Page 129 of Bitter Confessions

“You aren’t, but you will be.”

That ominous promise brought her gaze to his for a split second before she looked away. “I really am sorry?—”

“When I tell you to leave something alone, I mean it. You went over there looking for a fight. You knew how Cecil would react to the slightest provocation. When are you going to realize your sisters don’t need your help? They have far more experience and more sense than to retaliate in this setting. Even under the influence, Ariana has more tact than you.” He paced, shaking his head. “You’re too emotional. Either you’re on the verge of falling apart or on a warpath. You think you’re helping, when they were better off before your interference.”

He stopped in front of a stone fireplace, while she stood motionless against the wall. Firelight danced over his face as he stared into the flames. For a full minute, neither of them said anything, and then she whispered, “What can I do?”

“You’ve done enough,” he said coldly, eyes still on the fire. “I gave you too much credit, believing you could play this role as well as your sisters. It’s no wonder Maximus didn’t bring you to many events. You’re a loose cannon.”

Her eyes welled up, but he didn’t notice as he headed for the door.

“I’m tempted to send you home so there won’t be any more incidents, but I think that’s more trouble than it’s worth. I need to smooth things over with Christoph and salvage what I can of this night. Stay here until I come for you.”

He didn’t give her a chance to respond but closed the door behind him. He knew exactly what to say to make her feel small and foolish. He was right. She’d known exactly what would happen when she rushed across the room to confront Cecil. She hadn’t expected it to escalate the way it had, but she’d known it wouldn’t end well and hadn’t cared. Her need to support her sister was an ingrained compulsion she acted on without a thought for the consequences or cost to herself. Roth getting involved hadn’t crossed her mind, but it should have. It wouldn’t fit in with his image of a doting husband if he didn’t come to her defense.

Comparing her to Colette and Ariana was a low blow and far too reminiscent of her father’s constant disappointment in her. Roth thought he acquired a proper society wife, but she never achieved that level of sophistication and composure her sisters and Charlotte possessed. She could blend in for a while, but it was only a matter of time before she outed herself. Tucker saying she didn’t belong was one thing; Roth agreeing tore her to shreds. She’d always known she didn’t belong here. That was why she’d tried to find someone outside of society. Whatever confidence the night had granted her washed away like a sandcastle at high tide.

She bent over at the waist so her tears would drop straight to the floor instead of coursing down her cheeks and ruining her makeup. She was grateful he left so she wouldn’t prove him right by crying in front of him. Too emotional. How many times had she heard that from her family? Tears rained down on a plush carpet the color of red wine as the stresses of the evening engulfed her.

Roth was right. No one needed her help. She’d taken it upon herself to cut a deal with him when all her sisters had asked was if she could get him to speak to them. She should have walked away instead of thinking she was doing what was best for everyone. If she hadn’t taken it upon herself to “fix” everything, she’d be unmarried and enjoying a quiet Christmas at Tuxedo Park, writing her book instead of attending the Trentham Ball and browbeating herself over her lack of impulse control and social grace. She was her own worst enemy.

What if she wasn’t supposed to save the company? If Hennessy & Co. was a factor in Ariana’s drug problem and the main point of contention in Lyle and Colette’s marriage, was it worth fighting for? Roth was under siege because of it and pouring significant time and money in, just to keep it afloat. If her sisters lost the company (as Lyle hoped), they wouldn’t suffer. On the contrary, their husbands would be overjoyed their wives could dedicate more time to their families. Was she so desperate to be needed that she inserted herself into this mess and fucked up everyone’s lives by trying to help, instead of letting it play out the way it was meant to? Self-loathing gnawed at her. There was no one to blame for her current circumstances but herself. What the fuck was wrong with her?

Her emotions raged, but she couldn’t allow them free rein. Not here, which was... where? She’d been so focused on Roth she hadn’t even taken in the room. There was a hushed quality about the place. Odd, when every square inch of the Trentham Mansion was swarming with people. Where was she?

She blinked rapidly to rid herself of the last of her tears and straightened, dabbing at her eyes before she looked around. Her heart skipped a beat. Everything she’d seen, from the entrance hall to the gold ballroom, was palatial and over-the-top, but this room was a drastic departure from the rest of the mansion.

She was in a gothic library, complete with stained-glass windows, oversize velvet armchairs, a disturbing ceiling mural, and a spiral staircase leading to a lower floor. There were glints of gold here and there, but mostly dark, gleaming wood. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling in books, with tall, narrow ladders she wouldn’t be caught dead on.

