My mother, Marietta, is also on the call. They are a picture-perfect pair dressed impeccably and powerful as they sit in their high-rise office in Chicago. Brackston removes his glasses, and the dark eyes that match mine are piercing. He is analysing every pixel on the screen in front of him before he goes in for the attack.
“Have you forgotten what you did?” He asks.
As if I could forget, as if they would let me forget the tiny incident that started it all. They are punishing me after what happened at the last Paris Fashion Week. I had been photographed “shoving” a designer that my mother loves. His whole show was the exact same heroin-chic white woman. I can’t stand that shit, and I told him. The shove that all tabloids used was nothing more than a friendly farewell gesture. But he told the world something else and ensured everyone knew they shouldn’t work with me… or my family.
“No,” I answer, feeling misplaced guilt rise in my throat.
“Then why are you bothering us at Christmas for something so stupid?”
“I wasn’t thinking,” I lie, acquiescing to them rather than having an argument.
Nobody denies Marietta access to her luxuries. My mother has clawed her way up from struggling Greek skincare to running the most exclusive spas in the world. She will do whatever it takes to get what she believes is hers.
My father is no different, Brackston Fields, grew up knowing he would run an empire one day. Nothing has stopped him, slowed him down. The hotels and resorts in the Fields conglomerate are the best because of his ruthless business tactics. He will remove every obstacle in his way by whatever means necessary. He will take any shortcut or loophole and work it until he has all the advantages he needs.
I used to think my parents were inspirations—people I wanted to emulate, to be like when I became an adult.
However, I’ve learned that I am just a pawn in both of their grand schemes for wealth and power. While I would do anything for them, they would do anything with me to get what they wanted.
“This is your chance to finally help the family, Delphini,” Mom purses her lips. “The only way you get out of this arrangement is if he dies.”
Miles stares at me with the same hatred I have for him. Since that phone call, I have been doing my own scheming, plotting, and planning. It has come down to the wire, and my window for getting out of this sham of an arranged marriage is closing faster and faster. The wedding is this weekend. Our rehearsal dinner is tonight. All the evidence I have gathered in the months of sharing an apartment together will be for nothing if there isn’t footage of Audrey and Miles together. The setup is ready, I just have to execute it.
“Jesus, you get worse every time we play, Phi,” Miles says as Audrey hops over to him with a towel.
“Say that to me on the piste with foils,” I sneer, righting my posture with grit teeth. “Then I can-”
“Phi-phi!”
Before my threat is finished, someone shouts my name across the short distance from the club patio to the tennis courts. Even from here, I can see Lottie leaning over the railing and waving. Her white linen trousers are blindingly bright and her sweater is expertly draped over her shoulder.
“I’m done,” I tell them. “I’ll see you at the party later.”
Without a backwards glance, I grab my belongings and leave the court. When I walk up the steps to the patio, I see Lottie at the table we have sat at since we became friends. My usual iced coconut matcha latte is already there and waiting for me.
“Lottie,” I smile and kiss her cheeks when I arrive at the table. “Going sailing?”
“Of course. Marcus and I can’t stay off the water when the weather is this gorgeous.”
Charlotte Ford-Astor is the daughter-in-law to the club’s president. The Astors are one of the founding families of Gwenmore. I am not sure exactly where their money has come from, but it’s old. Her family is from Maine, and their money comes from timber. Charlotte is their golden child with a master’s degree in economics that she will never use because she married her college sweetheart last summer.
Marcus Astor, her husband, has one vice, and it’s old books.
A weird one, but when he drops $137,000 on a book about fishing, only to find out it is a fake, it falls under the category of vices. When your money is centuries old, I suppose it’s easy to brush off a stupid mistake like that. I only know about the incident because Lottie called me sobbing about her inability to get the Hermes Birken she wanted because Marcus had spent that month’s ‘treat’ allowance on a fake book. She had been downright distraught about how she wasn’t sure if she could handle the shame of knowing her husband had been duped. The whole thing was sorted a few weeks later and I was invited to brunch so I could see the new Birken.
“How’s the back swinging coming along?” she asks, a slight cringe in her features.
I take a sip of my latte. “One day, I will hit Miles right upside the head with my racket.”
I hate tennis. I always have. My parents dragged me to Wimbledon summer after summer to sit in the sweltering English heat as if watching professionals would help me pick up the sport. All I did was celebrity watch, making little mental notes of who was with whom and what they discussed between matches. What happens in a VIP section never truly stays there.
While I was still in school, I enjoyed fencing, but outside sports were never something that could hold my attention. I don’t like being out in the sweltering heat if it isn’t for the purpose of lounging by the sea or people-watching. There is certainly no reason for me to be working up a sweat.
She laughs at my joke anyway. Her sleek hair shining in the sun as her head tips back. This is why I like Lottie; she actually laughs. She may sometimes be vapid, but at least she has a sense of humour.
“I know you hate it, but all the work will pay off.” Her eyes dip down from my face, and I know she is thinking about that first time I played tennis here with Miles. That was an absolutely shameful display that I staunchly shove to the back of my mind. “Anyway, best not to work too hard when we are going to have a lovely evening tonight. I love a yacht party. Honestly, it is the best way to have a celebration.”
“I would beg to differ.” I roll my eyes.
