Page 2 of Jordan
The air was clean and crisp and from where he was on the east balcony, he could see clumps of trees waving in the brisk wind. The scent of spring flowers blooming was completely lost on him as he stood there mired in resentment and exhaustion.
He was the only son of the American Wainwright, and it was his duty to carry on the line. At the age of thirty-five, he was derelict in his duty. His father's words. Harry Wainwright was well known for being pompous and precise.
His mother had followed up by reminding him that the line could not be tainted. "Sally Granger is a lovely young lady from an excellent family. It's time you stop running around and do what you're supposed to be doing."
Not that he had anything against the very lovely Sally, but he was turned off on principle. If he had been the one to do the choosing, he would have rushed her to the altar, but having someone conveniently picked out by his parents was not going to work. And there was another pressing reason. He was not interested in marriage, not right now.
He enjoyed his freedom. Not having to tell anyone what he was up to and just heading off somewhere at the spur of the moment was something he enjoyed. But he had no choice. He was the only son, and it was on him to carry on the line.
He had two sisters, but no matter how well they marry, it would always fall on him and he resented the pressure.
Blowing smoke in the air, he watched as it drifted for a second and then dissipated. Feeling the restlessness coming over him again, he wondered briefly, if taking Bitsy to bed would make him feel any better. Deciding not to complicate things, he headed back inside and went straight to the bar.
Feeling the weight of his family's expectations was something that had been built into Jordan since childhood. He had always been reminded that his actions were more than just his own,they were representative of the Wainwright legacy. The pressure had turned what should have been a privilege into a burden.
The Elite Club was supposed to be his escape, a place where he could revel in luxury and forget the stringent demands of his lineage.
However, the grandeur of the club felt hollow. The opulent chandeliers, the imported marble floors, the manicured gardens outside—all these elements of splendor did little to alleviate the turmoil within him. He was ensnared in a cage of his own making, a gilded cage nonetheless, but a cage all the same.
As he nursed his drink, the taste of the finest whiskey in the world did little to settle his mind. The ghost of his father's words haunted him, and his mother's incessant reminders gnawed at him. Even the flirtations of Bitsy Mitchell, the club's resident siren, did nothing to stir the desires he once felt so strongly.
His gaze drifted back to the moonlit landscape, seeking solace in the natural beauty that lay beyond the club's artificial opulence. The moon, cold and distant, seemed to mirror the isolation he felt. The stars, twinkling faintly in the night sky, provided a backdrop that contrasted sharply with the burdens of his reality.
Caught in a swirl of thoughts, he couldn't help but reflect on his life choices. Each one felt predetermined by the weight of his surname, leaving little room for spontaneity or true freedom. Even the simple act of choosing a partner had been strippedaway from him, replaced by a contractual obligation to marry well and preserve the family name.
His frustration grew; a simmering pot barely contained. He desired something more, something different. But the path to Winter's Peak, the journey both he and she were destined to take, loomed ever closer.
He wondered if, like her, he would ever find a way to create his own path, to break free from the chains of expectation.
For now, Jordan resigned himself to the bar, seeking comfort in the transient pleasures the club could offer. The whiskey burned warmly in his chest as he took another sip, yet the fire within him remained unquenched.
*****
"You look like shit."
The bluntness did not surprise her. Caleb Morrison was well known for his direct approach. Her stepbrother was hard as nails, had to be in order to hold down his job as an undercover detective in the NYPD. He looked anything but official. His hair was a wild tangle of untidy twists and there was a weeks' worth of stubble on his harshly attractive face. He was wearing distressed jeans with holes in both knees, and his shirt was torn out at the arms, revealing rippling muscles against tanned skin.
He was back from a six-month undercover stint where they had been successful in rooting out a dangerous gang that specialized in human trafficking. They shared a mother, but their bond was tight. He was three years her senior and had left home as soon as he turned sixteen. But he had always kept in touch with her.
"Thanks," she muttered. She had not bothered with makeup, since she had not left the house, but had kept on working until this afternoon. And barely had time to take a shower and put something on before he showed up.
"You're working yourself into a panic," he continued, watching as she padded to the stove to remove the roast she had put in earlier. She was thin, he thought with a pang. He knew she had a habit of not eating especially when she was working, but he could also see the shadows beneath her eyes. "Dammit Jules. You don't have to go."
"She was my aunt. I know she was not related to you by blood-"
"She wasn't." Sliding off the stool, he brushed past her to open the fridge. Scanning the contents, he selected a can of coke. "Would it kill you to buy some beer?"
"I had no idea you were coming by."
"I called you yesterday," he reminded her as he took out plates. "As usual you forgot."
"You just said you were back." She slid a wry glance over as she started on the salad. "Communication is not your strong suit."
"You're the writer." He eyed her for a minute, before grinning. "I am proud of you sis. You did it."
"I did it." She heaved out a breath and continued slicing into the Romaine. "How long are you staying?"
He shrugged. "Hard to say. The arrests are still going on and then there is the court case." His expression turned grim. "It's a bloody mess."
