“Measles, Ms. Sands?”

I look up to see him leaning against the doorframe. I’m sitting on my bed, a pillow clutched to my chest. Time is an insubstantial concept right now. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, or how long he’s been standing there.

He’s wearing the same clothes from breakfast. Low slung, faded jeans and flip-flops. A black t-shirt that I know is very soft—my hands were on it just hours ago.

“You slept with my sister.”

The only change in his expression is an infinitesimal tightening of his lips. “I see.”

When I realize he’s not going to say more, pain radiates down my left arm. I’m not having a heart attack (I know), but am nevertheless convinced a few years have been shaved off my life.

I swallow hard. “So?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “So, what?”

Pins and needles everywhere. Cutting, slicing. “Are you trying to make me angry?”

His eyes, already hard, turn flinty. “Funny, because I was about to ask you the same thing.”

My fingers clench on the pillow. I keep my voice even with effort, “You honestly thought I wouldn’t care? That it wouldn’t bother me?”

“I’ve already told you I’m not accustomed to explaining myself to women. Why the fuck would I tell you something that would not only cause you pain but severely limit the possibility of having you in my bed?”

“You’re a pig,” I spit out.

The muscles in his shoulders bunch as he pushes away from the doorframe. I know—know—that he would never hurt me, but I flinch all the same. He sees the movement and abruptly stills, his expression hardening. His body vibrates almost visibly—lethal and furious. Slowly, he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Should I have typed up a list of my past lovers for you?” he asks darkly. “It’s long. But I think you already knew that.”

My breathing turns harsh. “When, Alex?”

“When, what? When did I lose my virginity? Fourteen.”

“God,” I gasp. “No. When did you sleep with my sister?”

“Let me ask you a question, Thea, and I want you to think hard before you answer.” There’s a strange quality in his voice, one I’ve never heard before. “Does. It. Matter?”

“Does it matter?” I echo shrilly. “Are you crazy? Of course it fucking matters!”

He stalks toward me, a predator with darkness in his eyes. I scramble backward, coming to my knees on the opposite side of the bed. “Alex,” I whisper, but he keeps coming. He climbs onto the bed and crawls to me. Sinuous and graceful, slow and measured—he gives me every opportunity to run but I can’t.

God help me, I still want him.

He seizes my thigh and yanks my legs out from under me. My back hits the comforter. With the confidence of long practice, he pushes my legs apart and settles between them. His forearms come down on my biceps, not heavily, but effectively locking my arms to the mattress.

Fingers sink into my hair and clench. My breasts swell against the wall of his chest, nipples aching and tight. I whimper, needing… needing. His lips curve, but there’s nothing in his eyes I recognize.

Slowly, his rolls his hips, applying expert friction. A cry is wrenched from my throat.

“Do you think I can make you come like this, Ms. Sands?” he murmurs. He thrusts again and I know the answer is yes. I’m already close to climaxing.

His mouth dips, teasing along mine. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes,” I whisper, straining upward, trying to capture his lips.

Denying me, he lifts his head; his eyes are so dark they look black. “If this is all you want, then it shouldn’t matter that I fucked your sister.”

My muscles spasm and lock. “What the hell does that mean?” I bite out.

“You’re a smart woman. Figure it out.”

I can’t move, can’t breathe. I feel sick to my stomach. Alex and Tabitha. Tabitha and Alex. They would be beautiful together: dark and light, his strength and her softness.

The desire in me turns sideways, becomes twisted and revolting. “Fuck you,” I hiss. “Get off me.”

A humorless smile cuts his face like a blade. “That’s what I thought,” he says, and then he’s gone. Off the bed. Striding toward the door.

“Alex!”

He pauses but doesn’t turn. “What?”

“Why?” I ask, and my voice is pitiful in my ears.

I see his profile—tight jaw and thinned lips. “I am who I am.”

“Were you ever going to tell me?” I whisper.

He strides to the door and pauses again, fingers gripping the wooden frame. “If your sister says I slept with her, I probably did. But I have no idea who she is.” He laughs, bitter and low. “I certainly never knew her last name.”

He glances over his shoulder, gaze cold and distant. A thousand miles of ice. “This game between us is over. I’m tired of playing.”

“Alex,” I whisper.

But he’s gone.

* * *

I realize it’s impolite to refer to mental health professionals as shrinks, but in all honesty, the varying ‘-ists’ have always confounded me. Psychologists, psychotherapists, psychiatrists, various specialized therapists… In a few short months (long ago), I saw one of each. And so, to avoid using the improper ‘-ist’—which would really be unseemly—I took to painting the field with a wide brush. Hence, shrinks.

