Chapter 2

The city was quiet at this hour.

Not silent. New York was never truly silent but at close to one in the morning the roads had thinned out enough that I could drive without thinking, just headlights and dark tarmac and the hum of the engine filling the space where my thoughts were trying to form.

I didn't let them.

Not yet.

I took the long way not because I planned to, just because my hands kept turning the wheel before my brain could catch up, and somehow the long way felt safer than arriving too quickly at the only place I had left to go.

The apartment was on the fourth floor of a quiet building in downtown, an hour from the estate.

Small and cean. Two rooms and a kitchen and a narrow balcony that looked out over a row of trees. My mother had bought it six years ago without telling Felix, without telling anyone, and when she died it transferred to me privately through a clause in a separate document that Wyatt Evans had never seen and therefore never touched.

I had never brought Arthur here.

I had never told Samantha it existed.

This was the one place in my life that belonged to nobody but me.

I let myself in, and the smell hit me first.

It was faint, floral and a little woody. My mother's reed diffuser still sat on the shelf near the entrance, the same one she had placed there when she first set up the apartment, and I had never changed it because changing it felt like admitting she was gone in a way I still wasn't ready for.

I stood in the doorway for a moment just breathing it in.

Then I closed the door behind me, dropped my purse on the floor, and didn't bother with all the lights.

Just the small lamp in the corner. Just enough to see by.

I sat on the floor with my back against the sofa and I let the night catch up with me.

My phone had been buzzing on and off since I left the estate.

I pulled it out and looked at the screen without picking up.

Twenty-three missed calls.

Arthur. Arthur. Samantha. Felicity.I turned it face down on the floor beside me and stared at the ceiling.

Seven months.

That was the number I kept coming back to. Not the pregnancy, not the dress in the window, not even the look on Felix's face when he told me the guest rooms were available. Seven months was the thing that wouldn't leave me alone.

Seven months ago I had been at a bridal boutique with a glass of prosecco in my hand, standing in front of a mirror in a dress that made me feel like the most beautiful version of myself I had ever seen. I had cried a little. The attendant had handed me a tissue and said that's how you know it's the one.

And somewhere across the city, Arthur had been with Samantha.

I started going back through it. Slow and careful.

The way Arthur used to flinch sometimes when Samantha's name came up in conversation, and the way Samantha had volunteered to help with wedding planning. She had never shown any interest in being helpful before, but she had shown up to two venue tastings and one florist appointment with a smile I now understood completely.

The dress fitting.

She had come to my dress fitting.

She told me she wanted to see it, that she was excited for me, that it was a sister thing. I had let her sit in the little velvet chair in the corner while I stood on the platform and the seamstress worked around the hem.

She had sat there and watched.

And I had thought she was being kind.

You were so stupid, a voice said inside my head. You saw what you wanted to see. You always do.

I don't know how long I sat there before I got up and went to the kitchen.

I wasn't hungry. I filled a glass of water and stood at the counter drinking it slowly, looking around the small space. My mother had decorated it simply. A wooden table. Two chairs. Open shelving with a few books and a small ceramic bowl she had bought from a market somewhere. Nothing expensive like the estate. It felt like a room she had furnished for herself, not for impressing anyone.

I set the glass down and opened the drawer beside the sink. The one I always opened when I came here, even if I didn't need anything from it. Force of habit.There was the usual small clutter. A pen. A folded receipt. A box of matches.

And a photograph.

I picked it up.

My mother. Beverley White, laughing with her whole face, the kind of laugh that made her eyes disappear. She was holding a little girl on her hip, a child maybe three or four years old with two uneven pigtails and both arms wrapped tight around Beverley's neck.

Me.

I turned it over.

In my mother's handwriting, the same looping careful script I had grown up watching sign documents and birthday cards and the occasional letter she would leave on my pillow when she traveled:

Little Star.

That was all.

Just that.

I stood at that kitchen counter for a long time, holding a photograph of a woman who had been dead for nine years, and I let myself feel it. All of it. Not just tonight. All of it. Every year of growing up in a house where her absence had been gradually replaced with Selena's presence. Every dinner where Felix looked past me. Every moment I had made myself smaller and quieter and easier, trying to fill the space she had left in a way that might finally make him see me.

She had called me Little Star.

She used to say it like it was just what I was.

I had not been anyone's star in a very long time.

I went back to the sitting room and lowered myself onto the floor again.

My phone screen lit up. I looked at it automatically.

Arthur: Daisy please pick up. We need to talk about this properly.

I put it face down again.

There was nothing Arthur could say now that I wanted to hear. Not a single word. Not an explanation, not an apology, not even a goodbye. Every version of that conversation ended the same way, with me absorbing something that was his fault and finding a way to be understanding about it, and I was done being understanding.

I watched the little lamp flicker once, twice, and then hold steady.I looked at the clock on the wall.

It was one in the morning.

Today was my twenty-fifth birthday.

The day that was supposed to be the beginning of everything. The wedding, the marriage, the life I had been building brick by careful brick for five years. I had imagined waking up tomorrow with butterflies. I had imagined my hands shaking as the stylist did my hair. I had imagined standing at the top of that aisle and seeing Arthur's face when he turned around and I had even, privately, foolishly, imagined my father watching me walk toward him and feeling something close to pride.

Instead I was sitting on the floor of a secret apartment at one in the morning in my wedding robe with nowhere to go and nobody to call.

I had no plan.

No next step.

No person who knew where I was.

And the strange thing, the thing that surprised me more than anything else tonight, was that it didn't feel the way I expected it to feel.

It didn't feel like drowning.

It felt like standing very still in a room after all the noise has finally stopped.

Okay, I thought. So this is where we are.

What are you going to do about it?

I didn't have an answer yet.

But for the first time in five years, the question felt like mine to answer, not anyone else’s.

And something about that, something about sitting in the only space they had never touched, breathing my mother's perfume, holding her handwriting in my hands, made some sort of hope bloom underneath all the pain.My phone buzzed again.

I almost left it.

I had gotten very good at almost in the past few hours. Almost crying. Almost screaming. Almost letting the whole weight of tonight flatten me.

But something made me reach for it this time.

The screen showed a message from a number I didn't recognize.

I sat up straighter.

I opened it.

Happy birthday, Daisy. Your mother asked me to contact you today. Please don't ignore this.

I read it twice.

Then a third time.

My mother had been dead for six years.

My fingers hovered over the screen with my heart racing.

Who is this? I typed.

The reply came in less than thirty seconds.

My name is Noah Bennett. I was Beverley White's private legal counsel. She made me promise to reach out to you on your twenty-fifth birthday. I have been waiting a long time to keep that promise.

I stared at those words.

My mother had a private lawyer. A lawyer nobody in that house had ever mentioned. A lawyer who had been waiting six years to send me a message on this exact day.

My hands were not steady anymore.

What do you want? I typed.

Another thirty seconds. Then:

Beverley didn't just leave you an apartment, Daisy.

She left you the company.