Page 55 of Sold to Her Enemy

By the time she was five, she was playing Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 16 in C major and shortly after that, Ava was composing her own music.

My parents whisked her to a child psychologist to ensure her talent wasn’t affecting her development. One said too much piano was terrible for her and that my parents should try to limit it.

My mother didn’t like that advice and sought another opinion. That second opinion said to let Ava have as much access to the piano as possible.

By the time she was twelve, she’d released three albums. Ava had performed on some big stages, but my parents wanted to protect her during her teenage years and kept the performances on the local scene.

That’s when horseback riding took more of a focus.

But I don’t think Ava wanted to do anything besides touch the keys on the piano, listen to modern composers, and compose herself.

Most girls would love horseback riding lessons, but Ava resented anything that took her away from her music.

Mckenna might not be a prodigy, but she earned college credits for biology, chemistry, math, and science while she was in high school.

My father always told me to find the best person for the job, so the fact that she was my sister’s age didn’t bother me when I asked her to tutor me in my chemistry class.

I don’t know why that rejection hurts all these years later, but it does, even though it’s only one of many rejections I have had by Mckenna. She’s always thought herself too good to be seen with me. Now, I pull Mckenna’s leg against mine because I want her closer and that lovely pink blush creeps up her neck.

Did this woman who melts like butter in my hands when I order her on her knees really think she was too good for me, or is it something more? I shift in my seat, not loving where my thinking is taking me. When she spoke to that journalist, it crushed me and hating her has become a habit I don’t want to break.

But for the first time, I’m starting to question whether Mckenna was intent on being the snobby girl who thought she was too good for everyone.

It still doesn’t excuse her poor behavior towards me or what she said to that journalist.

The car stops. Jared comes around, opens my door and then I extend my hand to Mckenna. She gives me a small smile and I clasp my hand over hers and she stumbles. My arm comes around her, pressing her close to me to steady her. I love the feel of her ass under my hand. “Remember, you are playing the part. We are seeing each other. I bumped into you while setting up the offices of Colossus Corp. We’ve been seeing each other ever since.”

“We’ve agreed to let the past be the past,” she says dryly.

“Yes, exactly.” I lace my fingers through hers, squeezing them tightly.

She swallows and nods, staring at my shoes. I don’t care if it makes her uncomfortable; I bought her for the weekend, and she needs to do this.

“Pretty flowers,” Mckenna mumbles as we walk along the path to a pair of grand wooden doors.

“This estate is also known for its winding walking trails.” We stride behind guests, on a curving path that leads to the entrance.

A man in a butler’s uniform held the door for us. The murmur of the crowd reaches my ears as soon as we step over the threshold. We follow the crowd into a vast hall lined with portraits of Detroit’s legends.

At the end of the hall, another pair of white wooden doors open to a large room and as we step through, Mckenna holds my hand so tight I’m sure my fingers are going to bruise.

Framed pictures of my sister and Oliver holding hands are on either side of a table with a guest book, and to the left, there is a receiving line.

In the center of the room is a grand piano. The tables are elegantly spaced around it, and each table has a tall vase with flowers.

Mckenna’s hand is suddenly cold in mine.

“It is chilly in here.” It isn’t, but I want to say something to her. I don’t want to offer comfort, not here, where I have to put on a mask of confidence.

“I’m nervous.” Mckenna leans against me.

“Adrian! Long time!”

I turn, my hand sliding between Mckenna’s shoulder blades, trying to give her reassurance. I could recognize Winston Furrow’s booming voice anywhere.

“Being her brother doesn’t get you to the head of the line?”

It’s not quite a question, more of a remark.

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