Chapter 39

[ 941 words ]

Delia’s POV

Gail’s expression shifted from warmth to something much sharper, something that looked like pure contempt. “He’s my godson, Delia. I don’t need your permission or your ’eventual’ help. I’ll just ask Katia to bring him over myself, or I’ll go and fetch him from Brooklyn. He shouldn’t be hidden away just because your parents have a problem with his existence p>

Grandmother Celesta smiled, but it was a thin, paper-cold line that didn’t reach her eyes. I could see it, the first real conversation I’d had with Julian’s family, and I’d left a disastrous impression. I had painted my parents as heartless, myself as a jealous sister who banned her own flesh and blood from her wedding, and my nephew as an unwanted stranger.

I felt a momentary flash of panic. I had intended to come here and solidify my place as the new Mrs. Windsor, but instead, I had accidentally opened the door for Katia to walk right into the center of the family. If they started bringing Aiden around, they would be bringing Katia around. And if Katia was around, Julian would be looking at her instead of me.

But as I looked back down at my phone, I shoved the guilt and the fear away. I tapped on a notification, my jaw set in a hard line. I didn’t care what they thought of me. I was the one who had the ring, even if I had to lie about the hand that was photographed in France. I was married to Julian, the man they all bowed to, not to his meddling grandmother or his judgmental sister.

“Do what you want,” I muttered, focusing back on my screen. “Katia is difficult, so good luck getting her to agree to anything p>

I sat there in the silence of their judgment, the smell of the rosemary suddenly making me nauseous. I had the title. I had the name. As long as I was Mrs. Windsor, their “impressions” were just noise in the background of my life. I wouldn’t be a silent wife, and I certainly wouldn’t be a welcoming one if it meant my sister stealing my spotlight.

Katia’s POV

My phone had been buzzing for three solid minutes, vibrating against the mahogany surface of my desk like a persistent, gold-plated insect. I immediately knew it was one of my family members, and I also know that they didn’t call unless they had a curated audience to perform for or a problem that required someone else’s hands to get dirty. Since Delia had just landed the “wedding of the century” and hitched her wagon to the Windsor star, I assumed she was calling to gloat about the size of her rock or the thread count of her new sheets.

I finally picked up on the tenth ring, not even bothering with a greeting or the pretense of warmth. “I’m busy, Delia. Unless the house is on fire or you’re calling to tell me you’ve moved to another hemisphere, make it quick p>

“Hey, sis,” her voice came through, sounding suspiciously soft, layered with a forced fragility that she usually reserved for the press. “Can we meet? Just for a bit? I’m in the neighborhood p>

“No. I have a company to run, a server migration to oversee, and a son to raise. I don’t have time for the Kensington drama circuit today, or any day this week.” I reached for my mouse, ready to terminate the call. I wanted peace, I wanted code, and I wanted to forget the way Julian Windsor looked at my hands in a dark jazz club. I didn’t want whatever performance Delia was currently rehearsing.

“Look, I get it,” she said, her tone taking on a humility that made my skin crawl. It was the sound of a woman who knew she was losing a grip on a secret. “Even if you weren’t busy, I’d understand why you’d say no. I asked you not to attend my wedding, and… I’m sorry. I was stressed, and the family was being difficult. I just really need to see you, Katia. Please p>

I paused, the cursor hovering over the ’end call’ button. Delia Kensington, no, Delia Windsor now, didn’t apologize. Not for free. An apology from Delia was usually a down payment on a much larger favor. I was done being the “bigger person”; that role had only ever gotten me a one-way ticket out of my own home six years ago while she stood by and watched our parents throw me out. But curiosity, or perhaps a lingering, masochistic desire to see her trip over her own web of lies, won out.

“Fine. My office. Thirty minutes. Don’t be late, or the security guard will have instructions to escort you back to the curb p>

Thirty minutes later, the unmistakable roar of a high-performance engine echoed in the street below my loft. I looked out the window to see a pristine, chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce idling at the curb, its silver hood gleaming under the Brooklyn sun. It was the kind of car that didn’t just transport you; it made a loud, obnoxious statement about who you thought you were. It was a rolling fortress of ego.

Delia swept into my office a few minutes later, looking like she’d stepped directly off a Parisian runway. She didn’t even say hello. She didn’t ask how I was. She just walked to the window, gestured vaguely toward the street with a smug, self-satisfied smirk, and waited for me to bow.

“You like my ride? It’s part of the Windsor fleet. Assigned specifically to me by Julian’s office. It’s got custom interiors, of course p>

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