He looks around the empty parking lot. "There's a guy in the Tesla dealership security booth. Does he count?"
I laugh, breathless. "Brooks."
"Come on," he says, his voice gruff as he pulls his hand away. He slides off the hood of the car, offering me a hand to help me down. "Let's go home. You have to face the 'perfect' Penelope in the morning, and I need to make sure you don't punch her."
"I can't promise that," I say, taking his hand. "Does she have a cherub statue?"
"Several."
"Then she's in danger."
The next morning, the Vanderbilt estate makes Eastmoor look like a guest house.
It is a sprawling, Gatsby-esque mansion with a lawn that rolls down to a private beach. The brunch is set up on a limestoneterrace overlooking the water. It is a sea of pastels, wide-brimmed hats, and judgmental stares.
I am wearing a floral Zimmermann dress Savvy packed for me. When I put it on this morning, watching myself in the mirror while Brooks shaved, it gave me the sort of confidence I could move through the day in. Structured where it matters. Soft where it's allowed to be.
"Aggressive floral," Savvy had called it in her note. "Not passive floral. Dominate the garden."
I clutch Brooks's arm like a lifeline as we walk through the French doors onto the terrace.
"Relax," Brooks murmurs, leaning down to my ear. "You're gripping my bicep like you're trying to cut off circulation."
"And checking for muscle tone. Gotta make sure the investment is maintaining value."
Brooks snorts. "Investment is secure. Just breathe. Smile. Don't eat the quiche."
We circulate. I switch into professional mode. I smile until my face hurts. I charm a senator by asking about his golf handicap. I discuss the humidity with a hedge fund manager.
Brooks stays close, his hand warm on my lower back, guiding me through the shark tank.
Then, the waters part.
A woman steps away from the edge of the terrace, where she's clearly been observing the room.
She is tall, blonde, and so polished she looks engineered rather than raised. Her hair falls in a sleek curtain of platinum. Her skin is poreless. She wears a pale blue dress tailored to within an inch of its life.
"Brooks," she purrs.
She leans in to kiss his cheek, lingering a bit too long, her hand resting familiarly on his chest. She ignores me completely.
"We missed you at the club last week," she says, her voice a soft, cultivated drawl. "I heard you were... under the weather."
"Hello, Penelope," Brooks says politely, stepping back enough to create space. His hand tightens at my waist. "You look well."
"I'm thriving," she says. Then her ice-blue eyes shift to me. Her smile never changes, but it loses its warmth, settling on her face like a decal. "And this must be the... surprise."
"This is Ivy," Brooks says firmly. "My fiancée."
"Ivy," Penelope repeats, testing the word like it might be sour milk. "Sullivan, was it? I don't think I know the Sullivans. Are you from the Connecticut branch? Or perhaps the Newport Sullivans?"
"The Jersey branch," I say, keeping my expression fixed. "Exit 14. Near the refinery."
Penelope blinks. Her nose wrinkles slightly, as if she smells sulfur. "Oh. How... quaint."
She takes a sip of her mimosa, looking me up and down. Her gaze calculates the cost of my dress, my shoes, my haircut. She stops at the ring on my finger, Brooks's grandmother's ring, and her eyes narrow.
"I heard you were the one who saved Betty's party yesterday," she says. "Word travels fast in the Hamptons. They say you were moving crates in your bare feet. It must be so helpful for Brooks to have a partner who is accustomed to... manual labor."
