Chapter 1
“Posy. How long has this been going on?”
Gareth looked toward the crowd.
I followed his eyes.
Not randomly.
He was looking at Adrian Crewe.
Sixty-two.
One of the oldest private jewelry collectors in New York.
More importantly, one of the few men outside my family who had known Rosaline’s mother well.
Adrian immediately lowered his champagne glass.
Interesting.
I crouched beside my granddaughter.
The broken beads remained scattered beneath the velvet table.
“Posy.”
She looked at me.
“Daddy does tests.”
Rosaline closed her eyes.
“What tests?”
“Bracelets.”
She held up three fingers.
Then another.
She had lost count.
“If I do bad…”
Her mouth trembled.
“…Mommy gets lesson.”
My daughter’s grip tightened around Posy’s hand.
I looked at Gareth.
He tried to stand from the bench.
“Evren, she’s describing discipline like a child.”
“That is because she is a child.”
I turned back to Posy.
“What kind of lesson does Mommy get?”
Posy pointed toward Rosaline’s wrist.
There.
No more euphemism needed.
Then she pointed toward Adrian.
“Daddy says Mr. Crewe has to see Mommy behave.”
Adrian went pale.
I stood slowly.
“What does that mean?”
He looked at Gareth.
Wrong choice.
“Look at me.”
Adrian obeyed.
For six months, Gareth had been telling him Rosaline was struggling.
Emotionally unstable.
Distracted.
Unable to handle pressure around the Blackthorn jewelry collection.
I felt something cold move through me.
Rosaline’s mother, Elena, had spent thirty years building relationships with private collectors.
After her death, Rosaline inherited none of her power formally.
She inherited something more valuable.
Trust.
People called Rosaline before they displayed certain family pieces.
Asked her opinion.
Wanted her present.
Gareth had apparently decided that trust belonged to the marriage.
And if Rosaline appeared too fragile to carry it—
he could carry it for her.
I looked at my daughter.
“Did he punish you because Posy’s bracelet wasn’t good enough?”
Her eyes filled.
“No.”
A pause.
“He punished me because she was never supposed to be making bracelets for herself.”
I frowned.
Rosaline whispered:
May you like
“He’s been training her to perform for the collectors.”
The broken bracelet on the floor suddenly became something much uglier than a child’s rejected gift.
