Serena

I’m dressed by nine thirty, my stomach filled with a light breakfast and a hint of unexpected butterflies. This morning’s pills are flushed and long gone. I feel alert and coherent, ready to meet with Derek and let him see for himself how completely unnecessary this entire thing is.

I pace the north hall of the estate, home to fifteen or so useless rooms filled with useless artifacts. A few years ago, the plan was to turn Belcourt into a touring museum, a place of revenue. Veronica’s idea. It sat empty, save for the staff who maintained it, until I was sentenced to life behind these walls thanks to the behind-the-scenes manipulations of my lovely stepmother.

I hate Veronica, and I don’t particularly hate anyone.

Wait.

I take it back.

Keir. I hate Keir, too.

The house smells as old as it looks. Some people might find comfort in that. I don’t. This place does nothing but remind me of the summers we spent here as a child before Mom died. Granted, those are good memories, but they fill me with sadness.

And guilt.

Because the older I get, the less I remember of her, and I detest myself for it.

And smelling these familiar smells makes me miss her so much, it physically pains me.

I slip behind the double doors to the Magnolia room, a room my father’s second ex-wife named and decorated. I liked Catherine. She was regal and quiet and soft-spoken. Their union lasted a whole two years before he left her for some twenty-something hostess at his favorite NYC trattoria.

Poor Catherine. She really loved my father. She even loved him so much, she agreed not to sign a pre-nup.

Fool.

People with money live a life of convenience. And when you have all the money in the world, love often falls into that category.

Standing before a soaring window, I glance outside at the circle drive below and watch for Derek’s arrival.

I step away after a moment and head downstairs. Surely, there are better ways to occupy my time.

“Ms. Randall.” Eudora stops me at the bottom of the stairs. “Mr. Rosewood just pulled into the drive. Where will you be receiving him this morning?”

My shoulders rise and fall as I contemplate my answer. The space shouldn’t be too intimate. And it should be well lit. Neutral. Professional.

“Bring him to the dining room. We’ll meet at the table. And send for tea, please,” I say. “Thank you.”

A few minutes pass, and I’m seated at the head of a table at least as old as this house and still in near-mint condition. Kings and queens have feasted at this table, or so the story goes. The sound of footsteps echoes from the entry, and I clear my throat and smooth a strand of hair down my left shoulder.

“Right this way, please,” I hear Eudora say.

Derek appears a moment later, and I try to ignore his casual getup of dark khakis and a navy polo. He looks more fit for a round of golf than a meeting with a client. Then again, it is a Saturday. Had I not been so hard on him yesterday, I might tease him a little. Either way, he looks good, and I hate that I think so because that’s the last place my mind needs to be.

“Serena, good morning.” Derek’s dark chocolate hair is perfectly combed, not a strand out of place, and he walks my way with a hand extended. “Wonderful to see you again.”

I stand and meet his handshake, determined to treat him with the same respect and courtesy he showed me yesterday.

“Likewise,” I say. “Please, have a seat.”

Eudora lingers for a few seconds too long, like I’m incapable of handling anything on my own. I shoot her a silent request for space in the form of a quick look, and she quietly strides away.

“So.” Derek whips out a legal pad and a pen the color of polished onyx and lifts his gaze to me. “What I’d like to do today, Serena, is get an idea of your regular expenses, and from there, we can set up a baseline budget. And once that’s squared away, we can figure out a budget for the extras. I will say, as your conservator, that I’m going to recommend sticking to modest numbers given your . . . delicate state.”

My tongue grazes along my lower lip, and I give him a head-cocked smirk. “Do I look delicate to you?”

“You don’t,” he says. “But in the eyes of the law, you’re not quite yourself right now. I won’t be able to allocate any funding for major purchases at this time.”

“There goes that Aston Martin I had my eye on.”

He smiles, and my eyes fall on the dimple in his left cheek. He only has the one, but it’s kind of perfect right where it is.

“You mind?” I point to his pad and paper, and he slides it across the table. The pen is warm and smooth against my palm. Pressing the tip into the yellow tablet, I try to jot down a few estimates and then freeze.

Months ago, I had a PR rep on contract. I had dry cleaning bills and weekly mani-pedis. I had regular blow outs and traveled internationally no less than twice per month. I had a health club membership and rented an apartment on Lexington Avenue in Manhattan.

I lived an embarrassingly extravagant life, and I’m not sure I’m comfortable jotting down those kinds of exorbitant numbers in front of a stranger, attorney or not.

I write down some bullshit, modest numbers. Something’s better than nothing, and if the money sits in the bank, then so be it, but at least it’ll be freed up and in my possession again. It’s not like I’m in desperate need of a PR rep right now. And I couldn’t say where the nearest nail salon is in this area.

“There.” I slide it back to him, and he scans the paper, brows furrowed.

“Okay,” he says, lifting his hand to his chin. “This is doable, given your lifestyle before everything went down. Now tell me how much you’d like in addition to this. I don’t want to call this your allowance, but . . . just think of it as your fun money.”

