Page 44 of False God

“I need to sell it, Blythe.”

“It’s Mu—Georgia’s.” Blythe drops eye contact and starts picking at her nail polish.

“Papa left it to me,” I say gently, pretending not to notice her slip of the tongue.

The French villa hasn’t been in our family for generations, like most of the properties I own. It was purchased by my father twenty-seven years ago as a wedding gift to my mother. It’s where they honeymooned.

I haven’t visited it in years, but Blythe goes often. I knew she’d be unhappy about the sale, but it makes no sense to keep it.

“It should have been mine,” Blythe mumbles.

I don’t disagree. If things were different, I’d give it to her as a graduation gift.

“I need …” I exhale. “I need to sell it, Blythe. There’s a lot—a lot—that Papa left that I’m trying to learn and catch up on,and I just … it’s one less thing to manage. You can still go on Wednesday. It’s not going on the market until next week.”

I’m traveling to the south of France to sort out the sale—a trip I wasn’t looking forward to and am now dreading.

“Why can’t you just hire someone to manage everything for you? Then, you can go back to school and?—”

“It’s my responsibility, Blythe.”

“So, my opinion doesn’t matter?” she challenges.

“Of course it matters. I just … it doesn’t change this decision. I’m sorry.”

My sister says nothing, just studies me. For a few seconds, I think she’s going to call me out. She knows I sold an office building in Beijing last fall and an apartment complex in Vancouver. Properties I hadn’t even known my father had purchased. I’d paid little attention to his business dealings because I didn’t think I needed to. Between another sale and her card declining, it’s not a massive leap to consider the possibility that we’re having money problems.

“Fine. Sell it.” Blythe shoves her chair back and stands. “I’ll see you later.”

“Where are you going?”

“I feel like a pastry from Pain Pain,” my sister tells me. “Then, Claire and I are going shopping at Covent Garden.”

I sigh. I shouldn’t take it personally that Blythe wants to spend time with her friends, but it feels like her haste to leave means my being a good brother is another thing I’m failing at.

“Granny is expecting us for tea at three,” I remind her.

“I can’t make it.”

“Blythe …”

“What? We both know she only wants to see you anyway.”

I want to argue, but it’s not entirely inaccurate. Changing Blythe’s or my grandmother’s opinions—and they don’t share many to start with—is like attempting to bend iron.

“She loves you.”

“And I love her.Especiallywhen I’m not being forced to listen to a lecture on my posture or my manners or how fashion is a hobby, not a proper course of study. I’ll visit her for tea next week.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. I’ll see you for dinner.” Blythe spins toward the doorway.

“Wait. This is for you.” I bend down to retrieve the paper bag on the floor. Set it on the mahogany table and slide it toward my sister. “From Georgia.”

Blythe’s response is predictable. “I don’t want it.”

My jaw works as I study her proud stance. Squared shoulders, lifted chin, narrowed eyes. She looks so much like our father. So do I. Blythe has Georgia’s brown eyes, but neither of us inherited her blonde hair. We both look like Marlboroughs. Act like Marlboroughs.

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