"I'm wiring money to your account. An amount to get your started. For all the bad you took from your mother and me, you're still smart, Elise. You're determined. You're strong. Forge your own path."
He took another sip of whisky. Then he raised it to me, in tribute, in farewell.
"This is goodbye."
???
The money didn't last.
I was never really taught how to save or stretch it. It was always there: my bank account was always refilled, and my card never declined. So how the hell was I supposed to learn theselessons when no one taught me? I grew up with opulence and without limits, and now I have no idea what my own are.
But, my father was right—I was determined, I was smart,I was Elise fucking Cabot.
I would make it work.
For days, I holed up in a hotel and applied to essentially every PR position in the state, until I finally heard back from Starling Cove. Relatively close to Boston, a smaller coastal town that looks quaint in the pictures on the city's website. It was the first place to respond, and my bank account was spiraling downward fast enough to make my breath short.
So I went in for the interview, and I charmed the fuck out of them.
My record still remained spotless, and the media firestorm from the exposé had long since fizzled out. I knew how to handle the background check, how to present myself. I could always find a way to sell the story, reframe the narrative.
"You know how dirty politics can get," I would say with a solemn shake of my head and a practiced shake in my voice. "The defamation of my family was devastating..."
If needed, pull out a couple of crocodile tears and the Oscar goes to...
They loved me—of course they did.
I was hired on the spot and brought in to do the PR at City Hall. I could admit that the town was... cute. Quiet. Farmer's markets and little shops with obnoxious closing times and a boardwalk filled with shrieking children and annoying seagulls.
The people in this town were different from what I was used to. In Boston, you go places, keep your head down, and move with a sense of urgency. In this town, people talk to each other, and everyone seems to know everyone's business.
I was a shiny new toy, so I attracted some attention, and when it was one me, I did what I do best—I performed. Lies byomission or skewing the truth. I'm the daughter of a politician and a beauty queen. It's practically in my blood. I portrayed the role of a hotshot PR woman from Boston looking to settle down in a smaller town, leaving behind the hustle and bustle of the city. Practically a fucking Hallmark movie.
"Oh, my father was in sales, and my mother did some pageants when she was younger. They met and fell madly in love. They're the best parents in the world, I'm so lucky to have them. Yes, I went to Columbia. Ivy League. Yes, it was so wonderful."
I played the part of the humble-but-confident woman, and they all fucking bought it.
Unfortunately, the pay was meager. Far from what I had been used to making, and my beauty routine was non-negotiable—my lash lifts, my facials, my Pilates classes, my skincare routine. I chose to prioritize them as I made the minimum payments on my maxed-out cards.
Unfortunately, that did not leave money for a place to stay.
So, I started hunting. I got creative.
I began atHaunts—the bar that seemed to be the local spot for the people of Starling Cove.
Sex was currency in my world, a way for me to get what I wanted from men who wanted to give it to me. It was a strategy, and it was easy enough to find some guys who were interested. That turned into me charming them into letting me crash at their place for a week or two, here and there.
I paid them back generously.
Unfortunately, I overstayed my welcome at Dylan Walker's place, which he shared with his sister, Felicity. I worked with her at City Hall. We would run into each other in the hall, ride the elevator in uncomfortable silence, sit across from each other inmeetings pretending the air wasn't thick with tension. Like she didn't hear her brother and me going at it the night before.
She seemed to catch on to me and said I needed to get out.
That's when I finally got a lifeline in the form of Rhea, who was looking for a roommate. I didn't like her, and she sure as hell didn't like me. But that was fine. She was useful. Despite the look of her—the awful tattoos and piercings, the horrible thrifted clothes and scuffed combat boots, she had a really nice apartment. It was modern, sleek, furnished with brand new furniture, and styled in a way that wasn't completely appalling. The split rent was affordable, better than I would get, so I took it.
Then came Paul.
We had passed each other in the hallways of City Hall before. He was handsome in thatAll-American boy-next-doorkind of way with a smile that made old ladies swoon.
