"David," Aunt Milly supplies helpfully. "Emotionally unavailable, apparently."
My father's mouth twitches.
Mom continues, undeterred. "Penelope Davenport heard you have a four-year-old son named Mason. And another one coming."
“I’ve never been prouder of you, West. Way to sow the Prescott oats.” Aunt Milly adds, clearly enjoying this. "Though I heard something else altogether different. Something about a casual sexual partner or a team of partners. Thedetails get fuzzy."
"And someone—I won't name names—" my mom's gaze could cut glass now, "—suggested Jane here is simply... what was the phrase? 'Keeping your bed warm while you figure things out.'"
Jane goes very still beside me.
"So." Mom folds her hands on the table. "Which version is true? Or are we operating in a world where all of them are somehow simultaneously accurate?"
Then Jane squeaks.
"Information warfare."
My mother blinks. "I beg your pardon?"
"It's a tactical strategy," Jane says, her voice now carries a false bravado I recognize. "When you're facing unwanted attention—persistent, organized attention—you deploy misinformation. Flood the zone with conflicting narratives. Make it impossible to identify what's actually true."
My father leans forward, interested. "Overwhelming the target's ability to process."
"Exactly."
Mom stares at her. "You deliberately spread false rumors about my son."
"I gave different answers to different people who were asking invasive questions about West's personal life." Jane meets her gaze directly. "Questions he didn’t want to answer."
“Why would you do that?”
I step in. "Because I asked her to."
My mother’s attention snaps to me. "Excuse me?"
"Veronica, Penelope, Vivienne, they’re just another candidate. Another setup. Another conversation I didn't want to have." I lean back in my chair, deliberately casual. "Jane gave me an out. I took it."
"By letting these women from prominent families believe you're—"
"Living my truth?" I offer dryly. "Embracing authenticity? Exploring my options?"
My father makes a choking sound that might be a suppressed laugh.
My mother does not look amused.
"This isn't funny, West. Your reputation—"
"My reputation is fine, Mom. And evenif it wasn't, it's mine to manage."
"Not when it impacts the family—"
"Eleanor." Aunt Milly's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. Small but absolute.
My mother stops mid-sentence.
Aunt Milly's gaze shifts to Jane, assessing. "You. I know you."
Jane blinks. "Me—huh?"
