I take Friday off work for the funeral. The sky is clear during my run, but over the course of the morning, a blanket of fog slowly descends. I’m glad to see it, not for the melodrama but because one of my favorite of Margaret’s quirks was her love of fog. Especially the type prevalent today: swirling, low clouds and bone-chilling dampness.

When Lillian and I arrive at the church at two-thirty, there are several local news vans and a dense crowd gathered outside. The closest parking spot is almost a half-mile away. We gather our jackets and purses and join a stream of darkly clad mourners heading down the narrow, winding road.

The fog is very dense, pressing against our cheeks and bare legs. Voices are hushed, footsteps muted by moisture. We step carefully over the uneven asphalt, much of it buckled by tree roots. The culprits watch our passage with eerie stillness, punctuated by the faint commentary of high leaves.

Lillian trips a little and I catch her. She shivers in her thick coat and tucks her arm through mine. I’m not cold, or hot, or feeling much of anything.

When we reach the church, the crowd outside has dwindled. Reporters linger with their cameramen, looking at notes and sipping from thermoses.

“Aren’t you freezing?” Lillian asks mutedly.

I shake my head. “Must be the morning runs.”

We receive programs at the door and walk into the hushed church. It’s a grand space and nearly every pew is filled. At the sight of so many people, unease ripples through me.

We will have to walk past hundreds of strangers to reach the front. They will assess me, wanting a face to match the rumor of Margaret White’s non-descendent beneficiary. And though I doubt most are the type to read tabloids, there will surely be a few who connect me to Damien. And to Alex, whose sister Candace is here. Somewhere ahead of us, too, sits my mother, with whom I haven’t spoken since Saturday.

My grip on Lillian’s arm tightens. She whispers, “Steady, Thebes.”

A dignified, white-haired woman approaches us as we pass the first pew. Her smile is kind, taking the edge off my anxiety. “Ms. Sands?” she asks softly. “I’m Edith Talbot. We spoke yesterday.”

I clasp her offered hand, which is delicate and soft. “Yes, thank you for your call,” I say in the same hushed tone. “And thank you for organizing this.”

Her eyes crinkle warmly at the edges. “Margaret had everything planned for years. I simply followed directions. As you know, our Lady was a bit of an overachiever.”

I smile as much as I’m able. “Yes, she was.”

Edith gestures toward the altar. “Please, follow me.”

The walk to the front is long. I stare at the floor the entire time, gripping Lillian’s hand like a lifeline. We follow Edith to the correct pew and side and settle in the mostly-empty row. Two middle-aged men and a woman sit a little ways down. I have no idea who they are, and they don’t look at me. They are Old Money, though. Relatives of Margaret?

I concentrate on deepening my breathing, which has grown shallow.

A minute passes, then Lillian whispers, “Thebes? You wanted me to tell you…” She trails off, chewing her lower lip.

My scalp tingles. “He’s here?” I whisper.

She nods. “Just came in. Other side, six rows back. With his sister.”

I breathe. I blink. “Okay, thanks.”

She looks at me a long moment. “You’re my hero, you know that?”

I smile weakly and remember a quote, “‘The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong in the broken places.’”

“Did Margaret teach you that?”

The organ music begins. “Indirectly,” I murmur. (A Farewell to Arms, by Ernest Hemingway, was one of Margaret’s favorite books.)

But regardless of what I just told Lillian, I’m not strong in my broken places. Not yet, at least. I miss Alex fiercely. I dream of him almost every night. Privately, my only audience the bedroom ceiling, I have run the gamut of emotion. Anger. Betrayal. Loss. Longing. My heart has broken countless times against the thought that he tossed me aside so easily.

No media circus followed Sunday’s television exposure. It was a sideshow, brief and easily forgotten. A tiny photo and blurb in a few gossip magazines. The phone calls from reporters stopped after twenty-four hours, moving quickly to bigger and better scandals.

Still, Alex has stayed away.

I know he cares for me—I do. Don’t go. Stay with me. I also know that, given time, he might have loved me as I love him. We could have found a way to be together. I would have followed him anywhere.

The irony (not lost on me) is now that it’s over, I’ve finally discovered hope.