She crossed to the spiral staircase and crept halfway down to see a library that featured a long worktable with chairs around it. Clearly, a meeting place. Maybe Nathaniel had brought them here, which was how Roth knew about it. Quickly, she retreated back to the upper floor, which was dark and cozy and filled to the brim with books.

She sniffled as she explored, marveling at the extent of the Trenthams collection before examining book spines, some of which were in different languages. There were books on ancient history, politics, architecture, art, law, economics, and a whole bookshelf dedicated to biographies. Nonfiction was all good and well when she needed information, but she refused to believe a library with such a haunting atmosphere wouldn’t have...

“Aha!”

She’d stumbled upon the classics—Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, The Great Gatsby, Madame Bovary, Dracula, Moby Dick, Treasure Island. The worn leather spines of The Iliad and The Odyssey with gold lettering were too tempting to resist. She carefully eased a book from the shelf and gently let it fall open in her palms. It was a translation, with English on one side and Greek on the other. Unable to resist, she leaned down, sniffed, and promptly sneezed. Thankfully, she turned her head aside, so she didn’t ruin the page.

There were rows and rows of standing shelves. She could imagine getting lost in here for days. She knew without asking that this was Dahlia’s favorite part of the mansion. The cozy reading nooks and the beautiful desk made her want to beg Sullivan to allow her to write here. In this environment, she could only imagine what would pour out of her.

Under other circumstances, she would have been content to browse for hours, perusing the books and taking in the paintings and tapestries, but worry over what was happening beyond this room kept intruding. Would Roth succeed in getting back into Christoph Braun’s good graces? If she went up to Christoph and apologized for her rudeness, maybe he would…? She sighed and held up her hands in defeat. She had to stop interfering.

She sat in an armchair by the fireplace. The blanket of warmth eased her tense muscles. She gently prodded her arm where Tucker had grabbed her. It was definitely bruised. If he manhandled her in the middle of the ballroom, what would he do if he caught her alone? She eyed the closed door warily. How many others had vendettas against her that she knew nothing about? A few weeks ago, she told Mo she didn’t have any enemies, and his response had been, “The fact you believe that is why you need security.” Also, Lyle had been a little too relieved that she was being shadowed everywhere she went. What else were they keeping from her?

She hadn’t known Roth was going after Tucker Baldwin, or that Cecil had launched a smear campaign against him. She thought Roth going after her father’s business associates was risky. Little did she know, he was taking on a horde of the most rich and powerful men in the city. Had he bitten off more than he could chew? Was that why he’d become so cold and distant again? She brushed her finger over the diamond necklace, which was cool to the touch, and wondered if they could return it.

Her eyes moved around the library before coming to rest on a marble statue of a woman with a veil across her face. It was so realistic, each pleating carved in exquisite detail. She could practically feel the breeze that tugged the veil taut over the woman’s features. She wished she could wear a veil instead of donning a superficial mask. Artifice had never been her forte. No wonder she had never fit into this world.

She plucked at her satin dress. If she caused too much damage tonight and Roth decided he couldn’t take her to other events, would their deal be off? Would he get rid of her or keep her around to torment her? If he expected her to submit to more degrading, brutal fucks, he was in for a rude awakening. She allowed it because she trusted him to know her limits and care for her in the aftermath. Exchanging power and roleplaying was titillating, but if he wasn’t playing a role and he truly saw her as a disposable object to use and discard, then she didn’t want him to touch her.

Lyle thought everything that came from her father was tainted. Was she included in that? There was definitely something wrong with her. She was so damaged that the only true relationship she had was with a man who was a mirror image of her emotionally unavailable, workaholic father.

The door swung open, interrupting her dark reverie. She was on her feet before the man stepped into the room. It wasn’t Roth who entered.

CHAPTER 25

An old man limped into the room, sweat dripping from his temples. Although Warren wore a tailored suit, it was wrinkled, and it hung oddly on his pudgy frame. The years hadn’t been kind to her father’s business partner. He had one patch of hair left on his otherwise bald head, and there was an unhealthy gray pallor to his skin. She’d seen him briefly at the funeral but thankfully hadn’t had to deal with his withering tongue, since there were so many other people to see to.

“Uncle Warren,” she said brightly, making him grimace.

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