Chapter 7
Celia's POV
"You want to tank his IPO?"
"No," I said.
A cold smile pulled at the corner of my mouth.
"I'm going to do everything I can to help him get there."
"I think you hit your head harder than the doctors realized," she said.
I laughed in spite of myself.
I wasn't joking, though.
I was going to help Kent get his company to IPO. And on the day that bell rang, I was going to personally send him and Vanna straight to hell.
Three days later, the discharge paperwork took forty minutes.
Kent's assistant was waiting in the lobby with nine hundred and ninety-nine white roses arranged in a floor-to-ceiling glass installation that had apparently required two delivery vans and a facilities permit from hospital management. The card was tucked into a small envelope wired to the nearest stem, written in Kent's hand: Waiting for you to come home.
A photographer from Town & Country just happened to be in the lobby. The assistant made sure I saw her adjust the angle twice before she nodded at the lens.
Founders with picture-perfect marriages commanded better valuations. Kent knew that.
I read it once. Then I handed the envelope back to the assistant, tucked it into the outermost rose, and told him to take it with him.
"Mrs. Grant —"
"All of it," I said. "Thank you."
I walked out through the sliding doors ahead of him. The November air hit my face and I didn't stop moving. Behind me I could already hear the assistant on the phone, presumably explaining to someone that the gesture had not been received as intended. I didn't turn around to watch.
Martha was at the door when we arrived. She had her hands folded in front of her waist, the posture she used when she was waiting to deliver information she'd rather not deliver, and her eyes moved to the left — toward the living room — for just a fraction of a second before she brought them back to me.
I walked past her and into the apartment.
I stopped in the doorway of the living room and took it in. The Italian leather sofa I'd spent three weeks sourcing — the one in slate gray with the low profile and the clean lines that had finally made the room look like somewhere I actually wanted to be — was gone. In its place sat a modular sectional in ivory bouclé, plush and oversized and immediately recognizable as the aesthetic Vanna deployed across every inch of her Instagram grid.
The pendant light above the dining table was different. The kitchen, visible through the pass-through, had a new refrigerator — matte white, French door, the exact model that Vanna had announced as a brand partnership on her feed two months ago, the logo just visible enough to serve its purpose.
I stood there for three seconds and catalogued all of it.
Then I said to Martha, "I'm going upstairs," and went.
The door was ajar.
I stopped.
I always closed it.
I pushed it open slowly.
Ivy was sitting on the floor in the middle of my bedroom. In front of her, scattered across the carpet, were the contents of my mother's jewelry box.
Victorian enamel brooches. Edwardian sapphire earrings. A Burmese pigeon-blood ruby necklace.
Heirlooms. Pieces my mother had worn. Pieces she'd saved for me.
Ivy had a toy key chain in her hand—metal, with a sharp edge—and she was dragging it across the surface of one of the brooches. The enamel was already gouged. Deep scratches, white against the blue.
The earrings were stacked like blocks. The ruby necklace was wrapped around a doll's neck, tangled in synthetic hair.
The jewelry box itself sat open beside her, lock pried apart, the silk lining torn.
I couldn't move.
Vanna was sitting on the edge of my bed, scrolling through her phone. She glanced up when I came in. Saw me. Saw what Ivy was doing.
She didn't say a word. Just looked back down at her screen.
Something in me snapped.
"Ivy." My voice came out flat. Hard. "Put those down. Now."
Ivy looked up.
She didn't stop. She dragged the key chain across the brooch again, harder this time, and let out a high-pitched giggle.
"Ivy." I stepped forward. "Those aren't toys. Put them down."
She stared at me. Then, deliberately, she scratched the brooch one more time.
I crossed the room in three steps, bent down, and took the brooch out of her hand.
She froze.
I gathered the other pieces quickly—earrings, necklace, the torn lining—and held them against my chest. My hands were shaking.
"These belonged to my mother," I said, voice low. "You don't touch them."
Ivy's face crumpled. She let out a wail that could shatter glass.
"Mommy! She took my stuff! She's being mean!"
Vanna finally stood. She scooped Ivy up, cradling her like she'd been attacked.
"Celia," Vanna said softly, eyes glistening. "She's four. She didn't know."
"She knew."
"She's a child." Vanna's voice trembled. Victim mode, fully activated. "You didn't have to scare her like that."
I was about to respond when I heard footsteps in the hall.
Kent.
He pushed the door open, took one look at the scene—Vanna holding a sobbing Ivy, me standing there with a fistful of jewelry—and his face went dark.
"What the hell is going on?"
Ivy buried her face in Vanna's shoulder, crying louder.
Vanna looked at him, tears starting to roll. "Ivy was just playing in here, and Celia came in and yelled at her. She ripped the toys out of her hands—"
"They weren't toys," I cut in. "She was destroying my mother's jewelry."
Kent didn't even glance at the jewelry. He was staring at me like I'd committed a crime.
"So you screamed at a four-year-old?"
"I told her to stop."
"She's four, Celia. She doesn't understand what any of that stuff is worth."
"Then maybe someone should've been watching her."
Vanna's face was perfectly composed beneath the tears. "I didn't think she'd actually touch anything. I should've said something sooner. I'm sorry."
Still an apology, still deflecting blame, but consistent with her having been there the whole time — just choosing not to act.
Kent's expression softened when he looked at her. Then he turned back to me.
"She apologized. Let it go."
"Let it go?" My voice was too quiet. Dangerous. "Kent, look at the floor. The lock on the box is broken. The enamel on that brooch is ruined. This isn't a mistake."
"It's a child being curious." He stepped closer. His voice dropped. "You're overreacting."
"I'm overreacting."
"Yeah. You are."
"Why are they here?" I asked.
"I asked them to move in," Kent said. "Vanna's been going back and forth on the commute — Ivy's application is in at Dalton, and if she gets in, having a permanent address on the Upper East Side matters. It's easier to sort that out from here."
Ivy whimpered. Vanna whispered something soothing in her ear.
Kent looked at them. Looked at me.
"Apologize."
I didn't move. "No."
"Celia—"
"She destroyed my mother's jewelry, Kent. She's not getting an apology."
His face went hard. "You need to get a grip."
"I need to get a grip?"
"Yeah. You do." He stepped even closer, towering now. "I'm done with this attitude. You don't get to terrorize people in this house just because you're in a bad mood."
"This is my house—"
His hand came up fast.
