Anne let herself collapse into a nearby chair. “How do you already know what’s going on here?”
“A little birdie told me,” Bianca mused. “Your father and I may have divorced years ago, but many of the players remain the same, don’t they?”
Of course. Anne should have known. Bianca had helped Anne’s father start Kellynch Productions decades ago, thanks to her family’s money that got it off the ground. And even though her mother vowed to never touch television production againafter the divorce, her name was still listed as an executive producer forDivorce Divas—and on the royalty checks, too.
“There’s so much to do, I don’t even know where to start,” Anne sighed, rubbing her temples. “Maybe I should call her and see if I can’t smooth things over a bit.”
“Oh, please,” Bianca said with a dry laugh. “You never liked her, anyway.”
Anne frowned. It was true she’d never been Denise’s biggest fan, but that seemed like the least of their worries now.
“Maybe, but this affects a lot more people than just her,” she replied. “No one on the production staff gets paid when a show like this goes on hiatus.”
“The show is on hiatus?” Her mother sounded genuinely surprised.
Anne paused. “Isn’t that why you’re calling?”
“No, but this is delicious. You know, I don’t usually believe in karma, but—”
“Mom,” Anne cut in. “If you’re not calling about the show, then what are you calling about?”
“Well, I don’t know the details, so I shouldn’t say anything,” Bianca replied in the same tone as before, the one that belied an impending apocalypse. “But if I were you, I’d go home and have a chat with your dad about his latest ex-wife.” Then she let out another dry laugh.
Anne heard yelling even before the elevator arrived on the eighth floor of the Uppercross.
“You cannot be serious!” her father proclaimed as she opened the front door of their apartment. Walter Elliot was pacing through the living room, his arms crossed over his silk paisley shirt. At onepoint in his life, he had been incredibly handsome—tall, with striking blond hair and a sharp profile—but years of trying desperately to hold on to his looks via a series of collagen injections and thread lifts had turned the sixty-year-old into a taut, somehow bloated version of the original.
Across from him, seated on the long red leather sofa her father had custom-made last year, Harold Vernon removed his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had been her father’s lawyer for as long as Anne had been alive, and while that job alone proved that he had the patience of a saint, she could tell he was close to his breaking point.
“Walter,” Mr. Vernon said, leaning forward. “I know this is difficult—”
“No, this is ridiculous!”
“No, this is divorce,” the lawyer replied bluntly.
The sound of the front door closing behind Anne drew the attention of both men. Unfortunately, their reactions to seeing her could not have been more different. While Mr. Vernon looked relieved at her arrival, her father’s desperate expression turned to a scowl.
“Did you know about this?” her father barked.
Anne blinked. “Know about what?”
Walt let out a wail while Mr. Vernon sighed deeply.
“The judge finally ruled on the divorce settlement,” the lawyer replied.
“Stop using that word!” Her father stomped over to the black-and-gold bar in the corner to make a drink, blissfully ignorant that it was eleven a.m. on a Monday.
Here we go, Anne thought, bracing herself. She had known about the divorce for a while. If she was being honest, before the wedding itself, though she had been smart enough to keep that to herself for the past few years.
Walt had met his second wife at a cocktail party in Los Angeles. MacKenzie was an influencer looking to break into television and hadn’t been bothered by the twenty-year age gap, especially when Walt promised to develop a series exclusively for her. But things began to fall apart quickly after their wedding in Tulum three years ago, and now there was no series, no money, and no MacKenzie. The last Anne heard, she was living in Ibiza with her new restaurant-tycoon boyfriend, and communicating about the divorce exclusively through her lawyer.
“And?” Anne asked.
Mr. Vernon put his reading glasses back on as he brought his attention back to the papers in his hand. “MacKenzie was awarded fifty percent of all shared assets. Including this apartment.”
Walt let out another wail. With his monthly Botox injections, it should have been impossible for him to look haggard or stressed. Today proved to be the exception.
Anne shook her head. She hated that she was surprised. It was no secret that her father hadn’t made MacKenzie sign a prenup. Still, it felt like the air had been knocked from her lungs.
