FORTY-EIGHT
Paige is here.
Flitting around the grand ballroom like an exceptionally beautiful but poisonous insect, laughing and talking her way from group to group like nothing ever happened. And because she’s a Blackwell, and because she walked through the door alongside my father, no one denies her.
“What is she doing here?” Curt says quietly, his hand pressed against the small of my back. He’s been almost annoyingly attentive. Kissed my cheek when we met in the hotel lobby and told me I looked beautiful. Offered me his elbow while we walked around the exhibits, making sure my champagne glass never ran dry. Now, even though Iknow he comes to these things, like everyone else, to see and be seen—he’s wedged himself into a corner with me while I watch Paige win back her life like a slow moving train wreck.
“She was on the plane when I boarded this evening,” I tell him while doing my best to keep my tone pleasant. People are listening. People are watching. “Our publicist thinks it’s time for her to start her apology tour and she thought an event outside Manhattan would be the best place to start.” At least that’s what my mother told me when I stepped on board and found Paige and her mother huddled together, talking quietly. “I wasn’t supposed to be here.”
You agreed to come on such short notice, there wasn’t time to make other arrangements… Stacey thinks it’s time for Paige to start reintroducing herself into society but if you want her gone, I’ll have her escorted off the plane.
I didn’t want to have Paigeescorted off the plane. I wanted to drag her from her seat by her hair myself and toss her out its open door—preferably during take-off.
Instead, I assured my mother it was fine and that having her here didn’t bother me in the slightest. Taking my own seat, I spent the thirty minute flight looking out the window while pretending she didn’t exist.
“Is she here with someone?” Curt asks in that same low tone.
“I don’t know,” I say, looking up at him with a too bright smile. “Will you excuse me for a moment? I think I need some air.”
“Of course,” Looking down at me with a concerned nod,. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No.” Hanging on to my smile for dear life, I ease myself away from him. “I’ll be fine. You should go talk to Koby Burns—I’ve seen him signal you a few times now. It must be prettyimportant.”
“He wants to discuss a possible acquisitions merger we’re proposing with one of his holdings,” he says, his irritation obvious. “He wants more money.”
Koby Burns’s personal net worth is north of eighty-five billion dollars. Of course he wants more money. “See?” Laughing, I tip my half-empty champagne flute in his direction. “Important.”
Curt gives me a small head shake when I say it. “Millie?—”
“I’ll be fine,” I reassure him. “Really—I’ll come find you when I’m feeling better and we can look at some more paintings.”
“Okay,” he concedes with a quiet sigh. Giving my elbow a gentle squeeze, Curt dips his head to press a quick, brotherly kiss to my temple before he leaves me where I am, aiming himself in the direction of a small cluster of middle-aged men in tuxedos. Like I knew she would, Paige notices almost immediately and, disengaging from the conversation she’d inserted herself in, makes a beeline for him, putting herself directly in Curt’s path. Giving him one of her flirty smiles, Paige flicks me a quick, smug look before she reaches out to touch the sleeve of his jacket. Before she can make contact, Curt shakes his head before stepping around her to continue on his way. Looking slightly stunned, Paige stands stock still for a few seconds like she doesn’t know what to do before she snaps out of it and flits her way to another group of socialites.
Sick to my stomach, I leave my corner to walk along the length of the room, exchanging my dead champagne flute for a fresh one before I cut through one of the open French doors that lead out onto the ballroom’s terrace. Leaning against the railing, faced away from the suffocation of the room behind me, I close my eyes and tip my chin upward, just enough to let the cool evening air touch my cheeks.
I’ll secure a room here, at the hotel. Stay in Boston for thenight so I don’t have to subject myself to another plane ride with Paige. If there aren’t any available, I’ll take the train. Hell, I’llwalkback to Manhattan if I?—
“I’ll never get tired of watching it.”
Completely unaware that someone had joined me on the terrace, I look over to find a stunning redhead in a gorgeous backless vintage Bob Mackie, leaning against the railing, next to me. Henley O’Connell—although she’s not Henley O’Connell anymore. She’s Henley Gilroy. The last time I saw her, it was at her wedding, three years ago.
I feel a genuine smile stretch across my face. Even though we were never particularly close, I’ve always enjoyed her company and I’m relieved to see her. “Watching what?”
Arching a slim, rust-colored brow, she gives me a devious grin before turning around to face the room full of people we’ve abandoned. “A mean girl get what’s coming to her.”
“Oh…” Looking over my shoulder, I let my gaze find Paige again, wedged into yet another group like she belongs there. “Don’t get used to it.” Giving in, I turn to face the room as well to watch Paige laugh and flip her pale blonde hair over her tanned shoulder. “My father’s pardoned her—she’ll have to be on her best behavior for a while but a few months from now, it’ll be like nothing ever happened.” Looking away from her, I find my escort embroiled in conversation with a tight bunch of tuxedoed men that look like penguins. “Curt is a decent guy but he’ll forgive her eventually. They all will. Three months from now, it’ll be like nothing ever happened.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Henley says, looking at Paige with a faint look of disgust.
Lifting my glass of champagne, I drain it. “Being a Blackwell has its perks.”
Henley makes a soft, neutral sound in the back of her throat. “So does being a Gilroy.” Before I can ask her what shemeans, Henley laughs. “This is a family event—Cari’s manager started it a few years ago but she and Patrick took it over when Amanda moved to Paris.”
“I remember,” I tell her, relieved to let the conversation move away from Paige. “My mother was just about to buy one of her paintings of him when Patrick swooped in and bought the entire collection, right out from under her,” I recall with a laugh. “She wasbeyondangry. I heard about it for months afterward.”
“Can you blame him?” Henley asks with a laugh of her own. “Those paintings are their love story—I wouldn’t want anyone else owning mine either.” She gives me a long look, one that makes me feel a little uncomfortable, before she shakes her head. “Cari and Patrick kept the annual gala running and turned it into an auction to help raise money for his veteran center.” Lifting her hand, she points a long, elegant finger at a group of men standing, not too far away. “He built it, from the ground up, for my brother, Ryan, after he was wounded on deployment.”
Following the invisible line drawn by her finger, I see a man, roughly the size of a city bus and a dazzling set of dimples, and another one with dark red hair and a beautifully carved cane, standing next to a gorgeous blonde who bears a strong resemblance to Cari Gilroy. They’re talking to?—