I can’t even blame him. Not really. Chaos is the least promising incubator for a relationship and from the moment we met, there’s been little else. In the end, he decided I wasn’t worth it. Alex is a man who knows himself and knows what he wants.

And it’s not me.

* * *

The eulogy masterfully captures Margaret’s bright spirit. Immediately following is a spoken collage of memories from friends. Episodes of grace and humor. There are many sniffles and some choked sobs from the congregation.

My eyes are dry and burning. All I see is the closed casket. All I feel is Alex, the gravity of him dragging at me from six rows back on the right.

We stand, we sit, we pray.

The service concludes and the mourners slowly depart. Lillian rubs my shoulder and says, “I’ll meet you out front with the car.”

I nod and keep staring at the casket. Wood creaks, the old church adjusting to emptiness. Voices hum in the distance as people linger in the vestibule and outside. Slowly, I return to awareness. There’s an itch on my calf and stiffness in my back from sitting for so long.

I stand, wait for dizziness to fade, and walk carefully down the aisle. Men and women nod as I pass. No one speaks to me.

I’m wearing the thickest armor I’ve ever built, fucking cement and cannons. It doesn’t matter, though, because the moment I step outside, there’s an eruption of noise and light. A microphone is shoved in my face.

“Ms. Sands, any words for us?”

I shake my head and scan for an escape. I don’t see one. Strangers watch me. There are strangers everywhere.

“Is it true, Ms. Sands, that you’re Robert White’s illegitimate daughter?”

Time slows.

Stops.

Begins again with a roar.

I hear my mother call my name, and her angry demand, “Leave her alone! Get away from her!” But she’s separated from me by at least twenty people. Not far from her, I see a flash of blond hair and a lissome woman striding away. Tabitha.

“Ms. Sands, we’ve been told that you’re the daughter of Robert White. Is this true? Did Lady Margaret know? Is this why she left you her estate?”

“Please,” I say, but no sound passes my lips.

(Cement can’t withstand a nuclear explosion.)

I’ve never fainted before, but suddenly know I’m about to. Darkness bleeds through my peripheral vision. My head is too light, my feet too heavy. I should have eaten breakfast.

A broad, suited frame moves in front of me.

Hands—his hands—grip my biceps. “Breathe, Thea,” he murmurs.

His arm slides around my shoulders, pulling me tight against him. I am safe, sheltered, cut off from the camera light, the seeking microphone, the questions that haven’t stopped pouring forth.

“Ms. Sands has no comment,” he says, and begins to move me through the crowd.

“Mr. Hughes, are you and Ms. Sands romantically involved?”

“No comment,” he snaps, then mutters, “Fucking piranhas.”

Ten steps. Twenty. The crowd parts for Alex as it would for a king. A limo, its back door open, waits at the curb. With a hand protecting my head, he effortlessly manipulates me inside. I collapse, putty-like, onto the back seat. He sits beside me, slams the door, and punches the ceiling twice. The limo pulls smoothly away from the church.

“Are you all right?” he asks softly.

“Lillian…”

“She’s following us.”

I nod and face forward, then blink in surprise. On the bench across from me sits a petite, beautiful woman. Dark hair is cut in a sleek, shoulder-length bob. She’s about my age, with large blue eyes, incredible cheekbones, and Alex’s mouth.

Devastating, I decide, just like her brother.

Smiling kindly, she says, “Hi Thea, I’m Candace.”

“Hello,” I rasp. “I’m sorry.”

Candace glances briefly at Alex. “You have nothing to apologize for,” she says softly. “These things can’t be helped.”

Alex shifts on the seat. He asks, “Who have you told about Robert?”

I force my gaze from Candace and watch the scenery blur outside. Fog paints the world with surreal strokes. “No one besides Lillian and you,” I murmur. “But it was Tabitha who told them. I saw her, outside the church.”

“How the hell did she find out?”

I shrug—I’m floating, flying between tendrils of fog. “Her head isn’t filled with silicone, just her tits.”

Alex grunts in humor; Candace makes a small noise in her throat. Laughter, maybe, or embarrassment. I should be ashamed of myself, but I’m not.

Candace asks, “Tabitha? That’s your sister?”

“Half-sister,” I whisper.

“Would your mother have told her?” presses Alex.

