Chapter 77
[Rose's POV]
Sunday morning light filtered through the silk curtains of Magnolia Estate's master bedroom, carrying with it the scent of freshly brewed coffee and Alfred's signature buttermilk pancakes. I stood before the full-length mirror, my fingers unconsciously drifting to my throat where faint red marks still lingered from Friday's library incident. Those gray eyes haunted me. They reminded me so viscerally of Robert that my chest ached with the impossibility of it.
Stop this. I pressed my palm against the cool glass. Gray eyes are common in Boston. You're looking for ghosts where there are only strangers.
The bedroom door burst open without warning. James entered carrying what appeared to be a vintage Chanel suit on a padded hanger, his face bright with determination. The navy blue fabric gleamed with that unmistakable 1960s cut—high collar, knee-length A-line skirt, pearl buttons marching down the front like soldiers at attention.
"I found the perfect outfit for your television appearance," he announced, laying the ensemble across my bed with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. "Chanel never goes out of style. Mrs. Kennedy wore something similar to a state dinner in 1963."
Behind him, Alexander slouched in the doorway, took one look at the suit, and burst out laughing. "Gramps, are we sending her to a 1960s First Lady tea party or a singing competition?"
"This is elegant," James insisted, his voice carrying that stubborn edge I'd learned to recognize. He ran his fingers over the fabric. "Quality tailoring. Timeless sophistication. Everything those other girls will lack."
I bit back a smile as Lily appeared at Alexander's elbow, clutching something pink and sparkly in her small hands. She'd been staying in the main house more often since the music box incident, and I'd noticed her beginning to voice opinions—tentative, careful, but there. "Um... Rose?" She held up a pair of glittery pink sneakers that would have looked at home on a preteen's Instagram feed. "Maybe something younger? Like this?"
The sneakers clashed so spectacularly with James's Chanel vision that even I couldn't suppress my amusement. Alexander snorted. "Oh yeah, pair those with the Jackie O special. Very 'confused time traveler.'"
"Alexander," Christopher's voice cut through the chaos as he entered, looking exhausted in his weekend casual wear. His eyes, I noticed, carried the weight of too many sleepless nights since I'd arrived. "Show some respect." He turned to James, his tone diplomatic but firm. "Grandfather, perhaps we should defer to Sullivan Entertainment's styling team? They have professionals who understand current trends."
James's expression shifted from confidence to something approaching hurt. "I only wanted to help. To contribute something meaningful."
The vulnerability in his voice made my throat tight. This was the man who'd built an empire from nothing, who'd negotiated with titans of industry, reduced to uncertainty by his desire to support me. I crossed to him and took his weathered hands in mine. "Jimmy, I know you want the best for me. But Christopher's right about this. Fashion has changed a lot since..."
He nodded slowly, but I saw the disappointment cloud his features. Lily, sensing the mood shift, carefully set the sparkly sneakers on a chair and backed toward the door. Alexander's smirk had faded into something resembling sympathy.
"However," I added, squeezing James's hands, "I'd be honored if you'd help me choose accessories. You have excellent taste in timepieces." I gestured to the Patek Philippe on his wrist. "Perhaps you could lend me something that represents family history?"
His face transformed instantly. "I have my mother's—your—pearl earrings. The ones from..." He faltered, and I understood. The ones he'd kept for seventy years, waiting.
"Those would be perfect," I said softly.
An hour later, alone in the dressing room, I stood before the mirror in the outfit Sullivan Entertainment's team had selected: dark jeans that actually fit properly, a simple white blouse with subtle detailing, and a leather jacket that somehow managed to look both casual and elegant. Modern, accessible, real.
My hand rose again to my throat. The marks had faded to barely visible shadows, but the memory burned bright. Those eyes—storm-gray, intelligent, concerned—watching as Ethan stumbled backward into the bookshelf. The stranger's face had been striking: sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, an intensity that suggested military training or years in high-stakes situations.
So like Robert's. The thought came unbidden. My husband had possessed that same quality, that air of controlled capability.
You're being ridiculous, I told my reflection sternly. This is grief mixed with shock and a scientifically impossible hope. Gray eyes don't make someone your dead husband reincarnated. Focus on today. Focus on what's real.
My phone buzzed with a message from Christopher: Styling team arriving in 20 minutes. Alfred says breakfast is ready.
I took a breath, forced my shoulders back, and headed downstairs.
By noon, I sat in the back of Christopher's Mercedes as we approached the Boston Convention Center. Traffic had thickened considerably—unusual for a Sunday—and as we rounded the final corner, I understood why.
The red carpet area outside the venue looked like a riot waiting to happen. Crowds of fans, easily three hundred strong, pressed against metal barriers erected along the entrance pathway. Signs waved above heads, voices merged into an incomprehensible roar, and camera flashes created a strobe effect that made my jaw clench involuntarily.
"Jesus," Alexander muttered from the front passenger seat, craning his neck to see. "It's like a presidential campaign."
