Page 2 of Reckless Vow

It must be some kind of a joke. I look around his office and spy the red light blinking in the corner.

We’re being recorded. It’s not unusual for a wealthy man to have surveillance, but the current conversation feels like a sketch from a hidden camera show.

“So she was bitter and refused to actually meet us, but you said she followed our lives? How?” Sydney returns to her original question.

He startles and blinks a few times, as if while lost in his memories he forgot we were here.

Clearing his throat, he straightens the paperwork on his desk. “She had an agency monitoring your activities, so she could use her influence to help you out.”

A sharp letter opener lies on his desk. It could be used as a weapon. Would it pierce skin? The jugular would be the place to aim for. There would be a lot of blood.

“She spied on us?” London snorts, and I snap out of my morbid fantasy.

This is my problem—my mind keeps escaping to these gruesome made-up scenarios, distracting me from the task at hand, stealing my attention.

“I wouldn’t call it that.” Rupert makes a face like we offended him.

“That’s fucked up.” I lean back and look at my sisters, who seem equally shocked by the revelation.

He glares at me, as if my cussing was the thing to frown upon here. “You went to Oxford,” he practically accuses me.

“Are you suggesting Roberta had something to do with that?” Sydney sounds indignant on my behalf.

I’m speechless, but I can see the blood spraying from his neck where the letter opener would land. I shake my head to refocus.

It would make for a great scene, but that is for later. I need to stop picturing it now.Right now, Brook Lowe.

“Obviously, Brooklyn was qualified to study there, but I’m sure Roberta’s influence didn’t hurt her chances. And I’m sure you enjoyed the premium housing you were awarded on the campus.”

He smiles at me with the fake grin he’s been wearing like a pro, then turns to Paris. “As you did winning the prestigious designer award in your first year at the Pratt Institute.”

Then it’s Sydney’s turn. “Or your continuous well-paid substitute teacher contracts when you were aimless.”

He dares to judge Sydney for those years after her ex-husband’s betrayal?

But he’s not done yet. “You didn’t mind cashing the yearly anonymous donations,” he accuses London, and then, as if realizing what an asshole he’s being, he adds, “to use it for a worthy cause.”

London folds her arms across her chest. “So you’re claiming the woman we’ve never met has been a secret benefactor in our lives. Not that we needed or wanted her help. And now she’s decided to meddle in our lives from her grave?”

“No need for your tone.” Rupert looks genuinely affronted. “Roberta was a very traditional woman, and at the end of her life she was heartbroken all of her granddaughters live without being properly wed.”

Half of my brain is listening to his nonsense while the other side is still trying to reconcile that the essay I wrote nine years ago—where I channeled the darkest experience of my then eighteen years of life—may not have been enough to get me a spot in the creative writing program at Oxford.

When I woke up today, I didn’t imagine I’d end up questioning all my life’s accomplishments.

And I can’t fathom that a grandmother who I’ve entirely forgotten exists—her doing completely—would demand I get married.

“As I said, I don’t need Roberta’s money.” Yes, I use her given name because I don’t feel in any way related to the deranged woman.

I flinch at the thought, because she was my mother’s mother and that should count for something. Especially since I don’t remember Mommy at all. I was barely three when she passed.

“What will happen with the money if we all refuse the inheritance? Or rather, its archaic conditions?” Lo asks.

Of course, London cares about the money. She already sees the number of people she could help with it. And I get it, but at this point I need to get out of here and write that letter-opener scene.

And question all I’ve ever achieved.

Or thought I achieved.

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