Business magnate's daughter, Isla Templeton (Feather), is the youngest of André Templeton's three children. And the top topic in the upper-class gossip in New York City.
Isla has always been a fighter; after losing her mother at a young age by sui...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I stepped out of the room that was currently assigned to me.
I moved towards the office where my mother and Peter were waiting. My heart hammered against my ribs, knowing each step was taking me closer to her.
I haven't been able to face my mother.
I'd spent two nights trying to process it all, going over every memory, every hidden piece of the puzzle. I understood why she'd stayed hidden, why she'd kept herself apart from us and from everything that could have drawn her back into my Fa—André's orbit. But that understanding didn't make it any less heavy.
As I descended the stairs, I spotted Thomas. He was there, rigid. The nurse from the asylum was beside him, her hand lightly resting on his chest. Her expression was a mix of worry and sympathy. The door they guarded, the room I hadn't dared to enter—it was where Claude lay, just a few feet away from me. He was barely holding onto life.
Just imagining Claude in there, his body beaten and broken, sent a sharp chill down my back. The man who'd risked everything, who'd stood by us through every storm, was now a husk of himself because of somebody I once called father.
Thomas caught sight of me, his eyes dark and unreadable. I wondered if he was also haunted by the same visions—the bruises, the cuts, the damage that was likely too far gone to be fixed.
He moved from his spot and blocked my way into the office, placing a hand on my shoulder, his gaze steady and calm.
"Noah, please, be gentle with her. She's been through more than you know."
I took in his words, feeling the weight of what lay ahead settle over me. Gentle wasn't what I felt—every part of me was a storm of questions, ready to demand answers. But I nodded, tightening my jaw, trying to hold back the edge in my chest.
"I'll try," I murmured, glancing at the door where my mother waited.
I pushed the office door open, my heart pounding as I stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, the fire casting shadows that flickered across the walls. My eyes adjusted, and I took in the scene before me: Mother, Peter, and a man I'd never seen before, all seated around a table near the hearth.
My mother looked at ease in comfortable clothes, and Peter, who wore his usual formal attire, had a stiff and composed posture. But the man with them stood out the most. He was dressed in a tuxedo as if he'd arrived from some kind of gala or important event. His presence felt out of place, the elegance of his clothes at odds with the grim tension I could feel simmering in the room.
They all turned to look at me, each face holding something different—surprise, expectation, and, on my mother's part, something that looked like relief. I shut the door behind me, every muscle tense as I approached.
As I stepped further into the room, my gaze settled on my mother. Her face looked tired, her eyes red and slightly swollen, like she'd been crying. My mother tried to hold herself steady, offering me a small, tentative smile, but the sadness lingered.
