Her father scoffed. “A love match.” He shook his head, exasperation clearly etched into his expression. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not anticipating a proposal at the end of the evening. I just want you to at least give him a chance.” He glanced at his watch again, impatience vibrating off him. “As your father, I want to see you happy, settled. With a husband who can provide for you.” He flicked the hand not holding his briefcase. “Don’t be naive, Reagan. Do you think people aren’t talking about the fact that your sister, who is three years younger than you, is already married? That maybe there’s something—”
“I’m not Christina,” she interrupted him, voice quiet and steady in spite of how hurt trembled through her like a wind-battered leaf. She knew what lay on the other side of that something. And she didn’t need to hear him state how their friends and associates whispered if she was faulty in some way. Or to hear the unspoken concern in her fa
ther’s voice that he wondered the same thing. Except swap out faulty for broken.
“I’m not Doug either,” she added, mentioning her older brother. “I have my own aspirations, and marriage isn’t even at the top of that list.”
“God, not that again—”
“And if you would just release the money Gran left me, I could further those goals. And a life of my choosing. Filled with my decisions,” she finished, tracing the faint childhood scar on her collarbone. Trying—and failing—not to let his annoyed dismissal of her wants puncture her pride and self-esteem. By now, both resembled a barroom corkboard, riddled with holes from so many well-meaning but painful darts.
“We’ve been over this, and the answer is still no,” he ground out. “Your grandmother loved you so much she left that inheritance to you, but she also added the stipulation for a reason. And we both know why, Reagan.”
We both know why... We both know why...
The words rang between them in the already warm morning air.
A warning.
An indictment.
Oh yes, how could she forget why her beloved grandmother, who had left her enough money to make her an instant millionaire, had added one provision in her will? Reagan couldn’t access the inheritance until she either married a suitable man or turned thirty years old.
In order to be fully independent, to manage her own life, she had to chain herself to a man and hand over that independence or wait four more years before she could...live.
It was her punishment, her penance. For rebelling. For not following the Sinclair script. For daring to be less than perfect.
At sixteen, she’d done what most teenage girls did—she’d fallen in love. But she’d fallen hard. Had been consumed by the blaze of first love with this nineteen-year-old boy that her parents hadn’t approved of. So when they’d forbidden her to see him, she’d sneaked around behind their backs. She’d offered everything to him—her loyalty, her heart, her virginity.
And had ended up pregnant.
Understandably, her parents had been horrified and disappointed. They’d wanted to send her away, have the baby and give it up for adoption. And Reagan had been determined to keep her unborn daughter or son. But neither of them had their wish. She’d miscarried. And the boy she’d been so certain she’d spend the rest of her life with had disappeared.
The price for her stubborn foolishness had been her utter devastation and her family’s trust.
And sometimes...when she couldn’t sleep, when her guard was down and she was unable to stop the buffeting of her thoughts and memories, she believed she’d lost some of their love, too.
Over the years, she’d tried to make up for that time by being the obedient, loyal, perfect daughter they deserved. It was why she still remained in her childhood home even though, at her age, she should have her own place.
But ten years later, she still caught her mother studying her a little too close when Reagan decided to do something as small as not attend one of her father’s events for his law firm. Still glimpsed the concern in Henrietta’s eyes when Reagan disagreed with them. At one time Reagan had made her mother physically ill from the worry she’d caused, the pain she’d inflicted with her bad decisions. So to remain under the same roof where Henrietta could keep tabs on her, could assure herself that her daughter wasn’t once again self-destructing... It was a small cost. She owed her parents that much.
Because in her family’s eyes, she would never be more than that misguided, impetuous teen. She was her family’s well-kept, dirty little secret, a cautionary tale for her sister.
The weight of the knowledge bore down on her so hard, her shoulders momentarily bowed. But she’d become the poster child for fake it until you make it. Sucking in an inaudible deep breath, she tilted her chin up and met her father’s dark scrutiny.
“I guess we’re at an impasse, then. Again,” she tacked on. “Have a great day, Dad.”
Turning on her heel, she headed inside the house before he could say something that would unknowingly tear another strip from her heart. She quietly shut the door behind her, leaning against it. Taking a moment to recover from another verbal and emotional battle with her father.
Sighing, she straightened and strode toward the rear of the house and the kitchen for a cold bottle of water. The thickly sweet scent of flowers hit her seconds before she spied the vase of lush flowers with their dark red petals.
I hate roses. I mean, loathe them... Every morning there are fresh bouquets of them delivered to the house... And every day I fight the urge to knock one down just to watch them scatter across the floor in a mess of water, petals and thorns. Because I’m petty like that.
The murmured admission whispered through her mind, dragging her from the here-and-now back to that shadowed balcony a little over a week ago.
Back to Ezekiel Holloway.
She drew to a halt in the middle of the hallway, her eyes drifting shut. The memories slammed into her. Not that they had a great distance to travel. He and their interlude hadn’t been far from her mind since that night.