Rose waited.
“The narrative, as of this morning, is that Trina and I ended things mutually several months ago. We stayed quiet to protect our respective new relationships. The press is buying it. Trina has agreed to it, which is the only decent thing she’s done recently. I guess she didn’t like being cast as the one who broke theGilden Duchess’heart.” A pause. “The network has also signed off. They want the show to go ahead. A breakup followed by a new relationship is, apparently, better television than a straightforward wedding.”
“Okay,” Rose said slowly. “So the wedding —”
“Goes ahead.” Lizanne looked at her. “With some adjustments.”
Something in the way she said it made Rose set her Pepsi Max down.
“The network wants a wedding,” Lizanne continued. “The contract specifies a wedding. None of that has changed. What has changed is the bride.”
“Who’s the lucky woman?”
Lizanne smiled. “I’m glad you think she’d be lucky. Because it’s you.”
“Me?” Was she crazy? “I can’t marry you for show. I’m engaged.”
“Are you?” The sly smile told Rose that she was in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.
Lizanne opened her laptop and turned it toward her. Rose looked at the screen.
It took her a moment to understand what she was seeing. A wedding registry.Theirwedding registry — hers and Derek’s — the one she’d built from a childhood scrapbook and misplaced hope. And beside it, a photograph. She and Quinn, taken from behind on that New Year’s balcony, his arm around her, her head tipping toward his shoulder.
Then Lizanne picked up her phone and placed it next to the laptop. She didn’t recognize it at once, but then it came to her. It was taken in the back of her car on the way back from the vineyard. And it showed her and Quinn in almost the same pose as in the New Year’s photo.
Rose stared at both images.
“The jawline is identical,” Lizanne said. “There’s a scar on his left ear. It’s in both photos.” She closed the laptop. “Quinn is Derek. And unless you’re planning to marry him on a Wednesday in December, I think we can agree that the engagement isn’t real.”
Rose said nothing. There was nothing to say. She was watching the floor open up beneath her chair and doing the mental arithmetic on how bad this was, which was very bad, which was career-ending bad, which was —
“Pat,” Lizanne said.
Pat materialized in the doorway with a folder.
“Jeremy Planter,” Pat said, opening it. “Father of Daisy Delaney. Left the state five years ago. Outstanding child support, none of which has been paid. Joint loan with your name on it — sixty thousand dollars, currently held by Meridian Credit Services.” She turned a page. “Before him, Julia Zelenskyy. Two years. Before her, Victoria Harvard. Eight months.”
Rose stood up. “How do you know any of that?”
“I have resources.”
“That’s my private —”
“Yes,” Pat agreed. “It is.” She closed the folder. “The point, Rose, is that there’s no reason to say no on grounds of preference. You’ve been with women before. This wouldn’t be a hardship in that sense. People would believe it if they went digging.”
The wordhardshiplanded somewhere between offensive and absurd. Rose looked from Pat to Lizanne. “What exactly are you proposing?”
Lizanne leaned forward slightly. “We get married. The wedding goes ahead as planned. The show runs for one year. At the end of it, we divorce quietly, the show wraps, and we both walk away.” She paused. “In exchange, I pay off your Meridian debt in full. I establish a college fund for Daisy. I buy you a house wherever you want, outright, no mortgage. A new car. A monthly allowance for the duration of filming. And you receive the full fee Trina would have drawn from the network contract.”
The room was very quiet. A bird tweeted somewhere in the distance.
“No,” she said.
Lizanne didn’t blink.
“No,” Rose said again, standing. “This is insane. I’m not going to marry you. I don’t care what you’re offering.” She picked up her bag. “I’m sorry about Trina, I genuinely am, and I understand you’re in an impossible position, but the answer is no. I’ll see myself out.”
She got as far as the doorway.
