Victoria's apartment wraps around me like something safe. Warm lighting. Soft jazz playing from somewhere I can't see. The scent of roasted chicken drifting from the kitchen while Manhattan glitters through floor-to-ceiling windows.
For the first time in days, I can breathe.
"Mike's traveling again." Victoria sets a glass of sparkling water in front of me, her silver hair catching the candlelight. "Business in Singapore. Or was it Tokyo? I've stopped keeping track."
"And Violet?" I accepted the glass, grateful she didn't push the Burgundy after all. My excuse about antibiotics for a sinus infection rolled off my tongue too easily.
"Out." Victoria sighs, settling into the chair across from me. "Predictably. That girl treats curfews like suggestions and responsibility like a disease she's trying to avoid."
I watch her face. The exhaustion underneath the elegance. The love tangled up with frustration.
"You were never such trouble, Adison." She shakes her head slowly, something almost wistful in her expression. "Even as a teenager. Always composed. Always proper. Richard used to brag about it at every dinner party."
The compliment lands wrong. Hollow in ways she can't know.
"That wasn't virtue." I set down my water glass, watching the condensation pool on the table. "That was control. My father allowed nothing else."
Victoria's eyes soften. Real sympathy there—not the performed kind I've endured at board meetings and charity functions. This is genuine.
"I know, darling." Her voice drops. "I knew Richard for thirty years. Loved him like a brother. But I wasn't blind to his methods."
Something loosens in my chest. This uncomplicated kindness. This acknowledgment without an agenda. I'm grateful for it in ways I can't articulate.
"Tell me about Walter." I change the subject, needing lighter territory. "We've barely spoken since we were teens."
"Walter." Victoria's face transforms. Pride and something softer—maternal worry, maybe. "Reserved. Brilliant. Works for Mike now, though he insisted on his own apartment. Refused to live under our roof past twenty."
She tilts her head, studying me with those sharp eyes.
"Similar to you, actually. That same fierce independence. That same refusal to be managed."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know if it's a compliment or observation or warning.
Victoria rises, moving toward the dining room where dinner waits. I follow, grateful for the movement.
We settle at the table—beautiful china, perfectly arranged, everything exactly right. Victoria serves portions while continuing to talk.
"Speaking of independence." She sets the plate in front of me, steam rising from roasted vegetables. "I finally cashed in on that ranch weekend I won at auction."
My chest tightens. I reach for my fork, keeping my expression neutral through sheer force of will.
"I called Jake Sullivan myself to arrange it." Victoria settles back in her chair, watching me in that careful way she has. "Lovely man. Very accommodating."
The fork feels heavy in my hand. I push a piece of chicken across my plate without eating it.
"Is there something you'd like to tell me, Adison?" Victoria's voice is gentle. Probing. "Are you still in contact with Jake?"
"Why would you ask that?" The deflection sounds weak even to my ears.
"Because he wasn't at Richard's funeral." She raises one elegant eyebrow. "Your father's oldest friend. Years of history between them. And he didn't come."
My mind scrambles for the lie. Finds it. Delivers it with the practiced ease of someone raised to perform.
"He couldn't leave the ranch." The words taste like ash. "This time of year, the work is constant. He sent his condolences."
Victoria studies me for a long moment. I can't tell if she believes me.
"Well." She lifts her wine glass, swirling the contents. "I'm sending Violet anyway. Her and her friend Paige. Two weeks on the ranch."
"Two weeks?" The surprise is genuine.
"Richard's idea, originally. Years ago." Victoria's smile turns nostalgic. "He used to say the ranch transformed you. Gave you perspective. Helped you find yourself." She pauses, something hopeful crossing her features. "I'm hoping it does the same for Violet. God knows she needs it."
The irony cuts deep. Richard's gesture—the exile meant as punishment—reshaped into a gift. A transformation Victoria wants to replicate.
"I paid Jake extra for the trouble." Victoria continues, oblivious to the storm building in my chest. "Teenagers aren't easy. But he agreed. Said he understood the value of fresh starts."
My fork goes still.
Why would he agree? The question circles my mind like something with teeth. Jake resented my presence those first weeks. Resented how I reminded him of Elena—her face in mine, her ghost in every room.
Why would he volunteer to host another Manhattan socialite's daughter? To relive that particular complication?
Unless something has changed. Unless he's trying to reach me through channels I can't ignore.
"Adison." Victoria's voice pulls me back. Her expression has shifted—concern now, genuine and maternal. "You've barely touched your food."
I look down. The plate sits nearly untouched. Chicken going cold. Vegetables pushed into patterns that reveal more than I intended.
"And you're pale." She leans forward, studying my face with renewed intensity. "Are you feeling alright?"
"Just tired." The excuse comes automatically. "The last few weeks have been—"
"Exhausting." Victoria finishes for me. Understanding softens her features. "Of course they have. You've been carrying everything alone."
She reaches across the table, squeezing my hand.
"Perhaps you should visit the ranch too." Her voice is gentle. Suggestive. "Rest somewhere quiet. Away from Manhattan and board meetings and everything demanding pieces of you."
The suggestion sounds very tempting.
The ranch. Jake. The pregnancy I haven't told anyone about. The life growing inside me while he exists a thousand miles away, ignorant of everything.
"Maybe." I manage the word through a throat that's suddenly too tight. "I'll think about it."
We finish dinner with lighter conversation. I survive dessert by claiming fullness. Victoria doesn't push, though her worried glances multiply as the evening progresses.
The car takes me home through Manhattan streets that blur past like something underwater. I lean my head against the window and try not to think about anything at all.
My apartment is dark when I enter. Silent. I drop my keys on the counter and move toward the bedroom without turning on the lights.
My phone buzzes.
Jake's name glows on the screen, and my whole body goes still.
An incoming call. His face—the photo from better days—staring up at me with questions I'm not ready to answer.
I let it ring. Watch the screen until it goes dark.
Then the message arrives. Words that settle into my chest like something permanent.
You can't ignore me forever.
He's right. I know he's right.
But tonight, I can't face what that means. Can't process what I'm carrying, what I'm hiding, what I've destroyed by sending him away.
I collapse onto the bed without changing. Still dressed. Still hollow. The ceiling stares back, blank and unhelpful.
Sleep takes me before the nausea can rise again. Small mercy. The only one I've earned.
Tomorrow, I'll have to face everything. The pregnancy. Jake. The impossible decisions waiting in every direction.
But tonight, I let the darkness win.