Late night, when neither of us could sleep, we’d hop into the car and drive. It didn’t matter where we were going, and that was secretly my favorite part. Max would keep one hand on the wheel and the other on my thigh. We’d listen to music—the kind that made me feel everything at once—and argue over the best song or the worst movie we’d ever seen. He’d pretend to be outraged when I’d reveal a guilty pleasure of mine, like cheesy rom-coms, and I’d laugh when he admitted he secretly enjoyed them too.
And on rainy days, with nothing better to do, he enjoyed playing Go Fish. Each time he lost, he’d laugh it off, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he said one afternoon, tossing his cards onto the table.
“I’m not lying,” I protested, trying to keep a straight face.
“You’ve got to be cheating,” he insisted, though his grin gave him away.
“Maybe you’re just bad at the game.”
He leaned back in his chair, laughing. “Or maybe I just like letting you win.”
Then it hit me like a ton of bricks.
I love Max.
The realization sent a wave of panic through me. I could never admit it out loud to him. It would give himsuchan ego.
“I can’t breathe in here,” I complained, wiping sweat from my forehead. The glass walls of the greenhouse trapped the heat, turning the space into a tropical nightmare.
Momma barely spared me a glance, her attention focused on pruning a row of orchids. “It’s good for you,” she replied curtly. “Builds character.”
I rolled my eyes, knowing better than to argue with her. Momma’s idea of building character often involved a lot of physical discomfort.
She still handled the garden herself. Well, she directed everyone herself, still not trusting the gardeners after that one tulip mishap. I didn’t blame her, though it meant she used both me and Daisy as her reinforcements.
Daisy seemed to thrive in these situations, her competitiveness driving her to outdo everyone, even in gardening. All that did was remind me why I’d stopped playing tennis with her and meeting her at the stables.
“Ireallycan’t breathe in here,” I repeated, more to myself than to anyone else. I messed with the ferns, wishing I could finally break free from Momma’s suffocating demands.
She looked up at me. “Just a little longer,” she said. “We have to make sure everything is perfect for the party in a few days.”
Her tone was gentle, but her words held no mercy. Perfection was nonnegotiable in her world, and it had been that way since I was a kid. There was a reason I preferredValentinosandPradaoverGivenchyandJimmy Choos. I had a taste for perfection, just like my Momma.
“What party?” I asked.
“We’re hosting a pre-gallery cocktail party here,” Momma explained. “Just a small gathering. Did you forget?”
I blinked, trying to recall any mention of a cocktail party. “I don’t remember you saying anything about it,” I said with a sigh, already dreading the preparations.
Momma paused her pruning, turning to give me a scrutinizing look. “Of course I mentioned it. You were probably too distracted to pay attention. It’s this Friday.”
“Wow, so soon?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Momma’s gatherings were anything but small. Much as I loved art, the gallery was one of those obligatory social functions where everyone pretended to care about a cause while trying to outdo each other in fashion and influence. I wondered if Max would even be able to attend or if the Outfit would demand his time yet again.
“Yes. And there is more than enough time to prepare—it’s only Wednesday, dear.”
“Do we really need to go through all this trouble for a pre-gallery party?” I asked, knowing the answer but hoping for some reprieve.
“Yes,” Momma said firmly. “It’s about maintaining appearances and connections. You never know when a small gesture could lead to something bigger. Speaking of which, have you heard from your father at all?”
I stifled a groan and forced a smile. I’d thought it best not to tell her what had happened that day in the warehouse. How her husband, the father of her children, had held a gun to her daughter’s head and expected her to believe it was in her best interests. I didn’t want to be angry. I didn’t want to hold any grudges, because that didn’t affect him in any way—it only affected me. It was easy for me to forgive him, because I wanted nothing to do with him.
After all, just like my father had said, I was too much like my mother.
“Last I heard, he was in Chicago.”
