In the glittering world of Westbridge, where mansions line the streets and family legacies are worth their weight in gold, five childhood best friends-Lisa, Theo, Gabe, Gen, and Sam-have grown up in the shadow of privilege, bound by a friendship as...
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The sound of the grandfather clock ticking down the hallway was the only noise filling the Vanderbilt house. Genevieve sat curled up on the couch in the living room, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold.
The windows were dark, the heavy curtains pulled back just enough to let the faint glow of the streetlamps outside seep in. The house was too big for just the two of them, but it had always been that way—empty rooms, long hallways, and the kind of quiet that felt like it was holding its breath.
Her father sat in his usual spot, the leather armchair by the fire, flipping through a book. He wasn't reading it, though. Gen knew him well enough to recognize the signs. His eyes drifted over the pages, but his mind was elsewhere.
It had been like that for years—ever since her mother died. The quiet between them was the kind that came from shared grief, but also from the slow drifting apart that happened when two people didn't know how to fill the space left behind.
"You should be at the party," her father said, his voice soft but steady, not looking up from the book.
Gen glanced over at him, her fingers tightening around the mug. "I didn't feel like it."
He didn't say anything for a moment, just continued turning the pages, though Gen could tell he wasn't really absorbing the words. Finally, he sighed, setting the book down on the side table with a soft thud. "You don't have to stay here, Genevieve. I'm fine."
Gen swallowed, her throat tight. She hated the way he said it, like he was trying to convince both of them. "I know. But it's not just about that."
Her father's gaze shifted to her, and for a moment, he looked older than he was, his eyes lined with exhaustion. "You're seventeen, Gen. You should be out with your friends, having fun. Not sitting here with me."
Gen smiled softly, but there was a sadness behind it. "You say that like you're a burden."
Her father didn't respond right away, his gaze dropping back to the floor. "I don't want you to feel like you have to take care of me."
"I don't," Gen said quickly, but the words felt like a lie, and she knew he could hear it. She did take care of him. Not in the obvious, day-to-day way, but in the way that meant she stayed home when he was in one of his moods, or when he got that faraway look in his eyes that told her he was thinking about her mother.
She stayed because she didn't know what else to do. Because if she wasn't here, the silence would become unbearable, and she didn't trust that he would pull himself out of it.
Her father stood up, crossing the room to the large bay window. He stared out at the empty street, his hands shoved into the pockets of his worn cardigan. "Your mother wouldn't want this for you."
Gen's heart squeezed at the mention of her mother. They didn't talk about her often, not because they didn't want to, but because the wound was still too raw.
