The study was Mum’s office, a neat and tidy room on the ground floor of the family home. It had an atmosphere of focus and success, both of which Eve found singularly oppressive, and the only comfortable chair in the room was the vast leather one behind Mum’s desk. Of course, Mum sat in that particular chair, Dad standing behind her like a loyal henchman, which left Eve to perch on the edge of the stiff-backed guest seat opposite. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions, physically or metaphorically.
“Where,” Mum asked, straight to the point as always, “is your website?”
Eve blinked. She had, in her time, owned many websites. Her oldest sister, Chloe, was a web designer, and Eve had always been a loyal client. “Erm . . .” Before she could formulate a response—a nice, precise one that covered all relevant information in exactly the way she wanted—Mum spoke again. That was the trouble with Mum. With most of Eve’s relatives, in fact. They were all so quick, and so uniformly relentless, their intellect blowing Eve about like dandelion fluff in a hurricane.
“I directed my good friend Harriet Hains,” Mum said now, “to your business, because her daughter is recently engaged, and because I was so proud of the success you made of Cecelia’s wedding last week.”
For a moment, Eve basked in the glow of that single word: proud. Mum had been proud. Eve had, for a day, achieved something her brilliant and accomplished mother valued enough to deem it a success. Giddy warmth spread out from her chest in cautious tendrils—until Eve got a grip and clamped firmly down on those rogue emotions. Any external source of validation that affected her so intensely was not to be trusted.
She had planned Cecelia’s wedding, and now she was done with it. Simple as that.
“Harriet told me,” Mum forged on, “that your website URL led her to nothing but an error message. I investigated for myself and can find no trace of your wedding planning business online.” Mum paused for a moment, her frown turning puzzled. “Except a largely incoherent forum post claiming you stole an entire bevy of white doves, but that is an obviously unhinged accusation.”
“Obviously,” Eve agreed. “I paid for those doves, that lying cow.”
Mum gave a glacial stare. “I beg your pardon, Eve Antonia Brown.”
“Let’s focus on the issue at hand, shall we, love?” Dad interjected. “Eve. What’s happened to your business?”
Ah. Yes. Well. There was the rub. “The thing is, Dad, Mum . . . I have decided that wedding planning isn’t for me after all. So, I dissolved the business, deleted the website and disconnected the URL, and closed down all associated social media accounts.” It was best, Eve had found, to simply rip off the bandage.
There was a pause. Then Mum said tightly, “So you gave up. Again.”
Eve swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. The cadence of that single word, the world of disappointment in Mum’s voice, made her feel small and cold and trapped. “Well, no, not exactly. It was just an experience I stumbled into—Cecelia’s original wedding planner was rubbish, so—”
“She was an ordinary woman who couldn’t deal with a spoiled brat like Cecelia Bradley-Coutts,” Dad cut in, frowning deeply. “But you could. You did. And you seemed to enjoy yourself, Eve. We thought you’d—found your calling.”
A cold bead of sweat began to drip, slow and steady, down Eve’s spine. Her calling? Eve wasn’t the sort of woman who had callings. She was free and loose, thank you very much. It suited her disposition far better than—than—
Than shoving everything she was and everything she had into a single dream, and failing, and hurting herself as punishment. There was a little demon in her head that lived for punishment. But that was okay; she knew how to outwit that demon now.
What she didn’t know was how to explain all this to her parents. “It’s for my own good, really,” she began, light and airy. “Everything went suspiciously well—you know I probably couldn’t recreate such success again. Wouldn’t want to disappoint myself.”
Dad stared, crestfallen. “But Eve. You’re disappointing us.”
She flinched.
“You can’t avoid trying at anything in case you fail,” he told her gently. “Failure is a necessary part of growth.”
She wanted to say, That’s what you think. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t, because she wasn’t about to slice open years-old scars for them now. Mum and Dad didn’t need to know about all of Eve’s little imbalances. She handled things just fine.
But clearly, her parents didn’t agree, because Mum was shaking her head and saying, “Enough is enough, Eve. You’re twenty-six years old, perfectly intelligent and absolutely capable, yet you waste time and opportunities like—like a spoiled brat. Like Cecelia.”
Eve sucked in an outraged breath. “I am not spoiled!” She thought for a moment. “Well, perhaps I am mildly spoiled. But I think I’m rather charming with it, don’t you?”
No one laughed. Not even Dad. In fact, he looked rather angry as he demanded, “How many careers do you plan to flit through while living at home and surviving on nothing but the money we give you? Your sisters have moved out, and they work—damned hard—even though they don’t need to. But you went from performing arts, to law school, to teaching. From graphic design to cupcakes to those tiny violins you used to make—”
“I don’t want to talk about the violins,” Eve scowled. She’d quite liked them, but she’d developed a large social media following by filming her musical carpentry. Then various magazines had started writing about her skills, or some such rubbish. When that Russian prodigy had shown up on her doorstep, she’d known things were going too far.
“You don’t want to talk about anything!” Dad exploded. “You dip in and out of professions, then you cut and run. Your mother and I didn’t set up the trust so you girls could become wastes of space,” he said. “We set it up
