Chapter Four

Bree

Present Day

The late afternoon sun relentlessly beats down on me as I sit on the patio overlooking the gardens of my family's estate. There is barely a breath of wind, making the day feel that much hotter. I sip my sweet tea as a bead of sweat forms upon my brow and rolls down my cheek. I absently wipe it away with a handkerchief.

It's early September, but you wouldn't know it here in Georgia. We may be nearing the end of summer, but it's not going down without a fight. Sure, it's starting to cool down a bit, and compared to the heart of the summer months, it feels a lot better. But, most days still leave you drenched in sweat if you remain outside for too long.

Unfortunately for me, I can't stay cooped up inside, hiding from the heat of the afternoon in the cool air conditioning. Well, I could, but Owen would hate it. I scan the gardens until I see his little brown-haired head bobbing and bouncing between the hedges and tall flowering bushes, chasing after something. Probably the cat. One of his few playmates here at the house is a black-and-white tuxedo cat named Tux.

Probably not the most creative of names for a cat, but at age seven, you are pretty literal when it comes to that sort of thing. Either that, or they choose a name based on their favorite cartoon character. And given his current interests, I'm surprised the cat didn't wind up with a name like Captain America or Spiderman.

Owen laughs, a high, pleasant sound, and it fills my heart with joy. I stand and shield my eyes with my hand, so I can see him a little more clearly. He turns and walks toward me, a wide smile on his precious, perfect little face. Tux is in his arms, seemingly content to be carried around by his little boy.

As he draws near, a pained look crosses my face because I know the question that's coming before Owen even has a chance to ask it.

“Mom, can we please bring Tux inside to play today?” he asks, his voice so sweet and innocent. “I want to show him my room.”

My heart drops into my stomach. “I'm sorry, sweetie,” I say. “You know the rules.”

“But mom, he won't tear anything up. He's a good boy,” Owen begs, looking up at me with wide, pleading eyes.

“I know, baby,” I say, genuine remorse in my voice. “If it were up to me, I'd –”

The sound of someone clearing their throat behind us causes me to pause. I turn and look toward the patio door and see my brother, Clyde, standing there watching us. Or rather, watching me.

“If it were up to your mom, we'd be living in squalor with pigs and cows running around the house,” Clyde sneers. “Animals belong outside, Owen.”

“But –” Owen begins to argue, tears welling in his eyes.

I rush to my son's side, pulling him closely, protectively, to my body. He buries his face in my stomach and I ruffle his hair as he leans against my hip, Tux still happy to be in his arms, purring loudly. The cat has always had a strong, motor-like purr, which he normally uses to his show his love for my son.

“Clyde, stay out of this,” I say. “I'm handling it.”

Clyde swaggers out of the doorway and onto the patio, glass of tea in hand, his eyes staring out at the garden. I can tell just by the way he's standing that he's had a bad day and is looking for someone to take it out on. Somebody to lash out at. That person is usually me, since he doesn't dare snap at our parents.

The idea that he's in a foul mood is only reinforced when I recognize the malicious glint in his eyes. I want to stop him from opening his mouth again, fearing what's about to come out. And when he speaks, his voice is a low, suggestive snarl.

“Does being out here turn you on, sis?” he asks. “Does it bring back fond memories? Is that why you enjoy being out in the gardens so much?”

“Clyde –” I shoot him a scathing look. “There's a child present.”

Clyde glances at Owen, a passing look, before turning back to look at the gardens. At the gazebo in particular. Oh, how I wish they'd torn that thing down when they replanted the gardens a couple of years back. But Clyde had insisted that it remain – because, of course he did.

That fucking gazebo is the symbol of my biggest failure and shortcoming. Of the shame I've brought to the family. It's a monument to one night's indiscretion and a physical manifestation of what Clyde delights in hanging over my head – and has been for the past eight years.

“Well, eventually, he's going to discover what a whore his mother is,” Clyde says.

The heat flares in my cheeks and my heart begins to race – both with rage and with embarrassment. Clyde runs a hand along his five o'clock shadow, making a dry, scratching noise, as a vicious smirk spreads across his face.

“I'm sure he'll come across the infamous video sooner or later,” he says.

“Clyde, stop it,” I hiss.

“Or what?” Clyde asks, finally turning his rage toward me. “You'll tell mom and dad? I'm sure they'd love to hear all about that night in the garden too. I think they'd most especially love to know who it was you were out here with.”

I cringe and lower my eyes, the knots in my stomach clenching tightly. Owen looks up at me with his clear, blue eyes – eyes identical to his father’s. His eyes, however, are full of innocence and love. They are sweet and pure – the complete opposite of the man who impregnated me all those years ago.

Owen is such a sweet boy, still full of promise and naivete. I don’t want him to ever lose those qualities – especially to the likes of someone like my brother.

