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“I listened to a podcast about a dude who was dating over a dozen different women at the same time.”

“Why?”

“When he was exposed, he said the women were giving him everything he wanted—sex and money and a place to stay. Plus, he liked the thrill of sneaking around. They didn’t catch him for years.”

“Gross.” Livia made a sound of disgust. “Men.”

Marcel held up a slender hand. “Again. Preaching to the choir.”

Livia shook her head, stubbornly wanting to dismiss Marcel’s warning. It didn’t seem possible, but then again, she couldn’t think of another reason for his social media and professional website to be wiped clean.

“If Jacob did catfish me, I still don’t understand why,” she grudgingly conceded. “It’s not like I gave him any money.”

“He did sneak into your house. Maybe he thought that you have something worth stealing. Cash. Jewelry. Antiques.”

“I told him I put every penny I earn back into the business. I even admitted that I buy my clothes off-rack and that my car has over one hundred thousand miles. Hardly the sort of woman with expensive jewelry hidden in her drawers.”

“Yes, but you’re Livia Benoit.”

“So?”

“So everyone in Louisiana recognizes the name Benoit.”

Livia clenched her teeth. It was true that most people in the state would recognize the name Benoit. Her mother’s ancestors had been powerful landowners for over two hundred years. Starting with the Willows, a large mansion surrounded by vast acres of farmland and bayous outside of New Orleans, they’d expanded their empire to own office buildings, shopping centers, and a chain of hotels from New Orleans to Baton Rouge. Over the years, their wealth and influence had diminished. Most dramatically since the death of her grandfather, Henri Benoit, who’d been a ruthless force of nature. But the name Benoit remained a formidable key to opening doors in Louisiana.

Both in society and politics.

“I’ve never been a part of the clan,” she insisted. Her sole link to her extended family after being dumped into foster care was the mandatory summers at the Willows, where they attempted to mask their aversion to her presence. “I’ve earned everything I have.” She paused, realizing that she wasn’t being entirely honest. After the death of her grandfather ten years ago, she’d received a yearly lump of cash from his trust fund. It meant that she could buy her small home without draining funds from her business. “Mostly.”

Marcel shrugged. “It doesn’t change your name. Or the assumption that you must be loaded.”

The knot of queasiness in the pit of her stomach doubled in size. Just when she thought her brief relationship with Jacob Pearson couldn’t get worse, it did.

“Well, whatever his intention, he obviously realized I’m broke and decided to move on.”

“Or he got what he wanted.”

Livia shuddered. She was sick of Jacob Pearson and his lies. The sooner she got him out of her mind, the better.

“I’m telling you, there’s nothing for him to get,” she insisted. “My name might be Benoit, but it ends there. My supposed family pretend like I don’t exist.”

Marcel parted his lips, but whatever he was about to say was forgotten, as he abruptly recalled something.

“That’s not entirely true,” he said. “Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunate for you or for me?”

“Both of us,” Marcel warned. “Your aunt Delilah called this morning.”

Livia groaned. Unfortunate was an understatement. Delilah Laurent-Benoit was married to Livia’s uncle, Adrian Benoit—the older brother of her mother and the heir to the Willows, as well as her grandfather’s businesses. She was also mother to Livia’s only cousin, Celeste. She was three years younger than Livia, and the two couldn’t have been more different.

Celeste had been adored by her parents, as well as spoiled rotten by Henri Benoit as a child. Livia had detested her. And since Celeste had grown up, she hadn’t improved. She’d gone from a juvenile diva to a pampered, catty bitch.

“Did Delilah leave a message?”

“Not so much a message as a threat.” Marcel paused for dramatic effect. “She said she was in New Orleans and intended to stop by and see you.”

“Stop by here?” Livia demanded in horror. She could count on one hand how many times someone from the Benoit clan had visited her over the years.