Chapter 12: The Matriarch's Judgement
The black Range Rover crunched to a halt on the white shell driveway. Stephanie’s door was opened by a silent, imposing man who simply nodded. The air was different here—thick, warm, and heavy with the scent of blooming jasmine and salt. Beyond the sprawling, whitewashed mansion, the Caribbean Sea stretched to the horizon, a breathtaking canvas of turquoise and deep navy.
Veronica came around the vehicle, her hand finding the small of Stephanie’s back. “Breathe, chouchou,” she murmured, the term of endearment soft in her throat. “She doesn’t actually bite.”
“Liar,” Stephanie whispered back, her voice trembling only slightly.
They walked through an archway dripping with bougainvillea. On the vast, shaded veranda, a woman sat in a high-backed wicker throne. Reyna Barlowe. She wasn’t just sitting; she was holding court, her posture so straight it seemed to defy gravity. She wore a simple, elegant dress the color of crushed raspberries, and her hands, resting on the arms of the chair, were adorned with several heavy, gold rings. Her hair was a magnificent cloud of silver-flecked curls, and her eyes, the same sharp, perceptive green as her daughter’s, tracked their every step.
Veronica’s grip on Stephanie’s wrist tightened almost imperceptibly as they approached.
Reyna’s gaze was a physical weight. It swept over Stephanie’s trembling fingers, lingered on Veronica’s protective stance, and seemed to catalog the faint, musky scent of sex and expensive perfume that still clung to them both from the jet. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips.
“So,” Reyna began, her voice a low, rich purr, like aged rum over gravel. “You’re the girl making my daughter forget her responsibilities.” She gestured with one ringed hand to the empty seat beside her. “Sit. Let’s see if you’re worth her rebellion.”
Stephanie’s heart hammered against her ribs. She felt stripped bare, every one of her secrets and insecurities laid open under that unblinking stare. She forced her legs to move, lowering herself into the indicated chair. The cane creaked under her weight.
“Mama, be nice,” Veronica said, her tone a blend of warning and weary familiarity as she took the seat on Stephanie’s other side.
“I am always nice,” Reyna countered, her eyes never leaving Stephanie. “Nice is boring. I am interested. Stephanie, is it? The French heiress turned numbers wizard. You have caused quite a stir.”
“I did not mean to,” Stephanie managed, her accent thickening under the pressure.
“The best storms are never planned,” Reyna replied. She lifted a crystal pitcher beaded with condensation. “Tamarin juice. From the tree right there. It will steady your nerves.”
She poured three glasses without waiting for a response. Stephanie took the offered glass, the cold a shock against her palm.
“Veronica tells me you are… resilient,” Reyna continued, taking a slow sip. “That you have faced down wolves in New York. But the wolves in your past, chérie… they have a different bite, don’t they? The kind that leaves a man like Antoine Deschamps sniffing at your door.”
The name landed like a blow. Stephanie’s glass clinked violently against the table as she set it down, juice sloshing over the rim. She stared at Veronica, a silent, panicked question in her eyes.
Veronica’s face was a careful mask. “Mama.”
“What?” Reyna’s smile was all sharp edges. “You bring her to my home, to my protection, but I am not to know who or what I am protecting her from? Please. This is my island. Little happens here that I do not know about. And men like that… they have a stench that carries across the water.” She leaned forward slightly, her gaze pinning Stephanie. “He will not set foot on Jamaican soil. That, I can promise you. But fear is a poison. You must decide if you will let it sicken you, or if you will sweat it out.”
Before Stephanie could form a response, a screen door slammed shut. A tall, broad-shouldered man with skin the color of rich mahogany and a close-cropped cap of white hair ambled onto the veranda. He carried a basket of fresh bread, its warm, yeasty scent cutting through the tropical air.
“Stop interrogating the poor child, Rey,” he said, his voice a deep, rolling bass that held no malice. He set the basket down and offered Stephanie a smile that was pure, uncomplicated kindness. “You must be Stephanie. I’m Jace. Welcome. Don’t mind this one. Her bark is a national treasure, but her bite is reserved for people who truly deserve it.” He winked at her, then leaned down to kiss Veronica’s forehead. “Baby girl. You look tired.”
“It was a long flight, Daddy.”
Reyna watched the exchange, her expression unreadable. She turned her attention back to Stephanie. “My husband believes in the inherent goodness of people. I believe in the inherent truth of their actions. So, Stephanie. Your actions brought you here. To my daughter. To this table. Tell me, between the fear and the French charm… who are you?”
The question hung in the humid air, simple and terrifying. Stephanie looked from Reyna’s formidable intensity to Jace’s gentle encouragement, and finally to Veronica, whose eyes held a challenge and a flicker of something like hope. She took a deep breath, tasting the salt and the jasmine, and reached for her glass again, her hand steadier this time.
“I am,” she began, her voice finding a new strength, “trying to find out.”