What Grows Dies Here

“Because I make it my business to know everything about you,” he replied quietly. “The question is, why didn’t you tell me, sweetheart?”

“It … embarrasses me,” I admitted quietly, looking down because I couldn’t face him while I said that.

Of course, Karson wasn’t going to let me look down in shame. His hand found my chin and tilted it upward so I met his eyes.

He didn’t say anything, the gesture said enough.

I sighed audibly then sucked in some air, trying to find courage. I didn’t find it in the air. I found it in Karson’s eyes.

“I don’t have a purpose,” I whispered. “Don’t have a passion. It’s not noble that I donate to charities, donate my time, start foundations—that’s the bare fucking minimum for someone who has the resources that I do. I live a frivolous life.” I paused, running one of my hands through my hair. “A shallow life. And I’ve been searching for it...” His eyes penetrated me. “Depth,” I admitted under my breath.

“You really fuckin’ think that you don’t have a purpose, a passion?” he asked slowly, quietly, with a dangerous undertone that I didn’t quite understand but made my skin prickle nonetheless.

I didn’t trust myself to speak, or even to nod, so I just stayed silent, rooted in place by his hands.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Wren,” he muttered. He ran his hands up and down my arms before squeezing them again. “I’ve met a lot of people in my life, seen all types, from the worst to some of the best. But I’ve never known anyone like you. Someone who breathes passion. With your vibrancy. Who lights up any space she walks into. Not only that, you light people up. I’ve never seen anything like it. Like when you look at people, you awaken something inside of them that they didn’t even know existed. You have a … magic about you. Something you have to see to believe. And to think you don’t have a purpose?” He shook his head. “You think because you don’t have a nine to five, don’t walk into an office every day, you don’t have a purpose? Think that everything you’ve done is the bare fuckin’ minimum?” He shook his head again. “I’m not a good person,” he tapped his chest. “But I’m also not one hundred percent evil. I don’t believe in that binary shit, but if there are some kind of scales, weighing out our deeds, I know which way mine tips. I’m okay with that.” He cupped my cheek. “I also know which way yours tips. I see you, Wren Whitney. I see through your bullshit. So get your purse, and get in the fucking car. Let yourself be celebrated.”

It may have been because of all of those incredible words. Or because Karson looked fucking great in a tux. Or even because I was really, really late. But I got in the car with him.

My parents were at the event.

Because it was expected, sure. But also because they were proud of me. They did want to support me. And if they could do that publicly, gaining social cache, a tax write-off and some new business contacts, that was a bonus.

My parents did not expect me to attend this event alone because they were used to me and my antics.

So they didn’t look twice when Karson and I walked into the ballroom. We weren’t holding hands, but Karson’s hand was on the small of my back, a gesture infinitely more intimate.

My mother, of course, looked stunning. Her gown was deep purple. Couture, of course. Alexander McQueen. Tailored to perfection, showing of her petite frame. There were diamonds on her wrists, at her neck and ears. Her skin was smooth, lineless, thanks mostly to her Asian genes and a little more to her cosmetic fillers. My mother was in her early sixties—she didn’t have me until her mid-thirties—yet she barely looked forty. Fucking barely. She worked out religiously, had a private chef prepare the meals she barely ate and was always the early adopter of any knew wellness craze.

I had her deep hazel eyes, her delicate cheekbones, her heart shaped mouth.

She still worked seven days a week. Although my father came from money, my mother was not content to be a lady who lunched. Especially because she’d made a name for herself as a property developer before they even met. She took off a week to have me, then I was handed off to nurses when she went back to work.

My mom was a boss.

My father was almost comically taller than her. She was petite, and my father was towering, solid and imposing. Well, he would look imposing if you caught him at a rare moment when he wasn’t smiling. But my father was almost always smiling. And he was beaming when Karson and I approached.

“Princess,” he exclaimed, pulling me into his arms.

Stepping away from Karson, I sank into my father’s embrace, inhaling the aftershave he’d worn since I could remember. Woodsy, expensive.

“Hi, Daddy,” I replied once he let me go.

I leaned in to kiss my mother on the cheek. Her Tom Ford perfume was classy, delicate and smelled of roses.

Her eyes skimmed over me. “You wore the Calvin Klein,” she acknowledged with approval. She smiled less than my father, but her eyes twinkled. “You look perfect.”

Her gaze flickered to Karson, and I watched her assess his suit and its tailoring, her lip curling upward in approval. “And a new suitor,” she observed, the slight lilt to her voice characteristic of her.

“This is Karson,” I introduced. “Karson, these are my parents.”

I hadn’t quite thought about this exact moment once I’d conceded to Karson coming here. I’d been too intoxicated with his presence and the surreal concept of us appearing in public together.

Now that it was happening, I was intrigued to see how this would work. Karson did not seem like someone who would do well meeting parents. Too many pleasantries to be exchanged, too much small talk.

But he transformed before my eyes as he stepped forward to shake my father’s hand.

“Mr. and Mrs. Whitney,” he said, his lips turning upward. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”