Page 154 of Top Shelf

To Lucian’s credit, he only insults one donor.

“I wasn’t insulting him,” he argues as we move away from an older man in an expensive suit.

“You told him his investment strategy sounded like a pyramid scheme,” I point out.

“It did.”

“Lucian,” I groan, knowing he doesn’t have the first clue if it’s a pyramid scheme or not. Ronan pinches the bridge of his nose while Silas’s shoulders shake with silent laughter.

A woman I vaguely recognize from the charity weekend approaches a few minutes later.

“Excuse me.” She smiles warmly. “You’re Gwendolyn Winslow, right?”

For a split second, I brace myself.

“My son attended the Kings’ charity weekend.”

Something warm blooms in my chest. “Oh.”

“He had the best time.” The woman smiles wider. “He hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

My throat tightens unexpectedly. “Really?”

She nods. “My son has autism. He usually struggles with events like that. They’re too loud and chaotic, but the sensory room you arranged meant he was able to step away when he got overloaded.”

I remember that room. I remember fighting with management over the necessity for it and inspecting every inch of the building to identify the perfect space.

The woman continues. “For the first time, he got to participate in everything.”

Emotion lodges somewhere painful behind my ribs.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “You have no idea how much that meant.”

I blink rapidly. “Uhh… Y-you’re welcome.”

Brilliant response, Wren.

She laughs softly before moving away. I stare after her for several seconds.

For so long I’ve been trying to figure out where I fit. Who I am. What I want. And every conversation lately keeps pointing me toward the same answer.

A hand brushes my lower back.

“You okay?” Ronan asks.

I nod, momentarily rendered speechless.

The moment lasts all of thirty seconds before a familiar voice cuts through the crowd.

“Gwendolyn.”

Every muscle in my body locks. My smile slides from my face. Slowly, reluctantly, as though drawing out every last second, I turn. My father stands several feet away. He’s dressed to perfection in a tailored tuxedo. His posture is perfect, his expression controlled. My mother is beside him, looking every bit as immaculate as ever. The warmth I’d been carrying evaporates instantly.

“Father.”

His gaze sweeps over me. There’s no warmth in it. No genuine happiness at seeing his daughter, even though it’s been months.

“Green is certainly a choice,” my mother states, her smile making it sound like a compliment when it’s really not. “Especially with your pale complexion.”