That’s why I gave her the check. That’s why I changed the terms from a charity donation to a direct payout for her business. I wanted to free her. I wanted to see if, given the choice between the door and me, she would choose me.
I told her she could have the check and stay.
But she didn’t want to stay.
Everyone is a liability until you find their price.That’s what she said to me last night.
I found her price. Five hundred thousand dollars.
And the moment the check was in her hand, the performance ended.
I walk back to the kitchen.
“You played yourself, Taylor,” I whisper to the empty room.
I look at the trash bin under the sink. I pull it open.
Empty. Relined with a fresh, pristine white bag.
The housekeeping staff. They must have come in the moment she left, or while I was passed out in the main house. They wiped away any evidence that she was here.
Efficiency. That’s the Taylor way. Erase the mess. Move on.
I need to shower, put on a suit and tell my parents that the engagement is off, but the Labor Day gala must go on.
The main house is a hive of activity.
Caterers are setting up the main tent on the lawn. Florists are carrying crates of white hydrangeas, Ivy’s suggestion, into the ballroom. The air is filled with the sound of hammers, shouting, and the distinct, high-pitched stress of event planning.
It makes my stomach turn.
I walk into the breakfast room. It is suffocating.
My mother is debating napkin colors with the event planner. My father is reading theFinancial Times.
“Ivy isn’t coming,” I say, cutting through the domestic chatter.
I pour myself a coffee, my back to them. I need the caffeine to keep my hands steady.
“What do you mean?” Betty asks, her pen hovering over the seating chart. “Is she ill?”
“She’s gone,” I say. I turn around. “She left last night. The engagement is off.”
The silence is absolute. Even the event planner freezes, clutching a swatch of linen.
“Give them a different photo op,” I say flatly. “Give them the deal. The Holloway announcement goes out Monday. Make the party about the business. That’s what it’s always been about anyway.”
“What happened?” my father asks. He lowers the paper, his eyes scanning my face, looking for the tell.
“She got cold feet,” I lie. “She realized she didn’t want this life. She didn’t want the pressure.”
“Nonsense,” Betty says. “She was made for this. You drove her away, didn’t you?”
“I gave her a choice,” I snap. “And she chose to leave.”
I set my cup down hard enough that coffee sloshes over the rim.
“I have calls to make.”
