Chapter 7

Dahlia

The train lurches to a stop and I grab my suitcase before the doors slide open.

Home.

I haven’t been back in almost two years. The platform looks exactly the same—weathered wooden benches, flower boxes overflowing with petunias, the old station master’s office with its faded green shutters.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

I stare at his name on the screen. Answer or ignore?

I answer.

“Hello Sebastian.”

“What the fuck is this?” No greeting. Just pure rage.

“I assume you’re referring to the divorce papers.”

“The reason, Dahlia.” He sounds like he’s barely containing himself. “You really put in writing that I’m inadequate?”

I can’t help the small smile that pulls at my lips. “Is there a problem with the paperwork? I had a lawyer review it to make sure everything was accurate.”

“Accurate?” I can practically hear him gritting his teeth. “You know damn well that’s not accurate.”

“I stated my experience of our marriage. If you disagree you’re welcome to contest it in court.” I shift my bag to my other shoulder. “I’m sure a judge would be fascinated to hear your side.”

“This is fucking childish.”

“This is something we should have done years ago.”

“Dahlia—”

“Sign the papers, Sebastian.”

There’s a long pause. When he speaks again his voice has shifted into something colder. More dangerous.

“You really think you can survive without everything I’ve given you?”

I laugh. It starts small but builds until I’m standing in the middle of the train station parking lot genuinely laughing.

“What’s so funny?” He sounds genuinely confused.

“You. This whole conversation. The fact that you’re so convinced I’ll fail without you.” I wipe my eyes. “You really think I need you, don’t you?”

“Don’t you?”

“No, Sebastian. I don’t. I stopped needing you a long time ago. I just didn’t realize it because I was too busy trying to make you love me.”

Silence.

“Here’s what you don’t understand,” I continue. “I didn’t marry you for your money or your status or your connections. I married you because I was stupid enough to think you might eventually feel the same way about me that I felt about you. But you won’t. You can’t. So I’m done.”

“You’re going to regret this.”

“Goodbye Sebastian.”

I hang up before he can respond. My hands are shaking. I sit down on a nearby bench and take several deep breaths.

A black Range Rover pulls up in front of me. The window rolls down and I see my father’s face.

Time to go home.

***

The house sits at the end of a tree-lined driveway that winds through acres of manicured vineyard.

It’s a sprawling Mediterranean-style estate with terracotta roof tiles and arched windows.

My father pulls up to the circular driveway and I see my mother’s car already parked by the fountain.

She’s home early.

“Ready?” My father looks at me with gentle eyes.

“Not really.”

He squeezes my shoulder. “She’ll be happy you’re home. She just won’t show it the way normal people do.”

I grab my bag and follow him inside.

The foyer is exactly as I remember with fresh flowers on the console table that someone changes every three days. My mother’s assistant probably.

She appears at the top of the stairs wearing tailored white pants and a silk blouse. Her hair is pulled back in a sleek bun. Even at home she looks like she’s about to chair a meeting.

Annelise Miller descends the stairs looking at me, then at my single suitcase, then back at my face.

“This is unexpected.” Her expression gives nothing away. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“Hi Mom.”

We don’t hug. We never have.

She reaches the bottom of the stairs and studies me more carefully. Her eyes lingering on the fading bruise on my forehead.

“Kitchen,” she says. “Your father will make coffee.”

She gestures to the living room. “Sit. I’ll make tea.

“I can—”

“Sit.”

I sit.

She returns a few minutes later with a tray holding three cups and a steaming teapot.

“So.” She hands me a cup. “To what do we owe this surprise visit?”

“I left Sebastian.”

My father’s expression shifts into concern. My mother’s face remains perfectly composed.

“Left as in separated or left as in—”

“As in I filed for divorce. It’s over.”

My father leans forward. “Sweetheart, are you okay? Did something happen?”

“A lot of things happened.” I stare into my tea. “But mostly I just realized I couldn’t do it anymore.”

I expect my mother to say something cutting. Something about how she warned me. How she knew this would happen. How I should have listened to her when she told me marrying Sebastian was a mistake.

Instead she just takes a sip of her tea and says, “I see.”

That’s it. Just “I see.”

My father reaches over and squeezes my hand. “We’re glad you’re home, sweetheart. Whatever you need, we’re here.”

“What are your plans?” my mother asks.

“I don’t know yet. I resigned from my position at the company. There wasn’t really a point in staying.” I set my cup down. “I thought maybe I could stay here for a bit. Figure things out.”

My mother’s eyes narrow. “Stay here and do what? Hide?”

“Mom—“

“I’m asking a genuine question, Dahlia. A divorce is difficult, yes. But is it really enough to make you give up and retreat home with your tail between your legs?”

“Anne,” my father warns quietly. “That’s enough. She doesn’t need a lecture right now.”

Then she sighs. “Do you remember the summers here?”

The subject change throws me. “Of course.”

“You loved the vineyard. Used to follow Roberto around asking him a hundred questions.” A small smile touches her lips. “Your father couldn’t keep you away from the ranch either.“

I nod slowly, not sure where this is going.

“Then you went to the city. And suddenly you wanted nothing to do with any of it.” Her eyes meet mine.

Guilt twists in my stomach because she’s right. “I was busy—”

“You were embarrassed.” She says it matter-of-factly. “You wanted to fit into his world so badly you.”

“I thought if I try hard enough, maybe he’d actually see me as an equal.” My voice comes out small.

My father makes a sound like his heart is breaking.

My mother just nods. “And how did that work out for you?”

“Mom—”

“I’m not trying to be cruel. I’m trying to make a point.” She refills her tea. “The family business will need to be passed down eventually,” my mother continues. “Your father and I won’t be around to run things forever. But I’m not going to force you into it. That needs to be your choice.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

“I’m not suggesting you take over tomorrow.” She exchanges a glance with my father.

I look up.

“There’s a small farm on the outskirts of town. About fifty acres. We acquired it last year as part of a larger deal but it’s been operating at a loss. The previous owner let things deteriorate and we haven’t had the resources to turn it around.”

“Okay…”

“I want you to turn it around. If you can make it profitable in three months—we’ll know you’re serious about being part of the family business.”

“And if I can’t?”

She shrugs. “Then we’ll know that too.”

It’s a test. Of course it is. My mother doesn’t offer anything without strings attached.

But the idea of it—of working with my hands again, of building something real instead of planning parties for people who barely notice I exist—sparks something in my chest that’s been dead for a long time. Look

“What kind of condition is it in?”

“Rough,” my father says honestly. “The fields need serious work. It’ll take real effort.”

I think about Sebastian’s voice on the phone. His certainty that I’ll fail. That I’ll come crawling back.

“Can I think about it?”

My mother stands. “Take the evening. Let me know tomorrow.”

She starts to leave then pauses at the doorway

“Dahlia.”

I look up.

“That bruise on your forehead. Her eyes narrow. “What happened?”

“It was a car accident a few days ago. I’m fine.”

“You’re home now. Whatever you’ve been enduring alone, you don’t have to anymore. Understand?”

My throat tightens. “Yeah. I understand.”

She nods once and leaves.

My father moves to sit beside me. He doesn’t say anything. Just puts his arm around my shoulders and I lean into him like I used to when I was little.

“She’s tough on you,” he says quietly. “But she’s proud of you. Even if she’ll never say it.”

“I know.”

“And for what it’s worth? I’m glad you’re home. I missed you, Dahlia.”

“I missed you too, Dad.”