Chapter 8 — Remembering the Past
Alex had nothing scheduled the next day, one of the last free mornings before her contract officially began. She used it the way she'd promised herself she would the second she'd agreed to come back: she went to see her family.
The drive out took two hours, mostly silent, Fidelia sensing early on that this wasn't a trip that wanted conversation. The mausoleum sat at the edge of a quiet cemetery, her grandfather's name carved beside her grandmother's, and beside them both, her mother's.
Her grandfather had brought her mother's ashes back to Florelia himself after she died in New Bell, unwilling to let her rest anywhere but beside the woman she'd come from. He'd been buried there himself only a few years later, and Alex hadn't made it back in time to say goodbye — she'd been working overseas when it happened, and by the time she'd heard, there was nothing left to do but grieve from a distance.
She laid the flowers down and stood there for a while before she trusted her voice enough to speak.
"Hi, Mom. It's been a long time." She kept her eyes on the engraved name rather than looking at Fidelia, who stood a respectful step behind her. "I hope Grandfather took good care of you. I'm back now. Your little girl grew up — became a model, just like you did, and I even landed a role in a film. I think you'd be proud." She paused, throat tight. "I'm still your strong, independent girl. I love you."
She moved her hand to rest against her grandfather's headstone next. "I kept my promise, Grandfather. I'm sorry it took this long, and I'm sorry I wasn't here at the end. I'm going to get back everything Alan Porter took from this family. I meant it every time I said it to you, and I mean it now."
A tear slipped free before she could stop it. Behind her, Fidelia wiped her own eyes without a word, then quietly promised Alex's mother, as she always did on these visits, that she'd keep watching over her daughter.
They sat with the graves a while longer, sharing the small bottle of wine Alex had brought, before finally heading back to the car in silence.
It was on the drive back that Alex spoke again, unprompted, staring out the window at the passing hills. "My grandfather, Charles Michell, was a stylist. He built a whole fashion house here, several stores across the country. He met my grandmother in France, on one of her trips — she was beautiful, according to him, though I suppose every man says that about the woman he loved. I look like her, apparently."
Fidelia said nothing, letting the story unfold at its own pace.
"She was born in New Bell, actually, and moved here as a teenager. That's where she met my grandfather. They married fast, and my mother was born two years later. By twenty, my mother was modeling for what would become my father's company — that's how they met. She had no idea, not for years, that the whole marriage had been engineered from the start, just a way for my father's family to get their hands on my grandfather's fashion house."
She kept her eyes forward, voice steady in the deliberate way people talk about things they've rehearsed telling themselves for years.
"My grandmother died when I was seven. My grandfather never really recovered — he handed the business over to my father, trusted him completely. Four years later, my mother found out about the affair. She filed for divorce, but she'd signed everything away without realizing it, and the courts didn't side with her. I ended up with my father for a year. My stepmother. Her children." Her hand tightened slightly on her knee. "It was the worst year of my life. If my mother hadn't come every weekend, I don't know that I would have survived it. And then there was the day with my half-brother — the day you already know about."
Fidelia reached over and took her hand without a word.
"That was the day my mother came to get me. She found me afterward — my clothes torn, crying, and that was it for her. She fought for sole custody after that, but my father denied everything, said there was no proof. He used it as leverage — she could have me back, but only if she signed over her share of my grandfather's business, the one she'd been running in his name. She did it without hesitating. My grandfather agreed it was the right call. And that's how we ended up leaving the country and settling in New Bell."
Fidelia didn't say anything for a long moment, just held onto her friend's hand a little tighter, absorbing a childhood so different from her own that she didn't quite know how to respond to it.
"My grandfather kept working even after he lost everything," Alex continued, a small smile finally breaking through. "He helped raise me from a distance, made sure my mother and I never went without. Before he died, I promised him I'd take it all back. Whatever it costs."
"You have me," Fidelia said simply, squeezing her hand. "Whatever you need."
To shake off the weight sitting over the car, Alex reached for the radio and pulled up a song that had gotten her through worse days than this one — something upbeat enough that within a minute, both of them were singing along badly and laughing at how badly they were doing it, the heaviness of the cemetery slowly giving way to something lighter.
Across the city, in an office that looked like it belonged in an old film — dark wood, high ceilings, the kind of grandeur nobody built anymore — Eli Jensen sat across from his son, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Son, in six months, this office is yours," Eli said, already halfway into a daydream about the retirement waiting on the other side. "Your mother and I are finally going to see the world."
Eliott's eyebrows drew together. "You remind me every single day. Thank you for that. My last few months of freedom, and you won't let me forget it."
"Your mother's waiting eagerly for that wedding, in case you've forgotten the terms." Eli grinned, entirely unbothered by his son's irritation. "I'm not cancelling our trip because you can't be bothered to find yourself a wife."
Eliott shrugged with a faint, unreadable smile. "Might want to start cancelling anyway, Dad. Still single. Sorry to disappoint you."
"Single, or just not telling me something?" Eli leaned back in his chair, studying his son with the particular sharpness that had made him a formidable businessman for four decades and an even more formidable father. "You've had that look about you for a few days now. The one your mother gets when she's hiding a surprise."
"I have no idea what look you're referring to."
"The distracted one. You checked your phone four times in the last ten minutes, and you've never once done that during one of our meetings in thirty years." Eli's smile turned knowing. "I raised you. I know when something's shifted."
"It's nothing," Eliott said, though he didn't quite manage to keep the smile off his own face while saying it, which only made his father's grin widen further.
"If it's nothing, you won't mind me mentioning it to your mother tonight."
"Do whatever you want. You always do." Eliott stood, straightening his jacket, already moving toward the door before his father could press further. Some things he wasn't ready to explain yet — not because he was ashamed of them, but because he hadn't fully explained them to himself.
"Six months, Eliott," Eli called after him, his tone softening into something more sincere beneath the teasing. "I mean it. Your mother and I have waited long enough."
"I know, Dad." He paused at the door, something almost gentle crossing his expression before he caught himself and smoothed it back into the composed mask he wore for everyone outside this office. "I won't make you wait much longer. I promise."
He left before his father could ask him to clarify exactly what he meant by that, mostly because he wasn't entirely sure himself.