Made in Manhattan

One

Violet Victoria Townsend was plenty aware that she was the very epitome of a stock character for snob.

Ask any sketch artist to draw a pampered Upper East Side princess, and Violet would skip straight to the top of the suspect list. Shiny, bouncy hair? Check. Expertly applied yet barely noticeable makeup? Check. Pretty, but not in the look again kind of way? Yup.

Her nails were never chipped, her ends never split. Her outfits tended toward neutrals and were always paired with a strand of simple, understated pearls around her neck. Even her home address was eye-rollingly cliché. She’d lived in the same apartment off Madison Avenue since age eleven, when her grandmother took her in.

Did that make Violet a caricature? Perhaps. But a self-aware one. Violet had heard all the Blair Waldorf, Charlotte York, and Holly Golightly comparisons and had made peace with it a long time ago.

So, yeah. She could and often did rock a headband. She had a purse dog named after a luxury brand of handbag (Coco, as in Chanel). Did she sometimes summer in the Hamptons? Indeed, and she was guilty of using summer as a verb.

But Violet Townsend was also kind to strangers, considerate of others’ feelings, and generous with her time. She always brought the perfect hostess gift to a party. Her brunches offered bountiful mimosas with high-quality bacon and vegetarian options.

Violet was also heavily involved with a half-dozen charities, volunteered as a tutor every Wednesday afternoon, and was adamantly opposed to gossip, though still somehow found herself knowing everything about everyone.

Not that she expected a medal for any of this. It was just that she figured if she was lucky enough to be born a privileged heiress, she sure as hell better be a good and generous person to go with it.

Which was why, when her late grandmother’s best friend had commanded Violet’s presence on a Sunday afternoon, Violet hadn’t hesitated to reschedule her longstanding Sunday date with her best friend.

Edith Rhodes was a precise, specific sort of woman. Violet would know; she’d been serving as Edith’s right hand of sorts ever since graduating college. But while Edith was a demanding, high-powered CEO, she was no diva. She planned everything down to the minute, believed that urgent was synonymous with ill-prepared.

In other words, not the sort of woman to cry wolf. If Edith needed Violet now, it meant now. And that something was amiss.

The January afternoon was sunny but brisk as Violet made the short walk to Edith’s Park Avenue home. She was perfectly polished as ever, because if Edith had taught Violet anything in the few years since she’d taken her under her wing, it was that emergencies were best approached with lipstick and a great pair of heels.

Violet was dressed in burgundy pumps, gray slacks, a white blouse, and, of course, the ever-present pearls that had become her trademark of sorts, even if their legacy was a bit sad.

But Violet didn’t like to think about that.

Good afternoon, Alvin, she said, stepping into the foyer and smiling at Edith’s live-in butler, maintenance man, and all-around loyal companion.

He looked pointedly at Violet’s feet, where Coco was usually happily prancing around her ankles. And where is my little lady?

At home, getting her beauty sleep. She hates the cold, and her best sweaters are dirty, she said with a wink, though her little Yorkie really did have a pile of doggy-sized sweaters in Violet’s laundry basket.

She gave Alvin an assessing once-over. How are we today?

He took her jacket with one hand and patted his slightly rounded belly with the other, looking forlorn. It’s the stomach, dear. Probably an ulcer. Could be much worse.

Mmm. She made a sympathetic noise, even as she tucked her tongue into her cheek. I’m so sorry to hear that. What did Dr. Howell say?

He frowned at her, looking just the slightest bit sulky, closer to six than his actual sixty.

Violet waited. Patient.

His frown deepened a little as he huffed, relenting. Gas, he admitted. But the doctor seemed off his game. I may go back in a week when he’s got his head on straight.

Of course, Violet said. She pointed at his foot. And the toe?

Last week, Alvin had self-diagnosed a sore toe as gangrene, for which amputation was the only likely cure, even as Edith had reminded him he’d stubbed that very toe on the sideboard in the dining room.

He blinked, no doubt struggling to keep track of his many ailments, then a little sheepishly said, Oh. The toe’s better.

Wonderful. Violet smiled. I’m glad you got to keep it after all.

He narrowed his eyes, then waggled a scolding finger at her. When you were little, you didn’t used to sass me.

