One by one, each trophy wife orders “just a salad,” as ifconsuming actual food on camera might void their contracts. Their husbands, meanwhile, order every luxurious item available while discussing their fictional TV empires between bites of buttered dinner rolls.
“And for you, madam?” the server asks, turning to me.
“I’ll have the lobster, please,” I reply without hesitation. “With all the sides. And you could take my dessert order now, too, if you want. I like to plan ahead.”
Ransom’s lips twitch with suppressed amusement as the trophy wives stare at me like I’ve just announced plans to wear white to their funerals.
“A woman after my own heart,” Wes comments from the head of the table, where he’s been trying to maintain his sanity while Boomer keeps interrupting for better angles.
“Cut!” Boomer shouts. “Trophy wives, remember to look disdainful when Trixie talks about dessert. Val, you were perfect—that eye roll deserves an Emmy. Let’s reset and go again.”
While the cameras reposition, Marlie materializes behind Victor’s chair, her ghostly form shimmering slightly under the chandeliers. Her maroon ’80s power suit and massive shoulder pads look weirdly appropriate in the formal setting.
“His toupee is slipping on the left side,” she informs me while pointing to her ex-husband’s head. “It always does when he’s nervous. Check his forehead—he’s had more Botox since I last saw him. He probably can’t feel anything above his eyebrows.”
As much as I want to bubble with laughter, I struggle to maintain a neutral expression while focusing intently on rearranging my napkin.
“And Val’s diamonds are cubic zirconia,” Marlie continues, circling the table like a shark. “The real ones are in a safe deposit box. She wears fakes to charity events. Less risk if someone nefarious tries to make a move. It’s smart, actually.”
Once upon a time, when I was a trophy wife and country club events were nigh, I did the very same thing.
“And...action!” Boomer shouts again.
“Ladies,” Wes says on cue, raising his water glass. “Perhaps we could take a moment to remember Madison. I’m sure she would have loved being here tonight.”
“Yes,” Val agrees, her voice dripping with artificial sweetener. “Madison always did love being the center of attention.”
“But first,” Val says, raising her glass even higher, “let’s toast the remarkable daytime villains among us, who have somehow survived everything that writers have thrown at them.” She turns a dazzling smile toward the men. “To Bridge Blackthorne, who survived three comas, two poisonings, and being buried alive by his evil stepmother.”
“To Victor Darkmore,” Beth chimes in, “who miraculously recovered from amnesia, being pushed off a yacht, and that unfortunate incident with the experimental brain transfer machine.”
“To Dr. Luca Carrington Jr.,” Harper adds dryly, “who outlived that rare tropical disease, being trapped in a collapsing mine shaft, and marrying his own clone without realizing it.”
That clone storyline was gold!
“And to Santino DiAngelo,” Val concludes, “who came back from the dead so many times the Grim Reaper put him on a loyalty program.”
Funny, I’m starting to feel like I’m on one, too.
The men preen under the attention, adjusting bow ties and cufflinks with just enough modesty as they, too, raise their glasses.
Val’s gaze slides toward Ransom, her eyes lingering a beat too long. “And to the new additions to our little family. Especially our handsome security officer. Tell me, Ransom, do you always look so lethally official, or do you ever let your guard down?” Her tone makes it clear she’s not talking about professional vigilance, and Ican’t help but frown at the woman. Suddenly, flipping a table is back on the docket.
“I’ve been wondering what’s under that uniform,” Beth adds with surprising boldness as a flush creeps up her neck.
And here I thought she was my friend.
Even Harper’s clinical gaze turns appreciative. “You know, statistically speaking, men like that aren’t supposed to end up in security—more like a modeling agency.”
“Hands off, ladies!” Nettie shouts from the neighboring table, and I sigh with relief because of it. I’ve been remarkably tolerant up to this point, but a roomful of women collectively appreciating my husband on camera feels like an unnecessary complication in my life. Nettie stands. “I’ve already called dibs for when Trixie’s done with him!”
My mouth falls open as I look her way.
Bess laughs. “And I’ve been practicing mywoman overboardscream just to see him perform a water rescue.” She winks my way, and I frown despite the fact.
That whole woman overboard thing has happened before. Although I can’t blame any of those women. Ransom Baxter is a specimen with his shirt on, but once he strips it off, we’re talking museum-quality sculpting that should require admission tickets.
Ransom’s mouth quirks with amusement, completely unfazed. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m strictly off the market.” He slides his arm around my waist. “Taken by the most dangerous woman on this ship.” He winks my way, and I’m not amused.