Owen whispers to me, “What's he talking about, momma?”

“Nothing, baby,” I say, my voice cracking. I plaster a smile on my face that I hope looks more genuine than it feels. “Uncle Clyde is just being silly and joking around about old times.”

“Yeah, I’m only joking,” he scoffs and turns his eyes to Owen again. “You still haven't told him who his daddy is, have you?”

I open my mouth to yell at Clyde, to shut him down, but Owen beats me to it.

“My daddy is a war hero,” he says, his small voice full of confidence and surety. “He went to fight in the war.”

“Is that what she's telling you, boy? That's really cute,” Clyde gives Owen a bemused grin. “You're in for a hell of a surprise one day though, kiddo. But, don't you worry, Bree. I'll let you be the one to break your son's heart one day. Once he's old enough to understand the full extent of your actions.”

Clyde turns on his heels and walks back into the house, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. My entire body relaxes and the adrenaline coursing through me slows to a trickle. My eyes burn with hate and disgust as I watch my brother walk away. My muscles turning to jelly, I fall against the nearby wall, my hands shaking as I hold Owen close to me.

Tux finally fights to be let down, and Owen sets the cat gently on the ground. Tux rubs against both of our legs, purring loudly. He really is a good cat, and I wish my son could bring him inside. After all, Owen doesn't have many friends of his own.

Not that it is any of his doing. It is because the two of us are essentially prisoners here. Oh, it may be the most beautiful prison you'll ever see. A mansion with acres of land, beautiful gardens – there is even a lake on the property. There are no bars or guard towers, but even so, Owen and I are very much trapped here.

Matilda, his nanny, sticks her head out of the house and smiles politely at me.

“I can take over from here, Ms. Longstreet,” she says. “It's time for his lessons anyway.”

“Thank you, Matilda.”

“Of course.”

Matilda Newsome is not only Owen's nanny, but his teacher as well. It is time to get back to his lessons – much to his chagrin. I run my hands over Owen's hair, smoothing it down as I steady my nerves enough to speak. I kneel to eye level with my boy and stare into those stunning blue eyes of his. He's going to be a real lady killer one day – just like his father. But unlike his father, he's going to grow up with more respect for women. I'm going to make sure of that.

“Be good for Ms. Newsome, sweetie,” I say.

Owen groans under his breath as he walks toward his teacher, head down, dragging his feet. He can be so dramatic. Matilda is in good spirits – like she usually is – and laughs it off. She is amazing with Owen and I appreciate her more than I can say.

“I know how much you're looking forward to math today, Owen,” Matilda says. Owen groans even louder, burying his face in his hands. “I hate math,” he groans

“Math is useful though,” I say. “Especially if you want to grow up and be an engineer.”

“Maybe I've changed my mind. If it involves math, I don't wanna do it,” he says.

He frowns, but grudgingly walks into the house. Matilda looks back at me and we share a smile. I like Matilda as a person. It certainly helped that I was given a say in hiring her. She and I clicked from the start. She's been good for Owen, even if he always complains when having to return to his schooling from playtime. She's always patient and understanding in response, combatting his grumpiness with humor and good nature.

Over the years, she has also become a friend of mine. A confidante. Matilda is one of the few people in the entire world I trust these days.

I stand there a moment longer, watching them disappear into the house before I turn toward the gardens. Clyde's words continue to echo in my ears. He was right about one thing - that I can't be out here without thinking about what happened that night. It really was the most sensual and erotic night of my young life.

But, Clyde is also dead wrong – it doesn't turn me on. Okay, maybe a little sometimes. I won't deny that I've relived that night in the gazebo when taking care of myself. The memories of the amazing sex never fail to get me off. Sue me.

Mostly though, thinking about that night – or rather, the aftermath of it – dredges up awful memories and feelings. Yeah, the aftermath. My family turned on me when they found out I was pregnant. And when they discovered the video. And then when they realized who the father of my child really was.

Clyde told me, of course. After seeing the video, he knew the identity of the mystery man at the party. As soon as Clyde told me who it was and what he had done, I knew that everything that happened between us that night had been a setup, a joke, and nothing more.

I tell myself that I'd been so naïve, so incredibly stupid, to think that man truly desired me the way he had portrayed. I tell myself that the look in his eyes was nothing more than a mirage. Wishful thinking on my part. He didn't desire me. He didn't want to consume me. He only wanted to ruin me. Ruin my family.

And he'd succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

Tears well in my eyes, and I ball my fists at my sides, as that old, familiar rage burns through me. I'm digging my nails into my palms so hard, pinpricks of blood swell to the surface. I hate the myriad of emotions that rise within me when I think about that night - when I think about him.

