The female voice comes from behind the maître d’, and his posture shifts instantly—shoulders dropping, smile warming, the full performance of deference.
“Mrs. Carrington.” He practically bows. “My apologies, I didn’t realize?—”
“He’s with me, Gregory.”
I watch her approach through the gap in the maître d’s defensive stance. Anne Carrington, fifty-three, in a regal navy dress. Her blonde hair is swept up in a twist, though I can see the darker roots at her temples where she’s due for a touch-up. She’s thinner than I remember. The angles of her face are sharper, the hollows beneath her cheekbones more pronounced.
Three years of stress will do that to a person.Three years of frantically rebuilding what my father stole.
“Of course, of course.” Gregory—who apparently we’re on a first-name basis with now—steps aside with a flourish. “Right this way, Mrs. Carrington. Your table is ready.”
Anne reaches me first, and for a moment we just look at each other. Then she does something that catches me off guard—she pulls me into a hug. Brief, but warm and maternal.
“You look too thin,” she murmurs near my ear. We both know this is a lie. I lost a lot of weight right after the scandal broke loose, but I’m at least twenty pounds of muscle heavierthan when I last saw Mrs. Carrington and her daughters. But it’s just the thing people say to convey,I’m worried about you.
“You’re one to talk.”
She laughs, a short exhale that sounds more tired than amused, and loops her arm through mine. We follow Gregory through the dining room, past the tables of power couples and business dinners and old money pretending to be modest. I keep my eyes forward. I don’t want to recognize anyone, and I definitely don’t want anyone to recognize me.
The table is tucked into a corner, semi-private, with a view of the park through frost-laced windows. I pull out Anne’s chair before Gregory can reach for it—old instincts, the ones my mother drilled into me my entire childhood. I would beam when she’d call me her little gentleman. I wore a three-piece suit and pocket square for Halloween when I was six. I was always destined to have a very different life than I ended up having.
“Your server will be right with you,” Gregory says, setting leather-bound drink menus in front of us. “Can I start you with some wine? Perhaps the Montrachet you enjoyed last time?”
“Just water for now, thank you.” Anne doesn’t even glance at the menu.
I wait until Gregory retreats before I speak. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Rescue me from the maître d’. I had it handled.”
“You had it handled?” She raises an eyebrow. “Taio, he was about thirty seconds from calling security. You can’t just wear a sports coat in here. You need a formal suit jacket. I didn’t agree to have lunch with the riffraff today.”
“I didn’t mean to—” I stop, because her lips are spread and her teeth on display. I realize from her wide smile she’s teasing me. It’s so familiar that something in my chest twists painfully. After all, half the memories I have at this restaurant includeMrs. Carrington, her husband, and two daughters, one of which I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with.
A server appears with water and a practiced speech about the evening’s specials. Anne orders a champagne—Cristal with an orange twist, her go-to for as long as I’ve known her—and a second one for me before I can object.
“You need to eat something,” she says once the server leaves. “Order whatever you want. My treat.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine. I ate before I came.”
A lie. I gulped down a chalky protein drink four hours ago but that’s it. My stomach is rolling at the smell of warm French bread and honey butter. My mouth waters remembering how juicy and flavorful the ribeyes are here, but there’s no way I can order anything on this menu on Mrs. Carrington’s dime. I promised I’d pay her back, not take even more from her and her family.
“Taio.” Her voice softens. “Please.”
“I didn’t come here to eat, Mrs. Carrington.”
She sighs, but she doesn’t push. That’s one of the things I always appreciated about Anne—she knows when to let something go. Unlike her husband, who holds grudges like family heirlooms. I invited both Mr. and Mrs. Carrington to this lunch. Only one of them showed. Mrs. Carrington didn’t even bother to offer an excuse. We both know the truth. I remind Richard of my dad, so he’s going to hate me until his dying breath, maybe beyond.
We sit in silence for a moment, the string quartet filling the space between us with something melancholy and classical. I study the tablecloth, the weave of the linen, the small imperfection near the corner where a thread has come loose.
“How have you been?” Anne asks finally. “And don’t say ‘fine.’ I want a real answer.”
“Busy.”
“With?”
I make an honest mental list.Escorting. Screwing strangers for money…a lot of them around your age. Visiting my father in prison. Missing my mother. Trying not to drown in the disappointment of my life.