Fun. That’s a concept I haven’t known in a long time.

“How much do you think is reasonable?” I lean back in my seat, crossing my legs. When I lived in the city, it was typical for me to blow four figures a week on fine dining. Another four figures—or more—on regular shopping excursions. And then, of course, there was the travel. Some destinations are obviously pricier than others. “Twenty, thirty thousand per month?”

I say it to test him, to gauge his reaction.

Derek chokes on his spit, and it’s exactly the kind of response I expected.

To be fair, this was the life my father created for me. He’s a controlling old bastard with a soft spot for his daughter and living proof of how money warps reality. After Mom died, he filled my life with the finer things, as if pretty dresses and tea sets and prized, pedigreed ponies could fill the dark void she left. After college, he insisted I live in the city and take my time figuring out what I wanted to be in this world, and he subsidized my every whim.

But still, I’d never felt so empty.

Until I met Keir.

I stifle a chuckle. “You must think I’m from some other planet.”

He gathers his composure, draws in a strong breath, and purses his full lips. Goddamn, he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. It’s not fair for a man to be so beautiful. He’s beyond what’s normal. Those dark lashes. That chiseled jaw. His burning stare.

“Well.” His gaze is intense, unwavering. “You sort of are.”

“We can’t help what we’re born into.” I make no apologies. I only state truths.

“You’re absolutely right.” He reaches for his pen, tapping it lightly on the edge of the tablet. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around that, and at the same time, figure out what a judge might think if I gave him these numbers. I want you to be comfortable, but I can’t have my firm accused of misappropriating the very funds we were hired to protect.”

“Look. I just want to be able to get out of here once in a while. I want to feel like a normal person. I don’t have a car. There’s no internet, because God forbid we knock through the antique crown molding and dig a line through the English garden to run some wires to this place, and it’d be nice to go somewhere in here and get at least two bars on my phone. I have no money. My funds are frozen. Veronica has my credit cards. I feel like I’m being held against my will here, and anytime I protest that, I’m told this is how I’m going to get better and it won’t last forever, but it’s been over two months, Derek.”

“Serena. Serena.” He raises his palm, but I’m still vomiting the words I’ve been dying to speak since I got here. “Serena. Okay. I get it.”

“No, you don’t. Because if you did, you’d care less about my finances and more about helping me prove I’m not crazy. You’re in my corner, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then. Help. Me. Get. My. Life. Back.” I press my finger against the wooden table top with each word.

Derek pushes his thumb and pointer fingers against his temples, breathing loudly before staring across the table into what I’m sure is a pathetic little view. I’m not usually one to show my cards or let my emotions get the best of me, and vulnerability’s not really my thing, but desperate times . . .

“You want to get out of here for a bit?” he asks.

The tension in my neck and shoulders fades, and I fight the urge to scream, “YES!” from the top of my lungs.

“If you’re comfortable, we can go for a drive in my car,” he says. “Just a little scenic, country tour. The fresh air might be good for you.”

I sit up tall and force a delayed reaction, opting not to seem like an eager puppy dog and throw all my credibility out the window.

“That would be nice. Yes.” Taming my excitement, I leave the head of the table and retrieve a gray tweed trench from the coat room.

Derek waits at the door for me, but the sound of quick footsteps sends a stall to my racing heart.

“Where do you two think you’re running off to?” Eudora is breathless, a tray of spilled tea in her hands. For a woman of her thin stature, she really is quite out of shape. You’d think tending to a sixty-room manor would build some kind of stamina. “Serena, you’re not to leave the house, remember?”

“We’re just going for a quick drive,” Derek answers for me. “My client could use a change of scenery. We won’t be gone long. I’ll take good care of her.”

He winks, but judging by Eudora’s pinched scowl, it does nothing to rectify the situation. I imagine she’s fuming inside.

“Maybe we should phone Dr. Rothbart?” Eudora’s eyes go between ours. “See if he thinks it’s a good idea. You know, baby steps.”

“Eudora.” I tuck my chin against my chest. It pains me to speak to her in a condescending manner, but she’s being completely inappropriate. Not to mention rude to Mr. Rosewood. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a drive. Come on, Derek.”

We make haste toward the front door before she has another chance to object, and Derek walks me around to the passenger side of his black SUV.

“Thank you,” I say, smoothing my hands beneath my thighs and preparing to slide in.

The smile on my mouth fades when something catches my eye, and my throat constricts, rendering me momentarily unable to breathe.

“Derek.” I lift the Us Weekly from the passenger seat and examine the cover, instantly recognizing the pitiful photo of me on the bottom and the horribly inaccurate headline.

“Yes?”

Spinning to face him, I slam it against his chest. “Why would you have this? Do you know how awful these are? They’re nothing but lies. Why would you want to read lies about me? I thought you were in my corner?”

The magazine falls to his obnoxiously shiny shoes, and I pull my jacket tight and brace myself for the walk back to the door.

“Serena, come back here. It’s not like that at all.” There’s a chuckle in his tone.

But this isn’t funny to me.

This is my life.