Ficorpio
Chapter 1
I broke up with Adrian at seven twelve and Julian at seven nineteen, which left me forty-one minutes to become an heiress.
Efficient, when you thought about it.
I sat cross-legged in the middle of a bed large enough to require its own postal code, wearing a silk robe that probably cost more than my first car. Beyond the tall windows, the wooded grounds of Bennett House had gone blue with evening. Headlights moved along the private drive below, carrying guests toward the east entrance in a slow procession of black cars.
Inside, two phones lay on the white coverlet in front of me.
One was matte black, severe and expensive, with Adrian saved under the entirely accurate name Six-Two, Silent, Mean, and Very Good in Bed.
The other wore a pale gold case and held Julian under Generous Ex-Sponsor, Apparently Getting Engaged.
Neither contact label reflected well on me.
In my defense, both were informative.
A knock sounded at the bedroom door.
“Thirty-five minutes, Miss Bennett,” someone called.
“Plenty of time.”
It was not plenty of time. Three people had spent the afternoon painting, curling, pinning, steaming, and moisturizing me into something the Bennett family could unveil beneath a chandelier. My hair was finished, my makeup was finished, and my nerves had been professionally concealed under enough illuminating serum to signal aircraft.
Only the dress remained.
And the men.
I picked up the black phone.
Adrian’s last message waited on the screen.
Dinner. Tomorrow. Eight.
No question mark. Adrian did not ask questions when he believed the answer belonged to him.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Six weeks ago, that tone had made heat gather low in my stomach. Three weeks ago, it had made me roll my eyes while choosing what to wear. Tonight it felt like a hand around the future I had only just discovered was mine.
That was dramatic. I was allowed to be dramatic. In less than an hour, Richard Bennett would stand before several hundred people and tell them I was his biological daughter, stolen from one life and restored to another. There would be photographers, champagne, and the kind of diamonds that traveled with security.
I had acquired parents, a dynasty, and a terrifying number of dessert forks.
Surely that meant I no longer needed a man who transferred money without being asked, chose restaurants without consulting me, and looked at me as if every lie I told was merely delaying his inevitable victory.
You wanted freedom. This was freedom.
I typed quickly, because good judgment became more dangerous the longer I gave it to develop.
Adrian, darling. Tiny change of plans: I’m leaving for Milan. Fashion, art, spiritual renewal, possibly an Italian count. Our arrangement has been fun, but all beautiful things must end before they become tax complications. Don’t wait for me. Try to smile occasionally. It unsettles people less. Goodbye.
I read it twice.
The Italian count was excessive.
I left him in.
Chapter 2
My pulse beat hard enough to blur the little blue arrow. I pressed send.
Delivered.
For one second, I saw Adrian as clearly as if he were standing at the foot of the bed: dark suit, unreadable face, one hand in his pocket. He never raised his voice. He did not need to. Silence did the work for him, especially when his attention settled on me with that unnerving combination of patience and possession.
My body remembered him before my pride could intervene. The weight of his palm at my waist. His mouth close to my ear. The quiet way he said my name when he knew I was pretending not to want him.
I coughed, though no one was there to appreciate the performance.
“Sentimental bronchitis,” I informed the room.
Three dots appeared beneath his name.
Absolutely not.
I blocked him before the reply arrived, powered off the phone, and shoved it beneath a decorative pillow embroidered with the Bennett crest.
There. Adrian had ceased to exist.
The house did not shake. No windows shattered. Somewhere downstairs, a string quartet continued tuning with complete indifference to my courage.
I reached for the gold phone.
Julian required a different approach. Adrian would hear a joke and look for the fear under it. Julian would hear a joke and remember when I had first learned to use one against him.
His last message was four days old.
We need to talk before Friday.
That had arrived shortly after I heard he was apparently getting engaged. Not from him, naturally. Men who financed entire portions of your life sometimes became surprisingly economical with relevant facts.
Julian and I had history from before the transfers, before the hotel suites, before I learned that expensive gifts could feel both like safety and a debt no invoice ever named. College had made us foolish. Time had made us careful. Money had made everything harder to describe.
I should have called him.
I should also have told both men about each other months ago, so clearly we were not measuring my behavior against an ideal standard tonight.
I opened a new message.
Julian, I’ve decided to move to Georgia. The state, not the country. I plan to buy a porch, grow peaches, and become emotionally stable. Since you’re getting engaged and I’m pursuing agriculture, I think our arrangement has reached its natural conclusion. Thank you for everything. Truly. Goodbye.
The gratitude looked too naked on the screen.
I almost deleted it.
Instead, I sent the message.
Delivered.
Chapter 3
My relief came differently this time. Adrian’s absence felt like stepping away from a ledge and realizing I missed the height. Julian’s felt like closing a door on a room where an earlier version of me still lived.
A reply began forming immediately.
Chloe—
That was all the notification showed before I blocked him.
I turned off the gold phone and placed it beside the black one under the pillow. Two secret relationships, neatly buried beneath heraldic needlework. If the Bennetts ever needed a new family motto, I had suggestions.
My bedroom door opened without another knock.
Mom stood on the threshold in a gown the color of winter moonlight, one hand resting against the doorframe. Her gaze moved from my bare feet to the robe to the suspiciously overstuffed pillow.
“What have you done?”
It was impressive how quickly she was learning me.
“Emotionally or logistically?”
“Chloe.”
“I was centering myself.”
“With two phones?”
I slid off the bed and smiled. “Very centered.”
She looked unconvinced, but the schedule outranked maternal interrogation. “East Dressing Suite. Now.”
The East Dressing Suite occupied the corner of Bennett House where ordinary families might have kept three bedrooms and a hall closet. Mirrors rose between silk-paneled walls. Light spilled from a crystal fixture onto garment racks, velvet benches, and a dressing table covered with jewelry trays.
My gown waited on a headless form near the windows.
It was deep green silk, cut close through the waist before falling in a clean sweep to the floor. No froth, no childish sparkle. The neckline was elegant enough for the Bennett heiress and low enough to remind the Bennett board that their heiress was an adult.
“Beautiful,” I said.
“Appropriate,” Mom corrected.
In Eleanor Bennett’s language, that was higher praise.
Vanessa stood beside the jewelry table in silver, polished from the smooth twist of her hair to the pointed toes of her shoes. She had spent years looking as if she belonged in these rooms because, of course, she did. Biology had not chosen her, but Bennett House had shaped itself around her habits. Staff knew how she took her coffee. The horses knew her voice. Family photographs had recorded every birthday I had missed.
Tonight, she was still a Bennett daughter.
I was simply the biological heiress arriving late to my own life.
Vanessa lifted a diamond bracelet from its tray. “This one. The emeralds fight with the dress.”
Mom considered it. “She’s right.”
“I hear that happens occasionally,” I said.
Vanessa’s smile was gracious enough for cameras. “Hold out your wrist.”