Even though I hate Milo for what he did, for the destruction he wrought in my life, I still feel a certain warmth as I reflect on that night. Try as I might, I can't fully erase how good it felt to have him inside of me.

And there's still a small piece of me, hidden in the back of my mind, that doesn't believe everything I saw in his eyes that night, everything I felt in his body, was fake. There is a tiny part of me that desperately wants to believe he desired me the way I thought he did.

It kills me to still have these feelings and desires, all these years later. I hate it and wish I could banish them forever. Taking a deep breath, I push myself away from the patio ledge and rush inside, wiping at my eyes to make sure no one can notice the tears. The last thing I want, or need is for Clyde to think that he’s gotten under my skin. Again.

As I step into the living room, I see my mom enter the room. She turns to me, her face a hardened mask. If she notices I was crying, she does not mention it. Instead, she looks at me and sneers.

“Bree, you can't go out looking like that,” she says. “It's not proper or ladylike.”

I'm in jeans and a sweater. Nothing fancy, but nothing grungy either. It's comfortable, but I know she doesn't dress for comfort. Especially when she's out and about in the public eye. And she holds me to the same standard. I don't say anything, but I was already planning to change.

“I know, Mom,” I sigh. “I'm going to change before I go meet Elizabeth, don't worry.”

“Good,” she says.

There's no emotion in her face at all. It's a completely blank mask. You think I'd be used to it by now – or would have at least outgrown worrying about it – but there's still a little girl inside of me who wants her mom to smile at her, cover her in kisses, and smother her in hugs. But, ever since the incident, as they refer to it, I've gotten little more than thinly-veiled contempt and disgust from my mother. From the entire family, in fact. To hear them tell it, my indiscretion has left an indelible stain of shame upon the family.

Maybe they should just make me wear a goddamn scarlet S for slut and be done with it.

“I really wish you would stop spending time with Elizabeth,” my mother says, her voice icy cold. “She's such a terrible influence.”

“Mom, she's the only friend I have.”

“Well, that's not my fault, dear,” she says, her voice dripping with condescension. “Now, is it?”

In a way, it is. Ever since I got pregnant with Owen, I've more or less been confined to this estate. Oh, sure, my parents swore it was for my own good – to keep the media from discovering my delicate condition. After all, we couldn't have the scandal of a teenage pregnancy tarnishing the Longstreet name, now could we? An unwed mother, pregnant with a stranger’s child? Scandalous. Ruinous. It would tear down everything my family has worked so hard to build.

Their thinking was that the only way to keep the hounds from attacking, was for me to stay behind closed doors while I was pregnant. To not be seen in public, and to keep everything a secret. The outside world doesn’t even know Owen exists. Nobody in Folson Forge outside the Longstreet family – and Elizabeth, of course – knew I had a child.

As much as I hated and loathed it at first, I had to grudgingly admit that it was for the best. I can’t bear the thought of Owen being a public spectacle. Folson Forge, like every other small town in this country, is a hotbed of rumor and gossip. People always know each other's business. And this is one piece of information I can't afford for anybody to know.

His father can definitely never know about him. His other family can't know he exists. Which means that Owen and I are prisoners here at the estate most of the time. I refused to tell my parents who the father was. Claiming that I'd been drunk and didn't know – better to be thought of as slut than to have the child of a Sheridan man.

Oh, Clyde knows, and frequently uses that knowledge to his benefit, as leverage against me. If I don't do as he says, he'll expose the truth and tell my folks who the father is. And honestly, as poorly as I've been treated since getting pregnant, if they find out Owen is a Sheridan, it will be ten times worse. A hundred.

I know if they find out who Owen's father is, I'll be kicked out with nothing to my name, and even worse, I know that they will try and keep me from my child.

I tell myself that it's not so bad. I'm living a very luxurious lifestyle compared to most people. I never go without. And now that Owen is a little bit older, I'm allowed out of the house more often – although he can never come with me. Which means I don't leave all that much, making it rather difficult to make friends. So, in a way, yes, this is my mother's fault.

I don't leave the house that often for one reason – I hate leaving my son alone with my family. I know the poison they will pour in his ear. I know that they care more about making him a proper Longstreet than a good or decent person. And I will not stand for that. So, if I have to sacrifice girl's night out, so be it. My son is the most important thing in the world to me.

But, now that we have Matilda – somebody I trust completely – I have a chance to get out and see my friend. Which is exactly what I am going to do today – whether my mother agrees with my choice of company or not.

I leave my mom alone in the living room and head upstairs to change. I might be comfortable in what I have on, but I so rarely have a reason to get dressed up and leave the house, I figure I may as well look nice. And not because I care about my family's reputation – I don't, really. At least, not anymore. I like to dress up because it makes me feel good.