“It was never the house that made us a family,” I said.

His eyes filled, but I no longer trusted tears that appeared only after access had been taken away. “The proceeds will be handled through my company. Sabina and I will live somewhere smaller.”

“What about me?”

The question sounded almost like it came from a child. I thought of all the years I’d answered it without him ever needing to ask. What about Thatcher’s career?

His pride? Beatrix’s expectations? The Ashford name? Appearances, investors, guests? Yet on the night Sabina was sick, neither of them had asked the one question that mattered.

What about Sabina?