Page 122 of House of Marionne

“A dagger polisher.”

“Use Rollins Shine. They’ve been in business a long time.”

I sigh and stop to face him. “Okay, thank you. Is that all?”

“Quell.”

“Jordan.” Walk away. But my feet don’t listen. I pull at a few dresses nearby just to avoid looking at him.

“Did you get my note?”

“I did. And I decorated my trash can with it.”

His jaw clenches, and I savor it. See how it feels to have your feelings toyed with.

“Jordan!” someone calls. “Jordan, is that you?”

“Oh god,” he mutters, and I turn to leave.

“Quell?” the same high-pitched voice says.

“Who is—” But one look at the woman answers my question. Jordan’s mother isn’t much taller than me. She struts toward us in a fancy checkered blazer and pointy heels. Her coiled hair is luscious and twisted out perfectly. Massive jewels hang from her ears.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Lena, Jordan’s mother. He’s told us much about this mentee of his. Though he didn’t say you were so beautiful.”

“You’re so kind, thank you.”

Behind Mrs. Wexton, with a phone pressed to his ear, is a ghostly pale version of Jordan. Mrs. Wexton tries to get his attention but is met with a finger from his hand.

“Work never stops.” She smiles.

“Why are you here, Mother?”

“You say that like you’re not happy to see me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I saw the piece in Page Six! Well done,” she says, ignoring him completely.

“And who is this?” Mr. Wexton joins the conversation and Jordan’s expression hardens.

“This is Darragh Marionne’s granddaughter and heir, Richard.”

He glances at me dismissively, then back at Jordan. “Is everything above board here, son?”

The condescension in his tone curdles my stomach.

“Richard! I apologize.” Mrs. Wexton squeezes my shoulder.

“If this mentor thing is getting out of hand, I’ll talk to Headmistress,” he goes on.

“I’m sorry, what are you presuming exactly?” I ask, crossing my arms.

Jordan touches my wrist. “You will talk to no one.” Jordan spits the words, meeting his father’s eyes for the first time. “Headmistress Perl is pleased with my work here.”

“As long as you’re sure.” He turns his snarl in my direction. “And as long as she understands her place.”

The shock of his crassness loosens my tongue. “Excuse me, sir, but I do believe we are standing on my family’s estate.”

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