I saw my first shrink at fourteen years old.

It was around this time that, having found warped fraternity with a book on Native Americans, I ceased looking people in the eye. My new quirk, however, wasn’t what prompted the appointment. Lack of eye contact with my mother was already a long-established, unrelated habit.

In her estimation, nothing was amiss with her middle child. My development, albeit not as socially rewarding as Tabitha or Oliver’s, was nevertheless proceeding according to plan. The suggestion that I might benefit from clinical help came from a friend of hers.

I’m sure the only reason my mother didn’t have a heart attack on the spot was due to our presence at a garden party. The recommendation wasn’t from just any friend, either, but the esteemed hostess of said garden party, Lady Margaret White.

The origins of the epithet are either vague or outright speculatory: she had an affair with a prince in her youth, or my personal favorite, she’s the illegitimate daughter of a duke. What I do know is that in the late seventies, Margaret, her Old Money inheritance, and her surgeon husband relocated to California from Philadelphia.

Blue-blooded or not, I can’t imagine anyone more deserving of being called Lady than Margaret White.

Between the ages of ten and fourteen, I was largely dismissed by my peers due to my preference for discussing literature over fashion and boys. In the greater social arena, where my mother often required her children as accessories, I was overlooked for a different reason. Awkward with my height and painfully shy, I’d been little more than a dark-haired shadow behind the flaxen beauties of Katherine and Tabitha Sands.

Lady Margaret White was the first—the only—mature woman to take a special interest in me. At her annual spring party in May of my fourteenth year, she invited me for a walk through her celebrated gardens. Leaving the chitter of social flocks behind, we meandered among blooming lilac shrubs, iris stalks, and beds of cheery daffodils.

Only when assured of privacy did Lady Margaret speak. She asked how I was feeling. My response alarmed her enough that she approached my mother.

In the following years, as Lady Margaret and I enjoyed a private ritual of Saturday afternoon tea, we often reflected on my answer to her innocent question. Both grateful, I think, in our own ways. For although none of the well-meaning ‘-ists’ impacted me much, my muttered words that day signified the beginning of the most significant mentorship of my youth. From fourteen until I left for college at eighteen, I didn’t miss a single Saturday tea with the Lady.

What I said when asked how I was feeling: “‘The world is a dream, you say, and it’s lovely, sometimes. Sunset. Clouds. Sky.’”

(Chapter Eleven, Illusions.)

* * *

Monday morning, I shower and dress for work, force down some orange juice, and head out. My first stop is the Apple store for a new phone. The technician works his magic, setting up a new device and restoring my old content. All the while, he eyes me askance with one part concern two parts curiosity. It’s deserved. The phone clearly suffered before death and I’m wearing sunglasses indoors.

After a quick text to Matthew letting him know I’m behind schedule, I stop at a locally owned coffee shop. There, at least, wearing sunglasses indoors is a common statement.

I’m on the road again before nine-thirty and make it all the way to Little Italy before remembering I’m supposed to be at Hemlock for meeting with Alex and the flooring installer.

I almost start crying. Almost.

Instead, I sit in my car outside the office and drink my four shots of espresso with cream. Two fitful hours of sleep act as a foggy buffer between my head and heart. There will be time later to explore the strange ache in my chest; for now, I caffeinate and listen with half an ear to NPR.

When I hear the name Margaret White, I’m so startled that espresso sloshes out of my travel mug. I quickly wipe my hand on a napkin and turn up the volume, just in time for a sponsored break. I wait for the story with a wistful smile, wondering what charity work has earned her the spotlight this time.

I decide it’s been far too long since we had tea. I will call her. (In thirty-four more days.)

“Esteemed philanthropist and society matron, Margaret White, passed away this morning at her home in La Jolla, California. Known to many as simply Lady Margaret—”

I wrench the volume to mute.

“No,” I whisper. “No, no. No.”

My fingers are heavy, numb. It takes me three tries to pull up my mother’s phone number.

She answers on the second ring: “Dear, I was just about to call you.”

The genuine compassion in her tone tightens a vise around my neck. There’s no mistake. Margaret must be dead. Dark spots dance on the edges of my vision.

“What—what happened?” I ask hoarsely.

“A stroke, I believe, though the final cause of death hasn’t been released. I know you were very close, Althea. Is there anything I can do for you?”

She hasn’t called me Althea in twenty years. But instead of sending me further over the edge of despair, hearing it instantaneously erects my most stalwart defenses. Trenches. Razor wire. Boiling tar.

“Please inform me of the funeral arrangements,” I say rigidly.