Who’s sassing? she asked innocently, kissing his cheek as she moved toward the parlor. He was an exhausting hypochondriac, but he was her hypochondriac. Edith in here?

Yes. Alvin’s playful demeanor evaporated, replaced with concern, and not for his ulcer/gas.

The door was open a crack, and Edith’s head snapped up when Violet stepped into the room.

Violet. Edith’s utterance was more breath than word, and Violet’s stomach lurched in worry. The Edith she knew was never rattled, but the woman in front of her now looked downright fragile.

Edith seemed to sense Violet’s thoughts, because she resolutely straightened her shoulders.

Where’s Coco? Edith asked with a frown, glancing around the floor where Violet’s dog generally ran in circles.

Home, Violet said, sitting beside Edith on the love seat, taking her hand, and getting straight to the point. What’s wrong?

Edith swallowed, her free hand lifting to fiddle with her necklace. Violet’s concern notched up to outright alarm. Edith Rhodes did not fiddle.

The older woman slowly, deliberately dropped her hand back into her lap, as though trying to regain control. It’s about Adam.

Violet squeezed Edith’s hand in silent sympathy. Edith’s only son had died just a few months earlier. The loss had been hard on Edith, obviously, but Violet suspected that even Edith knew she’d lost Adam to addiction and his hard-partying ways long before he’d overdosed on a toxic mix of alcohol and heroin.

Which was why Edith’s distress now was a bit puzzling. A delayed reaction, perhaps, though Edith didn’t seem the type. She dealt with everything in the here and now.

Edith swallowed, then cleared her throat, her eyes darting nervously to the far corner of the room, before coming back to Violet. You know that Bernard and I hoped to leave the company to Adam.

Violet nodded, carefully hiding her skepticism about how that would have gone. The Adam Rhodes that Violet had known had been in no condition to take over a lemonade stand, much less the Rhodes International conglomerate. Violet wasn’t technically an employee herself, but as Edith’s right hand and personal assistant for several years, she’d learned enough about the business to know that multimillion-dollar real estate investment deals were on the table daily; not exactly the place for a man whose primary concern at work had been keeping his corner office sideboard stocked with his beloved bourbon.

Knowing that Rhodes would pass out of the family made Adam’s passing doubly hard, Edith continued, swallowing. I should have made peace with it long ago, with Adam being who he was, and an only child who never married…

Violet nodded again, this time in understanding. Edith had lost a beloved husband just last year, then a son months later. Since Violet had lost, well, everyone, she knew all too well the ache, the sense of being unmoored with nothing—and no one—to hold on to. What can I do? What do you need?

Edith’s blue gaze searched Violet’s face affectionately. You’ve always been so good to me.

Violet gave her a gently reprimanding look. Says the woman who helped raise me. You’re practically family. Tell me what’s bothering you. We’ll fix it.

Edith’s fingers went to her temples, past the point of pretending she was fine. It’s no secret Adam was always a bit wild.

Understatement. Sure.

"Well, it would seem he had one particularly wild escapade during spring break his junior year of college. He went to… Cabo… Cancún… I forget, Edith said with a wave of her hand. He met a girl, and, well, you know Adam. He always liked women."

Lots of women, Violet mentally amended.

Is there… is this woman threatening blackmail of some kind? Violet asked, trying to keep from begging Edith to spit it out already.

She’s dead.

Violet jolted, because the cold pronouncement hadn’t come from Edith, but from a harsh, masculine voice behind them.

Violet stood, the smooth motion belying her galloping heart as she searched for the source of the voice.

She stilled when she saw the man leaning against the mantel at the far side of the room. How in the world she had missed him when she’d entered was beyond her. Violet couldn’t make out much of him from his place lurking in the shadows, but his sheer presence seemed enormous. Looming and very male, especially when contrasted with the fussy Victorian decor of Edith Rhodes’s parlor.

For that matter, this man didn’t even look as though he knew what a parlor was. He was dressed in faded jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and scuffed boots, and one thing was abundantly clear: he did not belong here.

Get out, Violet said, taking calm command of the situation. I don’t know who you are, but you can’t just come barging in like some sort of… some sort of—

A very dark eyebrow lifted in insolent challenge. Some sort of what?

