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“He is beneath you. You know it, and that’s why you brought him tonight. To provoke. To prove you still have the power to humiliate me.”

“That’s not it!” I cry.

“You always want attention,” he snaps. “Any kind of attention.” The words slither easily into old wounds. I know exactly where this speech goes. I’ve heard versions of it my entire life. “Well, you clearly have his.” His eyes flit disdainfully over me. “But for how long?”

That’s new, the way he looks at me like I’m a piece of meat. New and uncomfortable.

“You do what you like and expect others to clean up the mess. But this time, you’re endangering far more than your own reputation.”

“You mean your reputation? That’s all you care about.” My reputation is an extension of his.

His smile is ugly. “You never did learn when to keep that mouth closed. And the trouble seems to have spread to your legs.”

I inhale a sharp breath. This is a whole other level of Edwin Forbes’s contempt.

“What do you care?” I spit.

“If you want me to care, stop making me regret having expectations of you.”

The barb is sharp, mean, and perfectly aimed. But I say nothing, because it looks like he’s running out of steam.

“Go back to the party.” He gives a dismissive flick of his hand. Like I’m a bug in need of swatting. “We’ll discuss your punishment later.”

If looks could kill, he’d already be under the grass as humiliation and fury flame inside me. I’m a woman, not a child to be chastised, to be grounded.

I pivot and make for the door without a backward glance.

Fuck him and his prejudice.

Fuck him and his lack of care.

Just . . . fuck him.

Music seems to swell to meet me as I reenter the party and make straight for Troy, my expression arranged into something pleasantly bland. I hope.

“You okay?” he asks with a quiet concern.

“I’m fine.” I smile too fast. Too hard. “Sorry, there was a catering concern.” It’s a lie so obvious it feels like a dare. Maybe I expect him to challenge it. When he doesn’t, I slide my hand into the crook of his arm. “I’m parched. Let’s get a drink.”

I steer him in the direction of the bar, where I order a champagne. I don’t want to drown my sorrows but blunt my anger. As it turns out, it only serves to sharpen it.

Chapter 39

Clara

Chelsea stands in the middle of the floor, arms folded and her chin in her hand as she studies the window like it’s some great piece of artwork. Something MoMA- or Louvre-worthy.

“It’s not exactly giving emotional healing, is it?” she asks, turning her head over her shoulder.

“It’s not giving sunlight either. Just . . . brick wall.” I lean against the kitchen countertop as the Realtor drifts into the hallway to take a call. Or maybe the call is fake, and she’s embarrassed by the ridiculous figure she just quoted Chelsea for a one-bed, third-floor walk-up in Washington Heights. With an outlook over a brick wall.

I’m so glad my days of living like this are done.

We can do better than this. She can do better.

I feel a little like living with Troy has given me perspective. That maybe I didn’t realize how hard I was struggling, stuck in the thick of it. I want the same for Chelsea—a fresh start, not a man.

A man is not the solution for all womankind. The right man, though . . .