Chapter 76: Play Harder
The jet’s engines whined into silence, the final sigh of a journey back in time. Through the oval window, the Rossi compound spread like a stain of authority—the black marble main house, the manicured hedges forming brutalist patterns, the infamous fountain jetting its water dark as crude oil.Beth watched, her expression smooth as the glass. Once, this view had made her stomach flutter with a desperate need to belong.Now, it was just a very expensive piece of real estate.
“You ready?” Damien’s voice was close behind her. He’d changed into a suit during the flight, navy Tom Ford, crisp as a banknote.
“I’m always ready.” She stood, smoothing the lines of her own black trouser suit.Saint Laurent.Architectural. Armor.
Marco exited first, a quick scan of the tarmac, a subtle nod back to Damien.Then it was their turn. Damien descended the stairs first, a king returning to his domain.Beth followed, placing one kitten heel precisely in front of the other. The late afternoon sun hit her like a spotlight.The welcoming committee was small, pointed. Sophia Rossi stood at its center, a slender woman in dove grey cashmere, her silver hair an immaculate helmet. Her hands were clasped, her smile a practiced curve of coral lipstick. Beside her, a nervous assistant clutched a tablet.Two stone-faced household staff flanked them.
Sophia’s eyes went first to her son, appraising, approving.Then they flicked to Beth.Beth saw it. The almost imperceptible stiffening of Sophia’s spine. The brief, treacherous flicker in her eyes that wasn’t welcome, but recalculation. Gone was the girl who’d worn awkward silks and tried too hard. In her place: a woman whose very posture spoke of unassailable balance sheets, of private security details, of a name that carried its own weight. A woman who didn’t need a thing from this family.Beth allowed her own lips to curve. Not a smile.A subtle acknowledgment of a point scored.
“Damien,” Sophia said, stepping forward to offer her cheek.He kissed it.“You look tired. The flight must have been turbulent.”
“Like glass, Ma.” He turned, his hand finding the small of Beth’s back. A claiming, a presentation. “You remember Bethany.”
“Of course.” Sophia’s gaze settled on Beth, cooler now, reassembled.“Bethany. You look… different.”
“Thank you, Sophia,” Beth said, her tone light, winning.“So do you. The gardens are breathtaking, as always.”
A beat of silence, a parry accepted. “We’ve prepared the east wing for you both.Separate rooms, of course. Marco, you’re in the guest house above the garage.”
“Perfect,” Beth said, before Damien could speak. “Lead the way.”
The walk to the main house was a procession through silent, curated beauty. The air smelled of clipped boxwood and distant espresso.Marco fell into step beside Beth, muttering under his breath.
“Separate rooms, huh? She’s pulling out the big guns.”
“It’s a classic opener,” Beth replied, just as quietly. “Predictable.”
Damien walked ahead with his mother, their conversation a low murmur. Beth caught fragments—a cousin’s business, a chef’s new menu.Normalcy, painstakingly constructed.The interior was a cathedral to underworld opulence. Dark parquet floors gleamed under soaring ceilings.Antique mirrors reflected crystal chandeliers. The air was still, smelling of lemon polish and, faintly, of cigar smoke from decades past. A young man in a staff uniform approached to take their bags. His eyes, innocent and admiring, lingered on Beth for a half-second too long.Damien’s attention snapped to him like a trap. “The lady’s bag is handled with care.Understand?”
The young man paled, nodding vigorously. “Yes, sir.Of course, sir.”
Beth arched a brow at Damien. “It’s a suitcase, not a Fabergé egg.”
“Everything of yours is precious,” he said, the menace melting into a roguish grin, but his eyes held a glint of unmasked possession.Sophia watched the exchange, her smile thinning.“Dinner is at eight. Informal. Just family.” She emphasized the last word, a subtle barb meant to remind Beth of her outsider status. “I’ll have Maria show you to your rooms.”
The east wing was a gilded corridor of closed doors. Maria, a stern woman with a bun tight enough to lift her eyebrows, stopped at two adjacent rooms. She opened the first, a masculine study in burgundy and mahogany.“For you, Mr. Rossi.”
She then opened the next door, revealing a chamber of frosty blues and silvers, a four-poster bed draped in gossamer linen. It was beautiful, cold, and decidedly solitary.“For you, Ms. Montgomery.”
“Lovely,” Beth said, stepping inside. She placed her purse on a delicate writing desk and turned to the window, dismissing Maria.She heard the housekeeper’s footsteps retreat.
A moment later, Damien’s presence filled her doorway.He leaned against the frame, blocking the light. “This is ridiculous.”
“It’s proper,” Beth said, not turning.
“It’s a waste of a perfectly good weekend.” He stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click. The room suddenly felt smaller, charged.“You’re really going to play along?”
She finally looked at him. “Who’s playing? I have a report to review, and I’d prefer to do it without your… distractions.” A lie, and they both knew it.
He crossed the space in three strides, his fingers brushing her jaw. “My mother thinks she can build a wall between us with a hallway.”
“Your mother,” Beth said, holding his gaze, “is trying to re-establish the natural order.The son returned, the ex-wife politely visiting. Separate spheres.”
“I don’t give a damn about her natural order.” His thumb stroked her bottom lip. “Tonight.My room.Or yours. I don’t care which.”
“You’re terrible.”
“You love it.”
A sharp knock at the door made them spring apart. It swung open to reveal Marco, holding two tumblers of amber liquid.He didn’t bother with an apology. “Saw Maria scurrying away looking scandalized. Figured you two had already breached the demilitarized zone.” He handed a glass to Damien.“Brought reinforcements.Single malt. The good stuff from your dad’s old stash, D.”
Damien took the glass, a flicker of real warmth in his eyes for his friend. “You’re a saint.”
“And you’re an idiot.” Marco leaned against the doorframe, mirroring Damien’s earlier pose.He saluted Beth with his glass. “He’s got the subtlety of a wrecking ball, doesn’t he?”
“It’s part of his charm,” Beth said, accepting the drink Marco hadn’t brought for her from Damien’s hand. “The part that gets tedious by Sunday.”
“See?” Marco said to Damien. “She’s already planning her exit strategy. You’re on the clock, buddy.”
They drank in comfortable silence for a moment, a familiar triad in the heart of the unfamiliar. From somewhere deep in the house, a clock chimed the hour.“Right,” Marco sighed, pushing off the frame. “I’m going to find my quarters above the garage and see if the old firing range is still operational. You two try to keep the clandestine sleepovers to a minimum until after dessert, yeah? For the sake of the staff’s blood pressure.” He winked and was gone.
The echo of the chime faded. Damien finished his drink, set the glass down with a definitive clink.“Eight o’clock,” he said.His eyes promised a different timeline entirely. “Try to behave yourself until then.”
“I make no promises,” Beth replied, turning back to the window, watching the black water of the fountain arc against the darkening sky.
After he left, the silence in the frost-blue room was absolute. Beth ran a finger over the edge of the cool marble windowsill.She could play the gracious, separate guest.She could follow every unspoken rule.
But she hadn’t built an empire by following rules. She’d built it by recognizing power plays and dismantling them. Sophia wanted separate rooms to remind Beth of her place—a visitor, an outsider, a past mistake.
She took a deep breath, the inherited scent of the Rossi compound filling her lungs.It was only a weekend. And she had every intention of rewriting the script.