They were back at the estate.
Elise stood on the front porch. The wind was picking up, blowing dead leaves across the driveway.
A military escort pulled up. Two soldiers in dress blues got out. Then, the back door opened.
A cane hit the pavement first.
Then a man stepped out.
He was wearing civilian clothes-jeans and a sweater. He had a bandage around his head and his arm was in a sling. He leaned heavily on the cane.
It was Jayden.
Or rather, the man the world said was Jayden.
Joyce rushed down the steps. She stopped three feet away from him. Her face hardened.
"You made it back," she said. Her voice was devoid of maternal warmth. "And my son didn't."
The man looked down at the pavement. "I'm sorry, Mother."
Elise watched from the porch. His voice... it was low and raspy, as if strained by his injuries. It lacked the smooth polish of Jarret's public voice, but also the deep, velvety texture Elise remembered from her wedding night.
She shook her head. Grief was making her crazy. It was making her hear things.
Cristine ran past Joyce. She threw her arms around the man.
"Oh, thank god," she sobbed. She buried her face in his neck.
It was too intimate. The hug lasted five seconds too long.
The man winced. He pulled away from her, his eyes darting to Elise.
He limped up the stairs. He stopped in front of Elise.
"Elise," he said. "I... I was with him at the end."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a watch. Jarret's watch. The glass was cracked. He held it out, his gaze steady and assessing, as if weighing Elise's reaction.
Elise took it. The metal was cold against her palm.
She looked into his eyes. They were blue. They were Jarret's eyes. But they were also Jayden's eyes. They were identical twins.
"Did he suffer?" Elise asked. Her voice trembled.
"No," he said softly. "It was quick."
"Enough," Joyce snapped from the driveway. "Get inside. We have to discuss the press statement."
They moved into the dining room. Dinner was served in silence.
The man sat in the chair at the head of the table. Jarret's chair.
Joyce slammed her silverware down.
"That is Jarret's chair," she hissed.
The man paused. He looked at Joyce. For a second, just a split second, a flicker of annoyance crossed his face. It wasn't the look of a submissive younger brother. It was a look of entitlement.
He stood up slowly, feigning a wince of pain, and moved to the side chair.
Elise watched him. Why would the "beta" twin feel entitled to the "alpha" seat?
Cristine was sitting next to him. She kept touching his arm. "Are you okay? Do you need water? Wine?"
Elise felt the nausea rise in her throat again. She pushed her plate away. The smell of the roast beef was making her stomach turn.
Joyce glared at Elise. "Eat, Elise. You look gaunt. It's bad for the press photos."
"I'm not hungry," Elise said.
"Eat," Joyce commanded.
"Leave her alone, Mother."
The voice cut through the room like a whip.
They all froze. The man-Jayden-was staring at Joyce. His tone was commanding. Authoritative.
Joyce looked shocked. "Excuse me?"
"She's grieving," he said, his voice dropping back to a softer register, but the edge remained. "Let her be. The press would have a field day with a grieving widow collapsing at her first family dinner."
Elise looked at him. He was staring at his plate, gripping his fork so hard his knuckles were white.
Why was he defending her? Jarret never defended her. Jayden barely knew her.
Something was wrong. The air in the room felt charged, like a storm was about to break.
