My pride made me reluctant to respond, but I did anyway. “I don’t want to wear this,” I began, my voice tight with frustration.
“I don’t care,” Max countered. “It’s for your protection.”
“My protection?”
His hand moved to the side of the steering wheel. “Yes. It’s a safety precaution.”
“A safety precaution?” I echoed.
“That’s what I said, yes,” he mumbled, avoiding my gaze.
“You are the most ridiculous man I have ever met.”
“Okay, humor me,” he interrupted, holding up a placating hand. His voice, which was usually confident, was a tad desperate. “Just for a moment,” he continued, talking with his lipsandhis hand as if he needed a second way to communicate with me. “If a man looked at your ass, what would you do?”
Heat flooded my cheeks—not just from anger anymore. “I’d let him look.” I smirked. “Just like I let you.”
He tilted his head, turning away from me as if he needed to hide his reaction.
He had nothing to say.
All that did was make me smile.
He stayed silent, of course, all the way to the gallery. The valet took the keys, and Max walked me inside.
The velvet rope shimmered under the soft glow of the lights. The gallery was normally overflowing with tourists and bored teenagers on school field trips, but once every few years, Margot got a night to hold her showings. Her art, along with many others’, was auctioned off.
“Let me know when you’re ready to head back home,” Max said, grabbing onto my upper arm gently before stalking off toward Marco and Remy.
Momma and Daisy were in the corner of the room, talking to a few women I wasn’t familiar with. The hall, which was usually filled with the echoes of a hundred conversations, was hushed tonight. The only sounds were theclinksof champagne flutes and the murmurings of just a few conversations I was sure were a waste of everyone’s time. My family was scattered everywhere, all engaged in one of those conversations. Above us, crystal chandeliers dripped with light, reflecting off the polished marble floors.
I spotted Veronica Cartwright, a socialite extraordinaire, her smile as sharp as the diamonds on her fingers, debating artwith a younger man. Her insults were disguised as compliments, and territorial glances were exchanged over hors d’oeuvres that looked like miniature works of art.
The air around here was so heavy with privilege I practically choked on it. Every woman, including myself, was walking around like an advertisement for a maxed-out credit card.
Suddenly, a hand with perfectly manicured nails grabbed my arm, stopping me in my tracks.
“There you are!” chirped a voice that dripped with forced enthusiasm. “You need to see this. I think your mother would love it.” Margot took me to the other side of the room. “This,” she continued, gesturing to the painting at the far end of the hall, “is simply divine.”
There in front of me was something I certainly wanted to take home.
“Oh.” It was all I could say.
“They say it’s worth thousands.”
“And this was Brooke?” I asked. I stood closer, wanting to touch the art to make sure it was real, but I knew the oils on my fingers would jeopardize the paint. “What did she do differently?” I finally managed, still in shock. “This looks like Monet, but ...”
“Monet? Really?”
“Well, Monet was all about capturing light, which this does, but it somehow feels moodier ... Thousands, you say?” I asked.
She nodded. “Eighty-six of them, to be exact.”
“Huh ...” I trailed off. I didn’t have that kind of money. Not even close. I knew for a fact my mother would be adding this to her overflowing collection.
A dangerous thought clawed its way to the front of my mind. Maybe I did need a rich man after all.
Margot left my side when she recognized a new crowd. While I stood still in my thin heels, I glanced at the painting for what felt like another lifetime.
