Chapter 3

"Next time?" I finally found my voice. It was cold.

Jackson frowned, as if surprised by my tone.

"Yeah. Look, I know you're angry. But you've loved me since we were kids. You can't just turn that off."

The casual way he dismissed my feelings, our entire history.

It was like a switch flipped inside me.

The lingering hurt, the confusion, it all coalesced into a diamond-hard certainty.

He was not the boy I'd grown up with. Or perhaps he always was, and I'd been too blind to see.

I remembered our childhood. Playing house, I was always the bride.

He'd carved me a little wooden bird once. It was clumsy, imperfect, but I'd treasured it.

Then Brandy appeared.

Last Christmas, he'd given me a cheap, mass-produced music box. It played a tinny, off-key tune.

Later, I saw Brandy wearing a delicate, hand-carved rosewood comb in her hair. Jackson's handiwork was unmistakable. He'd told me he was too busy with "family business" to make gifts anymore.

At the Spring Gala, a crowd jostled me. I stumbled, my ankle twisting. Jackson hadn't even looked back. He'd been too busy shielding Brandy, guiding her through the throng.

All those little betrayals, I'd excused them. Explained them away.

No more.

"There will be no next time, Jackson," I said.

My voice was flat, devoid of the emotion that seethed beneath.

I stood up, my book falling unnoticed to the grass.

Later that day, I was in my old suite at the estate, sorting through boxes. Things Jackson had given me over the years. The cheap music box. A dried corsage. Old letters.

I found the little wooden bird. Its paint was chipped.

Jackson walked in without knocking.

He saw the bird in my hand. His chest puffed out.

"See? I knew it. Can't stop thinking about me, can you?"

He gestured to the boxes. "Going through our memories?"

I looked at the bird. Then I looked at him.

I dropped it. It hit the polished floorboards with a dull thud.

"I'm clearing out the trash, Jackson."

His face darkened. "What's your problem, Emilia? Why can't you be sweet, like Brandy?"

"I'm not Brandy."

"No, you're not," he snapped. Then his expression shifted, becoming sly. "But I came to give you something."

He pulled a small, velvet box from his pocket. Inside, a pair of emerald earrings.

They were beautiful. And I'd seen them before.

On Brandy. Last week, at a polo match. She'd complained they pinched her ears.

I felt a cold laugh escape me.

"I'm not desperate enough to wear Brandy's cast-offs, Jackson."

His face flushed an ugly red.

"Don't be like that! Brandy picked these out especially for you. She said the green would suit you. You're so ungrateful!"

He paused, then his voice turned righteous.

"And so what if she wore them? She's going to be the lady of the house. My wife. If she wants to give you something, you should be thankful."

The air crackled.

"She's not my concern," I said, my voice tight. "And you seem to forget, Jackson. I'm already married."

He scoffed, a harsh, disbelieving sound.

"Married? To who? Old Uncle Alexander? Don't make me laugh. He probably did it out of pity. Who else would want you after I left you at the altar?"

My blood ran cold. He knew. He knew the shame, the social ruin he'd condemned me to.

"You know," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "everyone assumes we were... intimate. After all those years. No one wants damaged goods, Emilia."

He straightened, his smugness returning.

"Anyway, I'm here about the ring. And some of the other family assets. The pre-nup stuff we discussed."

My engagement ring. A five-carat diamond from a historic Sterling collection.

"Brandy needs them," he said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. "She comes from nothing. These things will help her feel secure."

I just stared at him. The audacity. The sheer, unmitigated gall.

"You're not getting them," I said.