When Aster was a little girl, everyone told her that she was lucky to be an heiress, and that her life would be extraordinary. She had a floor-through playroom, a rotating staff of nannies, and private planes. But being an heiress also meant fitting a specific mold—one to which Aster could never quite adhere.
When she was eight years old and their second cousin Madeleine got married, Aster had been the flower girl in the wedding. She would never forget how she had complained to her mother that her white patent leather shoes were hurting. “Can’t I wear something else?” she’d begged. “No, Aster,” her mother had hissed, her lips pursed in frustration. “No one ever said this would be easy.” “No one ever said what would be easy?” Aster had asked—but Penelope was already sweeping out of the room, rolling her eyes. “Being an heiress, silly,” Corinne answered from the corner, doing pirouettes in the narrow white shoes that didn’t seem to bother her at all.
It had been Mason who came to Aster’s rescue at that wedding, pulling her into his lap at the dinner and feeding her an extra slice of cake when Penelope wasn’t looking. “What your mother means, Aster,” he tried to explain, “is that being an heiress isn’t always easy. There are good parts, and there are bad parts.”
“Do I have to be an heiress?” Aster had asked.
“Oh, sweetie,” Mason had said, and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “You’re a Saybrook.”
There are good parts, and there are bad parts. Aster just hadn’t realized that the bad parts would often outweigh the good—and that her once-beloved father would turn out to be the worst of it. She met his eyes across the table and felt herself flush with anger. He had no right to be angry with her, not after what he had done to this family. Not after all these years of Aster keeping his secret.
“Aster, I need to speak to you,” Mason said, staring at her as if he’d been witness to her thoughts. “Let’s go to my office,” he added, and stood up.
Aster squinted at her mom, then Corinne, Dixon, and Edith, but all four of them looked away. The moment felt fraught, as though everyone was in on a joke Aster didn’t get. Only Poppy was looking at her encouragingly, nodding in the direction of the office.
Aster got up from her chair, suddenly shaky in her strappy leather pumps. Esme appeared from the kitchen to whisk away her uneaten food. The classical music Aster’s family always played during dinner faded as she followed her father from the dining room to his office at the back of the town house.
The room smelled like cigar smoke and cedar, just the way Aster remembered it. She hadn’t set foot here in years, not since she and her father fell out. There was the same bearskin rug on the floor, the same cutting tools and old loupes on the desk, and the various vintage rifles from the Civil War through World War II mounted on the walls. On one shelf was a line of old photographs, including one of Papa Alfred in his World War II uniform. Standing next to him was Harold Browne, a friend he’d made during his time there. Next to that was a picture Aster hadn’t noticed before, of Mason and other Saybrook’s execs on a golf outing. Steven Barnett stood off to the side, his handsome smile broad.
Aster looked away. It seemed strange that her father would have a picture of Steven in his office after everything that had happened. But then, her father always did have a way of compartmentalizing things.
Lined up on another wall were the taxidermied animal heads from his favorite hunts. An enormous elk, a long-horned ram, even an African elephant, with fanned ears and an extended trunk. There were glass marbles where its eyes had been. As a child, Aster had been afraid of that elephant; but Mason had brought her into his study and asked her to look at it. “It’s like the elephant at the Museum of Natural History,” he said, holding her up to face it. “What if I let you name him?”
“His name is Dumbo,” Aster announced. “But I still don’t like him.” To Aster, Dumbo was completely different from the elephants at the museum—or the cartoon. The elephant was dead because her father had killed it.
Aster glared at Mason, then plopped onto the overstuffed leather couch. “So what’s up?” she asked stonily.
Mason lit a cigar. “I’m ending your allowance.”
“Excuse me?” Aster barked a laugh.
“I guess you haven’t seen this.” He set the cigar in an ashtray and tilted his computer screen toward her. The Blessed and the Cursed was front and center. Aster almost burst out laughing—she would never have guessed her dad read the gossip site.
Then she saw the pictures. The first shot was of Poppy ushering her from Corinne’s dress fitting, her makeup smeared and her hair a tangled mess. The second was of her dancing at Badawi later that night. The strap of her dress had fallen off her shoulder, showing what little cleavage she had as she stared into the camera vacantly. She looked as wasted as she’d felt.