Chapter 17
DAPHNE
FOUR MONTHS LATER
“Honestly, I don’t know why I even bother these days.”
I stop myself from rolling my eyes. These days? Since when has she ever bothered at all?
Ophelia Hamish, lifelong silver spoon socialite, wife of the former president of Chekhov International, and mother to two beautiful daughters who’d rather have nothing to do with her, dramatically sighs and sets her literal silver spoon on the even daintier matching saucer. “I mean, really. This whole thing is utterly ridiculous.”
“You’re telling me.” I try to hide my mumble behind the tiny, gold–rimmed teacup filled with what I think might be chamomile.
But to my bad luck, she hears me. “You need to apologize.”
I damn near spray the tea all over my mother. “Fucking excuse me?”
“Daphne Elizabeth! Please!” Mother glances around and shoots me her best scolding look. “I know it’s difficult for you to act like a lady, but I must insist you maintain some decorum. I won’t be publicly disgraced any more than you and your sister have already done.”
I wince. As much as I tell myself I don’t care, that one kinda stings.
“In any case,” she continues, “I’ve had many talks with the Ewings and they assured me that the
wedding’s still on. Granted that you can swallow your pride.”
Now, it’s my turn to shoot her a scathing glare.
Under absolutely no circumstances, at all, whatsoever, am I “apologizing” to Sidney Conrad Ewing. For what? Not being sleazy enough? “You do realize, Mother, that he’s the one who left me?” I keep my voice sugary–sweet just for her benefit. “He can’t keep it in his pants to save his life. That’s hardly something I need to apologize for.”
She scoffs. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt you to put in a little more effort. Dress up a bit more. Wear those diamond earrings he gave you for your anniversary. Show him you-”
“How can I wear them when they’re on his fiancée’s ears?” I stab my salad viciously with my fork. “Or did you forget that, too?”
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Mother rolls into another one of her prepared speeches about a woman’s duty to “keep her man interested” and how I’m disgracing the family by not throwing myself at his feet and begging me to take
him back
To be honest? I don’t think he would. Not now, anyway.
Things have changed.
I nudge the leather bag at my feet just to reassure myself it’s still there. In my worst nightmares, I drop the bag and what’s inside goes skittering across the floor to land at the feet of the last person I want to know about my not–so–little secret.
Who that person is, I’m still not sure. Conrad?
Brittany?
Mother?
One face in particular suddenly comes to mind. It’s the same face I’ve been dreaming about for four months, ever since that wild night at the gallery.
“Well, what do you think?”
I snap out of my daydream and blink at Mother. She stares at me expectantly, which means she’s asked me a question I definitely don’t have the answer to. “I, um… sure. Sounds good.” I take another bite of my tasteless salad just for the excuse to not be able to talk.
Mother rolls her eyes yet again. “Pointless. Everything is pointless. You are no help, either! I ask you for one simple thing and it’s like you think I want you to pull your own teeth out.”
Doing favors for you tends to feel that way. “Sorry, Mom. You got me thinking about Conrad and I kind of
drifted off.”
I hate groveling to her. But I hate when she makes a scene–and then passes the blame onto me–even
more.
So, when she sighs and her harsh expression softens, I can’t help but to let out a sigh of relief myself.
One less disaster to navigate. Hopefully.
Maybe.
My relief is short–lived because my phone starts vibrating on the table. Mother expects me to at least check it to see if it’s Conrad; right now is no exception. One super quick glance confirms it–the devil himself is trying to call me for the umpteenth time today.
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Just like he’s been calling me every day, practically nonstop, for nineteen weeks and counting.
Usually, his calls are paired with simultaneous texts from Brittany warning me to “stay away from her man” and “stick to my lane” and whatever else she can think of to stake her so–called territory.
At this rate, I’m surprised she hasn’t peed around his house.
Or maybe she has. I wouldn’t put it past her. “Are you going to answer him?”
Shit. She saw the screen.
