Page 100 of Under Southern Stars
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
SOPHIA
The McKenzie Estate’s main house is a masterclass in understated luxury. No gaudy displays of wealth, just the quiet confidence of people who have never questioned their place in the world. Every piece of furniture, every artwork, every subtle design choice speaks of generations of taste and privilege.
I move through the space on autopilot, nodding and making appropriate sounds of appreciation as Helen McKenzie—not the friendly “call me Helen” but the imperial “Helen McKenzie”—points out architectural features and family heirlooms.
“This painting was commissioned for Jackson’s great-grandfather,” she explains, gesturing to a massive landscape dominating one wall. “The artist captured the original homestead perfectly, don’t you think?”
“Beautiful,” I murmur, though what I really want to say isWho the hell is Jackson?
Madison has no such filter. “Wait, is Jack short for Jackson?” she asks, turning to Emma. “I didn’t know that.”
Emma’s eyebrows rise slightly. “You didn’t? It’s always been Jackson Charles McKenzie on all the official—” She stops abruptly, catching Jack’s warning look. “Sorry,” she adds, not sounding sorry at all.
Jackson Charles McKenzie. Another piece of the puzzle I haven’t known I was solving.
My mind is working overtime, cataloging each new revelation, mapping them against what I’d thought I knew. The “family business” is not some modest vineyard where Jack had learned about grapes as a child; it is a massive commercial operation spread across multiple properties. The “picking grapes” stories take on an entirely new context—not a boy helping with the family farm but the heir to an empire, perhaps indulging in a carefully cultivated narrative of humble beginnings.
And all those “points” for our flight upgrades? I am beginning to doubt they have anything to do with paramedic conferences.
“And this is the formal dining room,” Helen continues, leading us into a space that could comfortably seat twenty. “Though we usually eat in the smaller family dining room unless we’re entertaining.”
Smaller. Family. Dining room.Each word a little dagger.
His own cottage.While I’d been budgeting for a yard service to maintain my modest suburban home, the man I am falling in love with apparently owns acottageon a family estate that looks like something out of a travel magazine.
As the tour continues, I find myself watching Jack as much as the surroundings. He hangs back, shoulders tense, a look of barely contained dread on his face.Good, a bitter part of me thinks.At least he knows how badly he’s screwed up.
We move outside to the vineyard portion of the tour. Helen keeps up a steady stream of information about grape varieties,soil composition, and the history of the estate. Under different circumstances, I would have found it fascinating. Now, each fact feels like further evidence of Jack’s deception.
“Of course, Jackson was always more interested in rugby than viticulture,” Helen remarks as we walk between rows of carefully tended vines. “Though he did earn his sommelier certification before running off to America to play at being a paramedic.”
I stumble slightly, caught off-guard by both the casual dismissal of Jack’s career and the revelation of yet another qualification I’d known nothing about.
Jack is at my side instantly, a hand at my elbow to steady me. I flinch away from his touch.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
The hurt in his eyes is genuine, but at that moment, I can’t bring myself to care.
“Mom,” Madison calls from up ahead, where she is walking with Lily and Emma. “Lily says we’re going to see the kiwi sanctuary Jack started! Is that true?”
“Apparently,” I call back, unable to keep a hint of sharpness from my voice.
“It’s quite remarkable,” Michael says, falling into step beside me. “Not many sixteen-year-olds would convince their parents to set aside fifty acres for endangered birds. But Jack was always…different. In the best way.”
I glance at him, surprised by his supportive tone. “Fifty acres,” I repeat. “That’s…substantial.”
“For the birds? Yes. For the estate? A small corner.” Michael’s eyes crinkle. “Though Helen threw a fit about the location. Prime grape-growing slopes, you see. Jack insisted it was the perfect microclimate for the kiwis.”
I can’t help but picture teenage Jack, standing up to his family for a wounded bird. That part, at least, feels like the man I know.
Helen has moved ahead with Madison and the sisters, giving us a moment of relative privacy. Michael seems to sense the tension and discretely increases his pace, leaving Jack and me briefly alone.
“Sophia,” Jack begins, his voice low and urgent. “I know this is overwhelming. I should have—”
“Yes, you should have,” I cut him off. “But not here. Not now.”
