She Was Never Just the Billionaire’s Wife (Natasha and Chase) novel Chapter 87

(Julian)

Natasha isn't here.

I established this within thirty seconds of arriving and have been quietly disappointed about it ever since.

Work emergency, apparently.

I accept a glass of red wine from a tray and conduct a swift survey of the room.

Clarice first, because Clarice is the reason we're here and therefore the most important variable.

She's holding up better than I expected.

My stepmother, and I use the term loosely, out of technical accuracy rather than affection, has always operated best when she has an audience and a role, and today she has both.

The fragile beauty in the ancestral home, facing her ghosts with tremendous courage.

She's doing it very well.

Her angst may even be real. Who the hell knows.

I’ve just never bought that someone can be distraught for an entire lifetime and never really tell anyone why.

Unless the reason is ridiculous, or criminal.

She wasn't a bad stepmother, truly.

She remembered our birthdays.

She asked questions about our lives and listened to the answers with what appeared to be genuine interest for the first two minutes.

She simply wasn’t quite present.

Beautiful, but with the distracted glaze of someone only visiting the room out of obligation.

My father, I notice, hasn't moved more than six feet from her all afternoon.

He hovers, keyed up and watchful, ready to step in the second anything starts to fall apart.

Clarice says something to Eleanor Warren, and my father's eyes track to her face to check the response.

Clarice turns toward the window, and my father moves with the swiftness of a cheetah on the hunt.

He steers Eleanor away from Clarice before she can do anything to upset his little doe.

He has always liked being needed.

And gorgeous, fragile Clarice has always been happy to let him tend to her.

Really, it’s a symbiotic arrangement, and it keeps him off my ass most of the time, so more power to her.

I drift toward the terrace, where Nathanial is standing with a glass of scotch and the kicked dog expression I thought he’d finally managed to shake.

I should probably be more understanding. This place holds memories of the family they were.

Before they came and upended ours.

This hollowed-out version of him is no fun at all though.

"You look dreadful," I tell him.

"Thank you, Julian."

"Is it the house?"

He looks at the beach for a moment.

"Nat used to collect things on that beach. Shells, mostly. She had a whole system for deciding which ones were the best. Those were the ones she’d give to me."

Oh, God. I’m not really built for this kind of thing.

Especially the prickles of guilt running up and down my spine.

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