“Of course,” she says softly.

“Thank you, mother.”

I hang up and stare at the contacts in my phone. Margaret is listed directly above Mother, which I’d always thought fitting. I thumb down the screen, seeing names—so many names—but no one I can call.

Oliver will be in meetings. Lillian is sleeping, though I know she would defy the early hour for this news. But as my finger hovers over her name, I hesitate. I’m not sure where we stand after last night. She’s put up with a lot—too much—from me in the last week. I feel guilty and ashamed.

Margaret is gone.

And I have no one to call.

My abrupt and mirthless laugh is shocking in the quiet confines of the car.

* * *

It takes me twenty minutes, but I eventually pull myself together and drive to Hemlock. I have my mother to thank for my dry eyes—her accidental usage of my given name was a numbing tonic. I plan to milk it, every last drop, for as long as I can.

The facade of Hemlock is still concealed by wooden barricades. As I near the construction entrance, I hear the whine of drills and rhythmic pounding. Jim Stevens and his crew have been working ungodly long hours to bring the progress up to speed. On Friday, I’d been amazed to see a good portion of the drywall installed.

I duck beneath the plastic sheeting and tuck sunglasses into my blouse. For a moment, I forget the devastation of my personal narrative. The entryway is primed and ready for its first coat of paint. A professional thrill shivers down my spine.

“You’re late.”

Alex is leaning against an adjacent wall, ankles crossed and eyes on his phone. He looks crisp and beautiful in a dark suit—like he slept peacefully and deep.

Depraved humor curves my lips at the evidence of his superiority. He is by far the better socialite. He doesn’t need armor. He’s steel through and through.

I clear my throat. “Are they gone?”

“Yes.” He glances up from his phone and abruptly stills. Oceanic eyes narrow. “What’s wrong?”

No. Impossible. There’s razor wire!

I take a step backward and fumble with my sunglasses, finally getting them on my face. “I’ll follow up with flooring from the office,” I say briskly. “I assume they’re ready for install at the end of the week?”

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he says tightly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just tired. Have a good—”

“Don’t lie to me, Ms. Sands.”

I cease pretending and expel low, perverse laughter. “We aren’t playing this game anymore, remember? I work for you, Mr. Hughes. We’re not friends. We’re not—” I bite back the word lovers. “We’re nothing.”

He crosses the space with long strides. Powerful. Graceful. Mesmerizing. Before I can snap out of my daze, his fingers curl around my shoulder. The sunglasses are removed from my face. Exposing me to his volatile eyes.

It’s too much. Everything is too much.

Something inside me snaps.

“What the fuck is your problem?” I hiss. “It’s not enough that last night happened? You have to rub it in my face today? You’re a domineering prick, Alex, but you’ve never been cruel before.”

“It’s not that,” he says softly, urgently. “Something else is wrong. Just tell me.”

Numbness is gone. No trenches. No pikemen to keep him away. He’s a motherfucking hurricane, after all. I close my eyes, utterly spent and emotionally bankrupt. Am I dreaming? This must be a nightmare.

“Thea,” he barks.

“Goddamnit!” I have no leverage, so my punch to his chest has the inertia of a thrown cotton ball. “Nothing happened. Death happened. Bad poetry. It’s the way of the world. What the fuck do you want from me?” The last comes out in a strangled yell.

My face is in his warm, elegant hands. Thumbs brush the wetness beneath my lashes. Golden flecks dance in his Pacific eyes.

“Everything,” he whispers. “I want everything.”

His lips skim my forehead, my temple, my cheek. They graze and finally settle against my mouth. Hot to cold, soft to rigid. His kiss is the desert sun, gleefully tearing through feeble layers of fog. My mouth opens on a gasp, softening.

Alex makes a low noise. Hands slide around my waist. Arms tuck beneath mine. He pulls me up and close, so gently, like I’m made of glass and will shatter. I just might.

His soft lips continue to caress mine, teasing them into pliancy. Desire is a slow burn. A summer thunderstorm. When I kiss him back, he makes a sound and tightens his arms. Please. Please. But he doesn't deepen the kiss; instead, his head lifts. Touching his forehead to mine, he whispers my name.

As ever, he is in control of the situation and himself. The knowledge hurts with a deep, pervasive ache.

Everything. I want everything.

He already has it.

“Tell me what happened,” he murmurs.

“A friend died this morning,” I whisper. “A woman… she was like a mother to me.”

He takes a short breath. “I’m so sorry.”

“I have to go,” I say, but don’t move. I’m standing in a hurricane, but safe in the eye of the storm.

“Let me take you home, Thea.”

“Okay.”