Violet. Edith’s voice was quiet.

Violet meant to look at the other woman, but she seemed to be locked in the angry, sullen gaze of the stranger.

Violet, Edith said, her voice a bit more steady this time. I’d like to introduce you to my long-lost grandson.

Two

The silence went off like a rocket, explosive and all-consuming in its stillness.

Grandson!

Edith didn’t have a grandson. Adam was an only child, had never married, had never had children—

Violet’s brain slowly caught up as she recalled what Edith had just told her about Adam’s wild spring break. It had clearly resulted in…

Him. The man leaning against the mantel hadn’t moved a muscle.

Violet blinked rapidly, trying to regain her composure. Tried, and failed, because the next words out of her mouth were atypically rude. Are you sure?

This is Cain Rhodes, Edith said, her tone leaving no room for doubt. Adam’s son.

Stone, he snapped.

The single word, harshly uttered, rippled through Violet with unsettling intensity. He had a rasp of a voice: low, angry, and… southern? It certainly wasn’t the crisp tones she was used to hearing from men in her social circle.

Stone? Violet repeated.

He dipped his chin downward. "My name is Cain Stone. Not Rhodes." He practically spat the last word as though it was an obscenity.

Cain Stone.

She repeated his name in her head, decided it was fitting. It had a sharp brusqueness to it, which certainly fit its owner.

Edith stood, and Violet instinctively reached out to keep her steady. But Edith gave her a sharp look, and Violet dropped her hand, knowing Edith’s dislike for demonstrations of weakness.

Edith nodded toward her grandson. When Adam was in college, Cain’s mother and Adam had a—

They fucked, Cain said in a bored tone.

If he was going for shock value, he succeeded in surprising Violet, but Edith merely shot him a cool, disapproving look. Cain was the product of their union.

Violet pressed her lips together, torn between amusement and alarm. The contrast between grandmother’s and grandson’s word choice could not be more telling.

How did he find you? Violet asked Edith, trying to pretend that Cain’s intensely masculine presence didn’t unnerve her.

He picked up on the skepticism in Violet’s tone and gave an incredulous laugh. You think I’m a fraud?

Actually, yes. Violet did think that. She lifted her chin and met his eyes to let him know it.

There was no way this rough, ill-mannered man had Rhodes blood running through his veins. Adam Rhodes may have been a dedicated party boy, but he’d had blue blood through and through, polished to the point of slickness. Violet found it hard to fathom that Adam could have fathered someone so… coarse.

Listen, Duchess, Cain said mockingly, pushing away from the mantel and standing to his full height, which was… tall. Very tall. "Her majesty here came and found me, so you can take all your suspicious snobbery and shove it right up your tight little—"

He’s quite right, Edith interrupted quickly. I sought him out. Not the other way around.

Why didn’t you tell me? Violet asked softly, trying to hide her hurt. Edith was as close to family as Violet had, and she’d thought the sentiment went both ways. Just in the past few weeks, they’d celebrated Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and New Year’s together.

Holidays and personal relationship aside, they’d also spent countless weekday hours together, Edith as the CEO of Rhodes International, Violet as her right hand. There’d been more than enough opportunity for Edith to bring Violet up to speed on something this momentous, she’d just…

Chosen not to.

The appearance of a grandson was easily the biggest event in Edith’s life since her husband’s and son’s passing, and yet somehow, Violet hadn’t made it onto her list of confidants.

Violet inhaled, trying to tuck the pain away to be unpacked later, but her tone was still accusatory. How long have you known?

Just after Thanksgiving, I finally forced myself to go through some of Adam’s things. There was a birth certificate. Eve Stone was the mother, Adam unmistakably listed as the father. And a baby boy. Cain.

A flicker of amusement edged out some of Violet’s hurt, and she lifted three fingers to her lips in an unsuccessful attempt to hold back a laugh. Adam and Eve had a baby, and they named him Cain? As in Cain and Abel?

"She, the man corrected in a low warning tone. My mother named me. Adam didn’t have shit to do with it."

Fine, Violet said in a reasonable tone, shifting to face him. "So your mother named you after an Old Testament murderer who committed fratricide?"

He merely glared at her.

