Chapter 11 Eleven
Antonia stood at the gates of the Walton mansion longer than necessary.
Her hands were clasped tightly around the strap of her bag, her shoulders squared as if she were bracing herself for impact. The mansion loomed ahead—elegant, imposing, quiet. It wasn’t the house that unsettled her. It was the woman inside it.
Priscillia Walton.
Kennedy’s mother.
Antonia inhaled slowly, then exhaled. You can do this, she told herself.
Kennedy had told her to get their plan right back on track.
She didn't know how she was going to pull it off, but she had to try.
She thought to herself as she finally rang the bell.
The door opened almost immediately.
“Antonia!” Priscillia exclaimed, her face lighting up with genuine warmth. “You came.”
Something tighthened in Antonia’s chest. Why was she so nice to her? It would only make it difficult for her to be dislikeable.
“Yes, ma’am. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Nonsense,” Priscillia said, waving her inside. “I was hoping you would visit. Come in, my dear.”
They settled in the living room, as soon as they got inside the house.
“You look well,” Priscillia said, studying Antonia with keen, assessing eyes softened by affection. “A little nervous, but well.”
Antonia smiled awkwardly. “I tend to get nervous around people I respect.”
Priscillia chuckled. “That’s a good thing. It means you care.”
Their conversation stayed light for a while—Antonia’s work, her upbringing, how her relationship with Kennedy has been. Priscillia listened intently, nodding, occasionally asking questions that were sharp without being intrusive.
“And how is my son treating you?” she asked casually, lifting her teacup.
Antonia hesitated for half a second too long. “He’s… courteous. Very considerate.”
Priscillia smiled knowingly. “That sounds like Kennedy.”
Eventually, Priscillia rose to her feet. “Why don’t you help me with dinner? I hate cooking alone, and I suspect you’ll be far better company than my thoughts.”
In the kitchen, the atmosphere shifted. The clinking of utensils, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables—it all felt oddly intimate, domestic in a way Antonia hadn’t expected.
They worked side by side, shoulders occasionally brushing.
“Antonia,” Priscillia said suddenly, her tone gentler, more serious. “May I ask you something… delicate?”
Antonia’s hands stilled around the knife. “Of course.”
“My son is a complicated man,” Priscillia began. “He has been since… since Ruth.”
The name sent a faint chill down Antonia’s spine, though she kept her expression neutral.
“She was his wife,” Priscillia continued. “His first love. His great love.” She paused, gathering herself. “She died six years ago—an accident that stole her from us far too soon.”
Antonia swallowed. She hadn’t expected this—had known about Ruth in fragments, shadows, Kennedy never gave her details.
“Kennedy was never the same after that,” Priscillia said quietly. “He shut down. Built walls no one could climb. I worried he would live the rest of his life alone, punishing himself for surviving her.”
Antonia’s chest ached.
“Has he told you about her?”
Antonia nodded. "Yes, but not much."
She glanced at Antonia. “Which is why I need to know something.”
Antonia tensed.
“Do you love my son?” Priscillia asked plainly. “Or are you marrying him because it seemed like the right thing to do after dating?”
The knife slipped slightly in Antonia’s hand, nicking her finger. She barely noticed.
All her thoughts were on how she was going to answer Priscillia's question.
“I…” Her voice wavered, then steadied. “I didn’t plan this. I didn’t go looking for Kennedy Walton or his wealth or his name.”
Priscillia waited, eyes unwavering.
“At first,” Antonia continued, “I thought this was just convenience. A little fun. Something to pass time with.” She laughed softly, without humor. “But feelings don’t always ask for permission.”
She set the knife down, turning to face Priscillia fully. “I care for him. More than I intended. More than is safe, considering how tightly he guards his heart.”
Priscillia reached out, squeezing Antonia’s hand. “That’s all I needed to hear. I know he cares for you too, even though he doesn't say it."
Antonia's heartbeat accelerated.
"He wouldn't have proposed marriage if he didn't have feelings." Priscillia continued.
Antonia's heart now was close to ripping out of her chest. Priscillia had no idea that she was being deceived. The engagement. Everything was an act.
They finished preparing dinner in companionable silence.
The sound of the front door opening shattered it.
Kennedy’s voice echoed faintly through the hall. “Mother?”
He stepped into the kitchen and froze.
Antonia and Priscillia stood close together, laughing softly over something trivial. They looked—unsettlingly—comfortable.
For a moment, he didn’t recognize the scene.
“What’s going on?” he asked carefully.
“Dinner,” Priscillia replied cheerfully. “With my future daughter-in-law.”
The word landed like a weight on Antonia’s chest.
She flushed. Kennedy frowned.
\---
At the dining table, plates were served, conversation light again—until Priscillia set her fork down deliberately.
“So,” she said brightly, “have you two fixed a wedding date yet?”
Silence crashed over the table.
Antonia’s eyes widened. Kennedy stiffened.
This was happening too fast.
A wedding date meant permanence. It meant expectations. It meant a future he had never planned.
“A date?” Kennedy repeated.
“Yes,” Priscillia said innocently. “It seems like a reasonable next step.”
Antonia looked at Kennedy, panic flickering in her eyes. He looked equally caught off guard.
“We… haven’t discussed that,” Kennedy said slowly.
“Oh?” Priscillia raised an eyebrow. “I assumed.”
Assumed.
The word hung there, heavy with expectation.
“Well,” she added with a smile that promised this conversation was far from over, “you should start discussing it. A wedding doesn’t plan itself.”
Kennedy swallowed. Antonia forced a polite smile.
Nothing was going according to plan. Instead it was getting more complicated.
And for the first time that day, Kennedy realized the danger wasn’t just in his mother’s questions—
It was in how close Antonia was getting to the parts of his life he had sworn no one would ever touch again.
"Well," his mother spoke again, " just so you know, I intend staying here till you get married."
Kennedy and Antonia’s gazes locked across the table—shock, panic, and something far more dangerous flickering between them.
Because if Priscillia intended to stay until a wedding happened, then this lie was about to destroy them both.