I try not to make a face as I turn off the vibration and tuck the phone into my bag. “I don’t want to be rude. I’m having lunch with my mother, and he needs to respect that.”
This does help preen her feathers, so to speak. Mother sits up a bit straighter and offers me a
peacekeeping smile. “Well, even so. His parents keep saying how despondent he’s been since the breakup. You could throw the poor man a bone.”
I just love how everyone has made Conrad’s infidelity and selfishness my problem. Like I’m the one who cheated on him with his longtime rival, threw him out on his ass, and then made him worship the
ground I walk on for the sake of his job.
Oh, wait that was him who did all that to me.
And honestly, whenever I think about everything that happened afterwards, it’s still not even remotely close to my fault. It’s not my fault I got swept off my feet by some hot Russian bajillionaire who looked
like sin and tasted like chaos.
That was all… ahem… what was I saying?
Focus, Daph.
“Honestly, Mom, I don’t think Conrad will want me back. At all. Ever.”
She frowns. Mostly because she hates being called “Mom,” especially in public (because it’s so uncouth for our “social echelon,” or some bullshit like that). But also because she can’t envision a world in which her carefully manipulated plans don’t work in her favor.
Like Sidney Conrad Ewing wanting me for his bride.
“Why not? You come from good breeding, high status, exceptional education. Sure, you had a little tiff. All
lovers do. He-”
“I’m pregnant.”
Mother freezes mid–sip. I decide the radish on the edge of my plate is fascinating and opt to stare at that
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rather than see her veins literally ice over.
“What. Did. You. Just. Say?”
I clear my throat and try to delay with a sip of my own tea. Another cough. A silent prayer that the waitress walking by with a tray of crystal water glasses will dump them all over me.
Anything to distract Mother from her oncoming tirade. “Daphne.”
“Hm?” I ask innocently. “What did you just say?”
I purse my lips. Nudge the bag at my feet once more. Debate on waving the wrapped pee stick in front of
me like a fencing saber to fend off whatever is about to come next.
In the end, though, the damage is already done. “I’m pregnant.”
Mother stares at me. Then, without missing a beat, she returns to her meal. “Well, then that’s that. Obviously, you have to go back to Conrad, and-”
“It’s not his.”
If the first bombshell didn’t do it, the second one sure does.
I think I see–yup, there it is. The frigid fury she’s spent decades honing into her most powerful weapon. The Ophelia Hamish Special. It starts in the stillness of her fingertips as they clutch the silverware and slowly spreads up her arms, to her chest, and then the rest of her body until her face becomes this frozen,
unreadable mask.
It’s honestly impressive.
At least, it would be, if it wasn’t currently aimed at me. “Who the hell else could it belong to?”
Her sugary–sweet voice is promise aplenty that hell itself is about to open wide and swallow me whole. Shit, she’s about to drag me down there herself.
I don’t know how to answer her. Not just for my own self–preservation, but, like… literally. I don’t know how to tell her about the complete stranger who came to my rescue at the eleventh hour and not only pretended to be my date, but literally, literally burned millions of dollars on exacting vengeance for me.
And then taught me what full–bodied, screaming orgasms actually feel like.
He gave me his first name and his phone number. That should have been plenty for me to find him and just… follow up. See if there’s something actually there, or if it was mutually a one–time thing.
Not that it can’t be a one–time thing.
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Just the thought of returning to mediocre limp fish flopping between my legs is enough to make me cry.
I think I’ve stared at that open text conversation every morning, afternoon, and evening since we parted
ways.
I wake up, wonder if today’s the day I finally test the waters and send him a simple Hey, then remind myself the thousand reasons why that’s a terrible idea.
At night, I wonder if his sheets are as cold and empty as mine. Maybe he could come over to my new apartment and help me christen my new bed… and bathroom… and couch… and kitchen….
But men like him live entirely different existences from women like me. He’s probably making a new woman scream his name every night. Several at once, even. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has more of a harem situation than a little black book of conquests.
Now, I’m carrying the third thing he gave me that night.
