Page 1 of Broken Blades

Chapter 1

Chastity

The snow had started to surrender that afternoon—patches of dead grass showing through like old scars. I pulled into the driveway behind my father's Mercedes, parked at precisely the same angle it always was, exactly two feet from the garage door. Some things never changed.

The wreath on the front door was new. Fresh pine and burgundy ribbon, the kind my mother ordered from that boutique in Greenwich every December. I could smell the cinnamon candles before I even turned the key—Casablanca Lily and Spice, the only scent she'd burned since I was twelve.

"Chastity!"

My mother swept out of the kitchen, arms already extended. She pulled me against her, and I breathed in Chanel No. 5—thicker than I remembered, almost cloying.

"Look at you." She held me at arm's length, hands on my shoulders. Her gaze traveled down, then up. "You're too thin. Are you eating?"

"Mom, I'm⁠—"

"Your hair's longer." Her fingers caught a strand, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger like she was testing fabric quality. "It suits you."

She glanced past me toward the door. Toward the driveway. Toward nothing in particular.

"How was the drive? You didn't hit traffic, did you? When did you leave campus? You should have called from the road."

The questions came rapid-fire, her smile fixed and bright.

"I'm fine. Everything's fine."

I'd never doubted my parents. Not once. They'd always chosen each other—through Father's eighty-hour weeks, through Mother's charity galas, through every minor crisis and major decision. I'd watched them navigate twenty-six years of marriage with the kind of steady devotion most people only pretended to have.

I'd always wanted that. "Is Dad home?"

"In his office." She smoothed my coat lapel unnecessarily. "On a call, but he knows you're⁠—"

"Chastity."

My father stood in the doorway of his study, phone still pressed to his ear. His eyes met mine, and something shifted in his expression—the calculation dropping away into genuine warmth.

"I'll call you back." He didn't wait for a response before ending the call. His hug was firm, brief, perfect. "There's my future executive."

I grinned. "Finished a semester early."

"I know." Pride creased the corners of his eyes. "Your advisor sent me your final evaluations. Exceptional work."

The position was waiting for me—Associate Director of Strategic Development. He'd been preparing me for this since I'd declared my major. Every summer internship, every networking dinner, every carefully selected course had built toward this moment.

"We'll start you in January," he said. "Get you oriented before the quarterly review."

"I'm ready."

"I know you are."

He squeezed my shoulder once, then released me.

The dining room glowed amber. Six tapers arranged down the center of the table—beeswax, unscented, because Mother said scented candles at dinner were "gauche." The china was Wedgwood. The crystal, Baccarat. Everything in its place, everything deliberate.

Father uncorked the Bordeaux himself, poured Mother's glass first, then reached for mine.

"Just water, thanks."

His eyebrow lifted. "Special occasion."