Later that night, Mr. Salvatore stepped onto the dais to give the gala's keynote. He spoke with confidence, thanking the organizers for allowing the hotel to host this fantastic event and for the opportunity to talk about the importance of giving to charity.
"Mybeautiful wife," he said, voice soft as he looked at Claire, eyes glowing, raising his glass in tribute. "Had a wonderful idea, as she always does."
The room erupted in warm laughter and applause at his devotion. Claire had smiled gently back at him, shaking her head in amusement.
My mother's face cracked a little more, and my father looked as though he might be sick.
"We will be matching the donations from tonight."
You could hear a pin drop.
This gala was famous, and donors who attended had very deep pockets. The donations accrued tonight had to be within the tens of millions.
We were wealthy, but my father couldn't just drop that kind of money without calling his Financial Advisor first. My mother looked green with envy, but my father... my father looked broken in half. Weak and pathetic.
Then the applause started, deafening—roaring and rowdy—as people praised Mr. and Mrs. Salvatore for theirgenerosity.They were all anyone could talk about for months after—my mother couldn't attend a lunch, a party, or a ball without hearing the nameClaire Salvatore.
Add in the fact that the woman she had destroyed once had clearly upgraded majorly from Ellis Cabot, who was still in love with his first wife, had broken Bella Cabotjust a bit.
Not the love part, she couldn't do anything with that, but the feeling of true defeat was excruciating for her.
And, later, when I went to the bathroom topowder my nose,I cackled at the memory of my mother's face.Bitch.
"TomyClaire," Grant Salvatore murmured, raising his glass again, and the crowd echoed it without question. He stood tall, addressing the room, but his eyes stayed fixed on his wife. "Tutto ciò che sono appartiene a te, regina mia."
All that I am belongs to you, my queen.
That event changed everything.
My father threw himself into politics with a desperation that felt almost manic, chasing validation from every headline, every handshake, every photo op. My mother, meanwhile, slipped seamlessly into the role of the perfect politician's wife. She was so distracted, so focused that she stopped enrolling me in pageants altogether.
"What aboutMiss Massachusetts Teen America?"
"What's the point?" she'd laughed, a cold, cruel sound that still echoes in my head. "Can you even remember the last time you won the grand prize?"
That single sentence had sliced right through me, cutting deeper than any insult she'd ever thrown.
And yet, in a strange, twisted way, it had been freeing.
For years, the pageants had been my prison—sequins, spray tans, and smiles that hurt. Without that structure, I didn't know what to do with myself.
So, I started having fun.
And that fun would end with my father having to cover it up.
The first time I got pulled over, I was eighteen, flying down Route 1 in my white Porsche after a party at Clay Erikson's lake house. The blue lights flashed behind me, and I remember laughing when the officer walked to my window. I looked like a disaster—my hair tangled, the world spinning out of focus, and a suspicious-looking white powder dusting my nostrils.
The officer recognized my last name from my license. Hecalled my dad, who picked me up, and that arrest never made it to my record. It was as if it hadn't happened.
But it happened twice more before I went away to college.
Two arrests that disappeared before the sun rose. My father was always angry afterward, pacing his office, lecturing me about responsibility, appearances, and the importance of his image in the election. I rolled my eyes and tried to focus on not falling asleep when he would go on and on. I never listened. Why would I, when he always fixed it? The self-righteous speeches were tedious and boring.
All I had to do was look contrite and promise to do better.
My mother had been out of the house more and more—charity luncheons, political galas, and trips to Martha's Vineyard with other politicians' wives.
Separation breeds clarity, and clarity breeds resentment. My mother is pathetic. My father is pathetic. Both useful, but pathetic all the same.