Fratricide refers to the killing of one’s broth—

I know what it means, he snapped. And I don’t have a brother, dead or otherwise.

"You do have a grandmother, however, Edith interjected, bringing them back to the point at hand. Which makes you the only heir to Rhodes International."

Violet prided herself in tidily hiding her emotions, but even her carefully practiced self-control had limits, and her mouth dropped open. "Edith. You cannot be serious. You want to turn over the company?"

She managed to withhold the incredulous addition of "to him?"

Barely.

He’s my grandson, Edith repeated, as though she needed to keep reminding herself of that fact. The company has always been run by a Rhodes. And it was Bernard’s dying wish that it stay that way.

But Bernard couldn’t have known Adam would die so tragically young, or that his only son…

Violet cast Cain a dubious glance, and he narrowed his eyes in response.

Edith’s gaze was pleading as she stared at Violet, begging her to understand. He’s family.

"Family, the man echoed tauntingly. I don’t know how things work in this concrete monstrosity you call a city, or this museum you call home, but where I’m from, family doesn’t pretend someone doesn’t exist for thirty years."

Oh, would you quit squawking about that, Edith said impatiently. Violet bit back a smile. "I’ll say this one last time until you get it through your head: there was no pretending. I didn’t know you existed until recently, and I began seeking you out the very second I found out."

Cain snorted in derision. Meaning you got out your checkbook and sent someone to Louisiana to come find me.

Louisiana. That explained the accent.

Edith clasped her hands and gave him a pleading look that Violet had never seen before. Cain, please. I was skeptical… I didn’t think Adam would have kept my only grandson from me—

Dear old Dad sounds like a real asshole, Cain drawled.

Like father like son, Violet said under her breath.

Edith’s hearing wasn’t as good as it once was, and she missed Violet’s remark.

Cain had not.

His dark eyes cut over to her, darkening in annoyance before returning his attention to his grandmother. I told you, I don’t want any part of this.

And yet, you’re here, Edith said just a bit smugly.

He crossed his arms and scowled. "Can’t say the words billion-dollar company didn’t have me curious. But I don’t belong here."

No, you don’t, Edith said bluntly. Which is why I’ve asked Violet to join us.

Violet jolted at the mention of her name. She’d been assuming Edith had called her here for moral support, but seeing the stubborn, speculative expression on Edith’s face had Violet bracing for a more taxing request.

My retirement at the end of the year’s a foregone conclusion, Edith said. "The board is already planning to vote for my replacement. And though I’d resigned myself to handing over the reins to a non-Rhodes, if I don’t have to…"

The raw hope in Edith’s voice scraped at Violet’s heart.

I can teach him to run the company, Edith said to Violet with almost girlish enthusiasm. It’ll be a steep learning curve, but it can be done. The boy’s sharp.

Violet’s lips twitched as the large, angry man let out a slight growl at being described as a boy.

But those rough edges will need smoothing, Edith continued, not bothering to lower her voice. "He’ll need an entrée not just into the business world, which I can offer, but into the social circle—your social circle."

Now hold on, Cain interrupted angrily. "I have no intention of getting anywhere near the duchess and her fellow Barbies. She looks more like the woman on an ugly broach my mom inherited from my grandma—my real grandma—than she does a real woman."

Violet bristled. It was one thing to insult her, but his words had been chosen to deliberately wound Edith, and that was not okay with her.

Well then, feel free to hightail it on back to Louisiana, Violet snapped with uncharacteristic temper. "Because I can assure you the broach and her Barbies don’t want anything to do with your torn-up jeans and ponytail."

Violet. Edith’s voice was openly pleading now, and Violet looked at her warily.

Please. Teach him. Help him belong.

Violet and Cain let out twin laughs—his rougher than hers, but no less derisive.

You’re joking, Violet said just as Cain snarled a "Hell no."

Edith scowled at them as though they were rebellious children. It’s a logical plan. Nobody knows the unspoken rules of Manhattan life like Violet.

Violet flinched. She knew Edith had meant it as a compliment, but for the briefest of moments, her heart sank at the thought that that was perhaps all she was. A collection of rules. Rules she never questioned, always followed. A vessel for pretty manners, problem solving, and whatever anyone needed from her.

Edith was too distracted to