“I don’t know,” I say, and drop my head wearily back.

I focus on the vibration of the road, the trees, buildings, faded landscape, but it’s no use. I can smell his cologne, feel his heat on my side despite the three feet between us.

I’ve practiced a thousand times what I would say when I saw him again. Now, though, I can’t summon a single word. I can’t even look at him.

My heart is heavy, throbbing low in my chest. I think of Robert’s sketches, which often captured the diseased organ, but never a broken one.

“Do you want to go to the gravesite?” he asks at length.

“Can the reporters follow there?”

He hesitates. “They have to stay back a ways, but yes.”

“Then no,” I say. “Take me home, please.”

Alex tells Candace my address, which she relays to the driver. In minutes we are on the freeway headed south. I drift, half-asleep, and wake with a jolt when the car door opens.

Alex steps onto the curb outside my building. A moment later, Lillian peers in. “Come on, Thebes, let’s get you inside.”

I shake myself into full consciousness and slide across the seat. Before I stand, I look at Candace. “It was nice to meet you.”

She smiles, sweet and soft. “And you as well. I’m sorry for your loss.” Her eyes search my face, unnerving in their familiarity. “Can I tell you something, Thea?” I nod hesitantly. “I don’t think my brother’s been in love before.”

I blink. “I, uh—”

Candace waves a graceful hand. “Just keep it in mind.”

I stare at her another moment, then exit the limo. The fog has thinned enough that the sunlight is both diffused and magnified. It shimmers over glass, the pale sidewalk. I’m reminded of a Monet waterlilies painting.

Alex stands several feet away, watching me, hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks. I don’t want to look at his face, but I do. A mistake I will always make. I can’t decipher his expression. Close to indifference, but not quite. Why did Candace tell me that? He takes a step toward me and I go still, a deer in headlights.

Everything is very clear. The golden flecks in his eyes. The tension in his jaw.

“Thea?” asks Lillian from the entrance to our building.

“I’ll be right in,” I say, then tell Alex, “Thank you for getting me out of there.”

His lips part, then press together. Finally, he says, “I bought the negatives of those photos. You won’t see them again.”

I release a slow breath. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did, actually. I needed to see them for myself.”

My heart squeezes, then pounds. Fierce longing grabs ahold of me—hurt and anger punch back in defense. “Because my word wasn’t enough?” I snap, but don’t wait for a reply. “Were your burning questions answered, Mr. Hughes?”

“Thea,” he says mutedly. “I’m sorry.”

I love him.

It’s not enough.

“We’re chaos, Alex,” I murmur. “Hurricanes and magnets and avalanches. This is for the best.”

I have no idea where the words come from, or whether they’re accurate. But it seems that by breaking, I’ve finally found the center of myself. And it truly is steel.

Cars honk. Passersby stare at me, at the limo. But mostly they stare at Alex, who radiates power and barely leashed wildness.

I will never wholly recover from him.

“You don’t believe that,” he says tightly.

I shrug. “I don’t have to believe it for it to be true.”

Candace’s voice flows between us. “Alex, you’re digging a hole. Leave her alone.”

He takes another step toward me, gaze searing my face. Storm clouds roll under my skin and push color into my cheeks. He sees that I’m affected—his eyes darken knowingly. Phantom fullness pulses, filling my body with the memory of him.

Damnit.

“Goodbye, Thea,” he says, but it sounds nothing like a farewell.

I shiver, no longer protected from the cold. Lillian comes to my rescue, taking my arm and steering me inside the building. The doors rotate closed behind us, cutting out the street noise.

“Jesus,” she mutters, “what the fuck just happened?”

“No idea.”

She slants a look at me. “You know, Thebes, what that look on his face meant.”

I swallow. “Yes.”

“What are you going to do?”

I don’t reply.

As we near the elevator, a tall, blond man looks up from where he sits on a nearby bench. He stands quickly. My short-circuited brain takes a few moments to recognize him—his hair is buzzed short, his tawny eyes worried and tired. He’s wearing a suit that, though slightly rumpled, still speaks of hand-tailoring.

Then he grins, and I’m twelve years old again, and we’re making a mudslide in the backyard with a hose and shovels.

“Oliver?” I gasp.

He opens his arms. I rush into them.