Chapter 4

Ella's POV

I dropped my head, blinking up through wet lashes, my voice small and beaten-down—the kind of voice that no longer dares to raise itself.

"Uncle Cole… I'm so sorry. I made a scene in front of you."

Uncle.

I put the word right where it would land.

Zoey's face changed.

The blood drained out of it, then flooded back in uneven, blotchy waves. Her hand was still up there, clutching that heel, knuckles locked until they shook. When she finally got something onto her face, it was uglier than crying.

"Cole… Mr. Westmore," she stammered, her throat bobbing like something was stuck in it. "How—why are you here…"

Cole didn't even glance at her.

He pushed the door open and stepped through, his gaze sliding past Zoey to settle on me, still bowed. It rested there a beat.

"Go see your grandfather," he said.

I swallowed the flutter in my chest and kept my face soft. "Yes. I'll take you, Uncle Cole. Grandfather will be so glad."

I reached past him and pulled the door open wider, stepping aside to play the obedient little guide, keeping my steps light and slow.

Zoey stumbled after us, one hand scrambling to smooth her hair, the other yanking her collar straight—as if that could scrub the screeching harpy from everyone's memory.

"Mr. Westmore, please, you have to understand—that woman just now, that wasn't me." Her voice climbed high and frayed. "I'm not usually like that. I never meant to smash a car—"

"It's all her fault." A sharp nail stabbed toward me. "She's the one chasing my brother around day and night, prying into everything, demanding to know every move he makes—she's unbearable. I was only giving her some friendly advice, reminding her to act like a proper fiancée…"

"Enough."

The word cut her off mid-syllable.

Cole still hadn't looked at her. His brow drew together, barely—the faint irritation of a man swatting at a fly—yet his voice kept that polished, gentlemanly edge.

"You're the Shaw girl? I don't know you."

The smile on Zoey's face froze, inch by inch.

Watching it was even better than watching her shriek.

My shoulders shook, and I ducked my head lower, terrified I'd slip and laugh out loud.

Cole turned. The moment he faced me, that icy distance in his eyes eased, softened by half—when his gaze came down on me, it was almost gentle.

"Keep up."

He said it to me. To me alone.

I lifted my head timidly and fell into small, quick steps behind him. As I passed Zoey, I let one corner of my mouth curl on purpose—just enough for her, and only her, to see.

Yeah. I was taunting her. That slap came with interest, and I was collecting the first installment.

Zoey's face twisted. She jabbed a finger at my back and screeched, "Ella! This is you! You did this on purpose—you made me humiliate myself in front of Mr. Westmore! You've been faking it this whole time! Faking weak, faking innocent—Mr. Westmore, don't let her fool you, she—"

She never finished. Ryan had already stepped in front of her, blocking her path—polite, but immovable.

Cut off where she stood, she stamped her foot, chest heaving, and could only watch Cole and me walk away side by side, unable to take a single step after us.

A few paces on, I caught that defeated look out of the corner of my eye. The grin almost broke loose again, and I quickly bowed my head and swallowed it.

In the sunniest room of the house, Grandfather was in his rocking chair, eyes glazed, drifting somewhere between sleep and waking.

Alzheimer's was hollowing him out, bit by bit. He often didn't recognize people—one minute he'd call your name, the next he'd mistake the person closest to him for a stranger. Sometimes he murmured to empty air, asking about things from decades ago. His lucid stretches were getting rarer, his foggier ones longer.

I crouched beside him and softened my voice. "Grandfather, this is Cole Westmore. He served with Dad, back in the army."

At the word Dad, my voice dropped on its own.

Something flickered in Grandfather's clouded eyes.

Army. Comrade. The words turned a key in some locked corner of his mind. He strained to turn his head, throat working, his hazy gaze struggling to focus on my face. Two slurred words came out.

"Is that… Ella?"

I dropped to his side and seized his thin hand, my eyes burning before I could stop them.

His hand squeezed mine back, hard. But then the fog rolled in again, his gaze going loose, and he looked up at me with a cheerful little smile. "Why hasn't your father come home yet?"

My hand went still.

No tears fell. I just leaned close to his ear and said softly, "Dad… Dad will be home soon. Look—his old comrade came all this way to see you. They served together, watched each other's backs over there. He says Dad's doing just fine."

Then I turned to Cole, eyes pleading, and gave the faintest shake of my head. Don't tell him. Don't say Dad is gone.

Cole looked at me a moment, then stepped half a pace closer to Grandfather, his voice low and steady. "That's right. James is doing well. He'll be home soon."

Grandfather brightened at once and gave my hand a little shake. "Then we'll wait for your father, and when he's home, we'll take you riding, Ella."

I smiled and pressed his hand to my cheek, murmuring yes. But the tears slipped down before I could stop them.

This time, they weren't for show.

Aside from Grandfather, nobody in Hartford treated me with anything real. Only in front of him could I set down every scheme and be, just once, a real granddaughter.

We talked a while longer, until the illness pulled him under and he sank into a deep sleep.

I closed the door behind me. Out in the garden corridor, I picked my words carefully.

"Uncle Cole… would you come see Grandfather more often, from now on? His memory keeps slipping, but he still holds onto everything about Dad. Could you tell him about the days you and Dad spent together—" I added one more line. "He loves those stories most of all."

Cole was quiet. Something in his eyes loosened for a heartbeat, then settled back.

It was a long moment before he answered.

"Fine."

I broke into a smile through the last of my tears—half triumph, half something genuinely grateful.

"Thank you so much, Uncle Cole."

He left.

I stood at the window, watching the black car pull away, inch by inch, until it was gone.

The pitiful, fragile look on my face drew off with it, little by little—like a mask peeling away.

Back in my room, I bolted the door.

The wine had been chilling all evening. I poured a glass, sank into the lounge chair, swirled the amber liquid, and lit a cigarette. Smoke curled slow and thin under the lamp; the wine went down cold and sharp.

I narrowed my eyes, and the corner of my mouth curved.

Who on earth would believe that this woman—and the Ella up on that auction block, who could do nothing but weep—were one and the same?

I picked up my phone and wired ten million dollars to the deckhand who'd let me slip aboard the yacht.

The message was short. Take the money and get out of the East Coast. If you breathe a word about what happened on the Hamilton, you won't live to see tomorrow.