“What I think I want to do,” she finally said, “is move the kids to London. We could start fresh, and I won’t need Alan’s money. Even if Dad’s will isn’t overturned, I can get by with what he left me.”
Connor’s expression grew strained, his eyes level under drawn brows.
“Slow down there, Sparky. We need to talk about that.”
“Why?”
“Because he left the London house to me too.”
“But you never go to London,” she replied. “Why should it matter if the kids and I live there?”
“That’s exactly why it matters—because I never go. Dad screwed us over with the winery, so I need to cash in on what, to me, is a useless piece of real estate. We need to sell it.”
Sloane’s lips fell open. “No, we can’t do that. It’s not useless.”
Slowly, silently sipping his scotch, Connor stared at her from across the table. “Then you’re going to have to buy me out, sis, because fifty percent of it belongs to me, and I want my money, not a money pit.”
Sloane exhaled sharply with disbelief. “Are you serious? You know how much I love that house, Connor. And I’m close to Ruth. She’s like a sister to me, and she’s good for Evan and Chloe.”
The mention of their cousin Ruth did nothing to soften the look of determination in Connor’s eyes. “Then buy me out, and the house will be all yours.”
He sipped his drink and watched her with narrowed eyes over the rim of his glass.
“I can’t,” Sloane replied. “If I do that, I’ll have no savings.”
Connor rolled his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe how daft she was. “Come on. Just because you were dumb enough to sign a prenup doesn’t mean Alan won’t have to pay child support. If we sell the house, you’ll have the proceeds on top of what Dad left you. Think of how much money that will be. Alan might give you the LA house in the divorce—if you actually go through with it—and you’ll be sitting pretty. Stay in LA, for pity’s sake. Bloom where you’re planted.”
Sloane sat back and thought about it. It was true. The house in Belgravia would bring in a tidy sum, but Alan had always been very clear about never giving up the LA house, not even for the sake of the kids, because he’d designed it himself. He’d want to buy them another. Maybe she could ask Alan to buy out Connor’s ownership in the Belgravia house. But would Alan agree to that? Knowing him, probably not. He wouldn’t want her to move his kids to another country. He’d try to control where she went by getting them a house in LA.
The waiter arrived with a serving of pasta, but Sloane sighed with defeat because all she saw in front of her was a plate full of carbs. It wasn’t a large portion, but still . . . this would require her to drag herself out of bed an extra hour early to do cardio in the morning.
Feeling dejected, she glanced around at the other people in the restaurant. They were all laughing and talking and enjoying their food, along with each other’s company. They were twirling fettuccine around their forks without the slightest concern.
Sloane turned her attention to her brother across the table. He was holding his phone up with one hand, using his thumb to scroll through messages, while mindlessly shoveling some kind of chicken penne into his mouth.
Sloane picked up her fork, bent forward, and breathed in the intoxicating aroma of the white truffle cream sauce. A memory of the woods outside their father’s villa flashed through her mind. She remembered running and laughing, chasing the dog as he sniffed and dug at the ground.
All at once, something inside her dissolved into a puddle of nostalgic longing. She wasn’t sure what she longed for exactly and wished she possessed a keener, deeper self-awareness. Twirling the pasta around her fork, she closed her eyes, then tasted the rich, al dente noodles. Flavors of mushroom, butter, and thyme came alive on her tongue, and the texture of the fettuccine caused a swift rush of sensory pleasure to course through her body.
“This is delicious,” she said softly.
“Uh-huh,” Connor replied, still scrolling through his Instagram feed.
All Sloane wanted to do in that moment was go straight home to her children and hug them.
CHAPTER 14
FIONA
It was, hands down, the best dinner of my life. I raised my glass of Brunello after the final course was enjoyed. “Please allow me to say something, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart. You Italians sure do know how to cook.”
Maria raised her glass.