“He did.” I never expected it. Had no idea he’d put me in his will as sole heir. “We were close.” A stab of guilt grabs me. “And my parents didn’t talk to him. They didn’t approve.”

“They didn’t approve of your relationship?”

I look up at her, bullying my mouth into speaking the words. “No, they didn’t.” I hate the curiosity emblazoned across her face. She has no idea. No idea of the demons I harbor. Of the sins I’ve committed. Or the losses I’ve faced.

“What was not to approve of?”

Everything. But, ironically, they would approve of Ava. She’s not what my lifestyle represents historically, not what I’ve sought, which begs the question why the fuck I’m so attached to her. It’s unexplainable. And yet I am, and here she is asking questions I desperately want to give her the answers to. Except, it’s ugly. All of it is hideous, and the possibility of having it snatched away—by Ava herself, or by an outside force—is a risk I’m not yet prepared to take. “As soon as I left college,” I begin, stretching the truth somewhat—there was no college—and scraping the barrel of strength while restraining my pain, “I spent all of my time with Carmichael. Mum, Dad, and Amalie moved to Spain, and I refused to go. I was eighteen and having the time of my life.” With a baby on the way. How did it all go so horribly wrong? Because you’re a fuck-up. And you’ll fuck this up too.

I gulp back my self-loathing. “I stayed with Carmichael when they left. They weren’t happy about it. Three years later, Carmichael died”—entirely my fault—“and I was left to run The Manor.” And left to spiral into my own form of hell. Which I rightly deserved. After all, everyone I cared about back then was dead. Because of fucking me. I stare at the wine on the table. There’s peace in that bottle. Escape. I grab my water and gulp it down. “The relationship was strained after that. They demanded I sell The Manor, but I couldn’t.” Wouldn’t. I should have sold the fucking Manor. “It was Carmichael’s baby.” And I’d already let him down enough.

Her eyes are wide, a little glazed, and I shift in my chair uncomfortably, praying she doesn’t push for more. I’m drained. Does she sense my increasing despondency? My grief?