The largest contingent wore lavender purple—Rachel's signature color—their T-shirts emblazoned with "Rachel - Boston's Nightingale" in glittering script. They waved glow sticks in coordinated patterns while chanting her name with evangelical fervor. Further down, an equally substantial group displayed international flags and held a banner reading "Lisa - Euro Star" in multiple languages. European exchange students, I presumed, their confidence evident even from a distance.
"Rachel went first," Christopher noted, consulting his phone. "Posted on Instagram forty minutes ago." He showed me the image: my stepsister in a floor-length Balmain gown, heels that added four inches to her height, makeup applied with professional precision. She posed with one hand on her hip, the other waggling fingers at the camera in a practiced wave.
"Lisa went second," Alexander added, scrolling through his own feed. "Check out the leather jacket. Very 'rock star.'" Indeed, Lisa had chosen a completely different aesthetic—Versace motorcycle jacket, ripped jeans, combat boots, her blonde hair styled in deliberately messy waves.
As we watched, the two groups of fans began a call-and-response competition, each trying to drown out the other. "RACHEL! RACHEL! RACHEL!" met with "LISA! LISA! LISA!" in a cacophony that made my teeth ache.
Then, through the chaos, both girls appeared simultaneously at the entrance doors—Rachel heading out as Lisa headed in, their paths crossing with the precise timing of a staged encounter. They embraced with exaggerated enthusiasm, air-kissing cheeks while cameras captured every angle. Rachel's hand found Lisa's, squeezing with apparent affection while her smile never quite reached her eyes. Lisa returned the gesture with equal theatrical warmth, and I recognized the performance for what it was: two apex predators acknowledging each other's territory while mentally calculating attack strategies.
This, I thought, is what James wanted me prepared for. Not the singing—the psychological warfare.
"Your turn soon," Christopher said quietly. "Are you ready?"
I looked down at my outfit—deliberately understated compared to the glamour I'd just witnessed. No designer gown, no calculated hair and makeup, no practiced poses. Just jeans, a white blouse, and honesty.
"As ready as I'll ever be."
But as our car began to move forward, I noticed movement in the outer periphery of the crowd, beyond the organized fan sections. An elderly figure in a three-piece suit pushed through younger bodies with surprising determination, and my stomach dropped as recognition hit.
No. Jimmy, what are you doing here?
James stood in the front row of the general crowd section, looking simultaneously out of place and absolutely determined. His silver hair gleamed under the afternoon sun, his vintage three-piece suit marking him as a refugee from another era. In his weathered hands, he gripped a piece of cardboard that read in shaky but legible handwriting: "Rose Evans Official Fan Club - Est. 2024."
Around him, teenage girls in crop tops and ripped jeans stared with open confusion. I heard fragments of their conversation through the open window: "...someone's grandpa?" "...did he get lost from a nursing home?"
A group of Rachel's supporters nearby began to laugh, one girl pointing her phone to record. "Who's the old guy?" "Maybe he's confused about what event this is?"
My door opened—Christopher had gotten out to open it for me—and suddenly dozens of phones swung in my direction. But I barely noticed. I was already moving toward James, my publicist-approved entrance forgotten.
"Jimmy," I said, reaching him and lowering my voice to a tone that brooked no argument. "There are too many people here. The air quality is poor. You shouldn't have come."
His face, so bright with determination moments before, crumpled into something approaching shame. He looked down at his homemade sign, at the excited anticipation draining away like water from a broken vessel. "I only wanted to support you. I thought... I thought you'd like to know someone was here specifically for you."
The hurt in his voice made my chest ache, but my concern for his health overrode sentiment. "I know that. I appreciate it. But your health is more important than any show. Please, go home and rest."
Behind me, I heard whispers intensifying: "...is that James Sullivan?" "...the tech billionaire?" "...what's he doing with a handmade sign?"
Alfred appeared at James's elbow—always nearby when needed—and gently took his arm. "Come along, sir. Let's get you somewhere more comfortable."
James allowed himself to be led away, but not before I heard him mutter to Alfred: "I built a fan club, you know. Thirteen members so far. All my old war buddies and the household staff..." His voice faded as they disappeared into the crowd, and something in my chest twisted painfully.
Alexander appeared at my shoulder, watching James's retreating figure. "That was actually kind of sweet," he said quietly. "In a completely embarrassing, heartbreaking way."
"Get him home safely," I ordered, my voice harsher than intended. "Make sure he rests. If anything happens to him because of this—"
"I'll call ahead," Alexander promised, already pulling out his phone. "Alfred's got him. He'll be fine."
But as I turned toward the red carpet entrance, past the manufactured glamour of Rachel's lavender army and Lisa's European brigade, all I could see was an eighty-year-old man clutching a cardboard sign, trying to support his mother in the only way he knew how.
Thirteen people, I thought again. Thirteen people who matter more than three hundred strangers ever could.