“Good,” I lied. Sort of. “And there?”

“Fantastic. I’m having a blast. Papa said Arabella got Rafferty’s internship? How odd. Is she giving you trouble?”

“No,” I answered honestly.

I hadn’t mentioned anything about Arabella when Poppy and I chatted, partly because I hadn’t had the chance to see her much. I occasionally saw her across the hall, but I didn’t bother acknowledging her, or vice versa. She had been spending her weekends elsewhere and her weekdays holed up somewhere, and although I hadn’t spoken to Vaughn about her, I trusted him when he said he wouldn’t touch her. Which begged the question—what exactly was she doing at Carlisle Prep? She seemed to have no ties to the place. She wasn’t an artist. Vaughn didn’t want her. And she certainly hadn’t worked half as hard at bullying me here as she had in Todos Santos.

Why is she here?

“What about Spencer? Killed anyone yet?”

“Shockingly, no.” I fell back into bed, staring at my ceiling with a soft laugh.

I didn’t want to admit I’d dreaded my birthday. Because I knew Vaughn better than to think he’d ever celebrate it, and it was likely Pope was going to whisk me off in the evening for an intimate, private dinner, which meant less kissing time with Vaughn. Papa, I suspected, would forget about it altogether, as he often did when it came to me.

“We get along,” I explained. “For the most part.”

“Don’t forget his true colors,” Poppy warned. “All of them are shades of black. He’s the same guy who bullied you at school, dragged you into the janitor’s room to look at him getting a blow job, and then did it again on the last day of school.”

I remembered those things all too well. I even had a retaliation plan in place.

“A-ny-way,” she drawled, “Have an amazing day, Lenny. Hug that teddy bear for me, yeah?” she teased when I failed to produce any more words about Vaughn. “All my love. Mwah. Cheerio.”

I hung up the phone and slipped into my black skinny jeans, an Anti Social Social Club hoodie, and my Gladstone sneakers. I headed to my father’s office, before I lost the guts to do it.

I hadn’t spoken to him in weeks—not since I found out he knew I’d be sitting around here doing nothing for six months, and still recommended I accept the position. He and Vaughn had made me look like an idiot, and I was worried I’d lash out at him. But I figured if I didn’t go talk to him, we weren’t going to talk at all.

My legs grew heavy as rocks with each step I took toward his office. The air seemed to sear my lungs. I knew, logically, that I had every right to confront him. I needed to shake off the weird notion that my father was too important to deal with my problems and feelings. Wasn’t that what I’d always done? Pushed myself out of the picture to make things easier for him?

That’s okay, Papa, I’ll stay here in Carlisle so you can focus on your job in America.

It’s fine I didn’t get the internship. I’d love to be Vaughn Spencer’s assistant.

Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll just marry my work so you don’t have to carry the burden of any potential heartbreak or boy drama, or really, anything that might put you in the slightest discomfort.

Suddenly I realized I wasn’t much different from Poppy. We’d both slid to the sidelines of our father’s life to make sure he was comfortable. Poppy simply looked the part, with her cute cardigans and groomed looks, while I did it by wearing black lipstick.

By the time I stood in front of his office door, I was so riled up, fire licked at the walls of my stomach, rising to my throat. I curled my fist and raised it to the wood, about to knock, when the door flew open and out came Arabella.

She looked flustered, red, confused as she closed it behind her. She shouldered past me and ran down the hallway.

When she realized who she’d shoved aside, she stopped, turned around, and raised her open hand, signaling me not to talk.

She opened her mouth, about to say something nasty, no doubt, when Uncle Harry breezed into the hallway from his office on the opposite side of the floor, holding a thick batch of files under his arm. The showdown between us gave him pause, and he frowned.

“Ladies.”

“Mr. Fairhurst.” I nodded politely.

It didn’t matter that I’d grown up in his lap and spent every Christmas and Easter at his Hertfordshire mansion. In school, I gave him the respect he deserved. Arabella, however, yawned provocatively, refusing his eye contact.

“Do we have a problem here?” He looked between us.

Arabella flashed him one of her Colgate smiles, which was faker than her lashes. “No problem at all.”