

[ 963 words ]

Katia’s POV

My mother called on a Sunday morning, which was already suspicious. Martha Kensington did not make casual calls. Every call had a structure, a purpose, and an agenda she had prepared in advance and would execute regardless of your participation. Calling on a Sunday morning, when she knew I’d be home, when she knew Aiden would be eating breakfast and I’d be two coffees in and marginally more agreeable than on a weekday, was not a coincidence. That was scheduling.

“Darling,” she said, which was the first warning sign. Martha reserved “darling” for moments when she wanted something significant.

“Mother p>

“I thought it would be lovely to have you and Aiden for Sunday lunch. Nothing formal. Just family p>

Just family. The woman who had thrown me out of her house in a bathrobe at twenty years old, pregnant and barefoot on cold pavement, wanted just family Sunday lunch.

I looked at Aiden across the kitchen counter. He was eating toast and reading something on his tablet with the focused intensity of someone who had already decided the morning was productive. He had crumbs on his chin, and his curls were going in four different directions, and he was, as he always was at 9 AM on a Sunday, the best thing I had ever made.

He deserved grandparents. Even these ones.

“Fine,” I said. “What time p>

Martha’s pause was a fraction too short—she’d been prepared for more resistance. “One o’clock. And tell Aiden I’m making his favorite p>

She hung up before I could ask what she thought his favorite was, which was either confident or concerning. With Martha, usually both. And Martha didn’t know shit about my son.

We went. The Kensington house looked the same. It always looked the same; that was one of the things about old money, the way it preserved everything in amber, the furniture and the drapes and the particular smell of a house that had never needed to change because change implied uncertainty and uncertainty was not something the Kensingtons entertained. I had grown up inside that sameness and spent six years building something that was entirely, defiantly different.

Aiden looked at the front door with the expression he wore when filing new information.

“This is where you grew up?” he said.

“Yes, you already asked me this before, you know p>

“It’s very big p>

“Yes p>

“Yes, I remember; it’s nice inside, but they act like they have never seen a boy child before p>

I thought about the hallway where I had stood in a bathrobe listening to my mother tell me to get out. The bathroom where she had snatched a pregnancy test from my hands. The bedroom where I had packed a bag in three minutes while my father looked at the floor. I ignored my son’s comment.

“Yep, the furniture is good,” I said.

Aiden accepted this and rang the doorbell with the authority of someone who had decided the visit was happening and he was prepared for it.

Martha answered personally, which she never did; she had staff for doors. She was wearing her Sunday best and a smile so warm it could only have been rehearsed, and beside her, slightly to the left, stood a man I had never seen before in my life.

Late thirties. Tall. Expensive suit, the kind that was cut well enough to suggest serious money without announcing it loudly. Dark hair, good jaw, the practiced ease of someone who spent a lot of time in rooms full of important people. He was holding a glass of sparkling water and smiling at me with the specific quality of smile that men deployed when they had been told something flattering about you in advance.

I knew exactly what this was in the time it took me to cross the threshold.

“Katia, darling.” Martha kissed my cheek with the warmth of a woman who had never once in my living memory kissed my cheek with warmth. “And Aiden, look how handsome.” She bent toward him. He submitted to the greeting with polite stillness, the way he did with people he was still assessing. “This is Robert Ashford. An old family friend p>

Old family friend. The man was my age, give or take, and I had never heard his name in this house once in twenty-six years of living.

“Katia.” Robert extended his hand. His handshake was confident and precisely calibrated — firm enough to suggest authority, not so firm as to seem aggressive. Someone had taught him that. “I’ve heard a great deal about you p>

“Have you,” I said.

“All of it impressive p>

“How kind,” I smiled. It was my boardroom smile, the one that conveyed warmth at a distance and nothing up close. “Shall we go in p>

The lunch table was set for five — Martha, David, Robert, me, and Aiden, who had been placed strategically between me and the flower arrangement, which I suspected was designed to make him look decorative while the adults performed. He sat down, unfolded his napkin with the care of someone who had been taught table manners properly, and looked at Robert with the open assessment of a child who had not yet learned that adults found direct scrutiny uncomfortable.

Robert, to his credit, looked back.

“What do you do?” Aiden asked him.

“I’m in finance,” Robert said. “Investment management p>

“What do you invest in p>

“Various things. Tech portfolios mostly, at the moment. Some real estate p>

Aiden nodded slowly. “What’s your return on the tech portfolio p>

Robert blinked. “I’m sorry p>

“Your annual return. On the tech portfolio.” Aiden reached for his water glass. “Mum says that’s the first question you ask because it tells you whether someone actually knows what they’re doing or just knows what to say p>

The table went quiet.

If you find any errors (non-standard content, ads redirect, broken links, etc Please let us know so we can fix it as soon as possible.