Page 2 of Twisted Knight

Silly, but true.

ONE

Rowan

I tip the wineglass to the sky and empty the shiraz like a dehydrated woman stranded in a desert.

That’s how much I’m looking forward to tonight’s event—Westmore Country Club’s Auction for Change. I have no problem with the charity aspect of it. It’s more the watching of Westmore society’s who’s who strut around in their finest while not actually giving a damn about the charity they are here to support that is my issue.

My glass is promptly snatched from my hand, but before I can protest, my mom holds it out of my reach. “Wine is meant for sipping, Rowan, not for gulping—just as ladies are meant to worry about their place in society rather than which rung of the corporate ladder they’re on.”

Luckily, her back is turned when I roll my eyes, or I’d get another refrain about how ladies need to act proper or they’ll never find a husband.

Which is fine by me.

I can stand on my own two feet. I am self-sufficient. The last thing I need or want is to depend on a man.

Been there. Done that. Bought the T-shirt.

But those are fighting words when it comes to my mother, and a fight isn’t exactly what I want right now. Not when in mere minutes I’ll be standing in a room full of women with much the same mindset as her. It’s either hold my tongue now or speak up. And the latter will no doubt reward me with constant remarks all night long. I can hear them all now.

See? Julie Edgemoor quit her job and look how happy she is being just a mom.

Did you hear Moira was nominated chair for the Westmore Society Women’s League? What a dream come true for her. And to think she almost wasted her talent on being a corporate lawyer.

“Yes. Of course,” I say and step my bare foot into a high heel. “How could I forget that a life of subservience is all that matters.”

“Stop it,” she says with a wave of her hand, dismissing my gender equality comments as she always does.

How often does she wish that it was me that night in the car instead of Cassie?

I push down the thought, bury it so the pang dulls and the ache is smothered.

My mom crosses the room and automatically reaches out to tuck the hint of my bra beneath the shoulder strap of my dress. I let her fuss while the wine begins to buzz in my head. It is my mom’s birthday after all, which is one of the main reasons—well, the only reason I’ve agreed to do the pre-party thing with her tonight.

But when her fussing stops and her gaze turns scrutinizing, my dread returns. What is she going to pick apart this time?

“I really wish you hadn’t done this.” She reaches out and toys with one of my curls. A curl that’s now a dark caramel color rather than the pale blond I was born with. “You’re the face of the company, Rowan. Our brand.” Her lips twist in that sour expression every kid hates to see regardless of age. The tsk that follows even more so.

“Yes, of course. The face and nothing else.” Bitterness tinges my edges.

“Whatever possessed you to do this?” she asks as if I hadn’t commented.

Gran’s death? My world turned upside down? Take a guess.

“I needed a change,” I say softly.

“A change is choosing red for your toenail polish, not dyeing your hair.” The corners of her lips turn down in disapproval. “Well, it’s nothing a trip to Trina won’t fix,” she says of her longtime hairdresser.

A protest would be futile, so I don’t give one. Instead, I make a noncommittal sound, eyeing my empty wineglass with envy. “I like it.” I shrug.

“Hmpf.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Is it so bad that I want you to settle down and be happy?”

I bark out a very unladylike laugh. “What does my hair color have to do with settling down?”

She plucks imaginary lint off my dress. “Men prefer blondes. You and I both know that.”

“Ah. Yes. I forgot. I think you left your free will and lack of judgment back at the altar when you married Dad.” I roll my eyes and continue before she starts the “you younger kids don’t understand” speech. “I’ve told you: I don’t need a man to be happy.”