Gilded Lily Page 3

  The ability to remain naive of her audience was truly one of my mother’s greatest qualities. She had no idea she was the odd duck in the blue-blood garden club she attended, grandfathered into attendance simply because my great-grandmother had started the club in the first place. My mother was innocent, blissfully unaware that they looked down their proud noses at her, humoring her with dates for her sons with their daughters, knowing full well that their daughters wanted nothing to do with the unrefined Bennet brood. Well, with the exception of Marcus. He was a prize stud—and utterly unattainable. He’d humor Mom by attending the dates with clinical detachment and polite endurance, just as he handled the rest of his life. I didn’t think he’d slept with a single one. It was easy for me and Jett to fool around—none of the rich girls wanted a gardener or a retail manager for anything more than a night. But Marcus knew he was firmly in the marriage market, and as such, those girls would take a turn in his sheets as a sign of impending nuptials.

  Lila rolled into my mind like a fog, licking at my awareness until forming fully, a vision in white, the stark red of her hair, the stern line of her mouth. Ambitious and in control was Lila Parker, a woman who wanted the best of the best, the top of the rock, the cream of the crop. She was luxury embodied, luxury and blatant power. It sounded in every tick of her heels, held up by the square of her shoulders and the stiffness of her spine.

  I wondered what she would look like soft and languid, imagining that the only chink in her armor, her only vulnerability, was when she was being loved down, silky red hair on expensive white sheets, those cool eyes liquid silver, molten with desire behind heavy lids. Her alabaster skin flushed with pleasure, those lush, wide lips of hers bruised and swollen from insistent kisses.

  A sight I’d never witness, judging by the unending well of disdain she held for the dirty gardener giving her lip at the flower shop. There weren’t many people I flat-out didn’t like—I got along with everybody and, other than my siblings, avoided conflict unless it was over a thing I had passion for. Lila Parker was my exact opposite. Where I was unruffled, Lila shook her tail feathers like a peacock. Where I’d rather have a beer together than argue, she seemed to argue as her primary mode of communication. And yet, here I sat, wondering over her, curious as to the fire that had forged her and the person who’d lit it.

  But it was just as well. I didn’t need her priss in my life, and she didn’t need my filthy. Not for more than a night.

  Though what a night that would be, I thought with a smile before burying the notion like a flower bulb in winter, not thinking how it might bloom come spring.

  4

  Tally-ho

  LILA

  Ivy gaped at me, hand still on the doorknob of her apartment.

  The silence stretched, and when I realized she wasn’t going to respond, I asked, “So, can I come in?”

  She blinked and stepped out of the way. “Of course.”

  The plastic bodega bag, brimming with toiletries and stamped with a handful of Thank Yous, rustled against my dirty pants leg as I passed.

  Ivy frowned. “Is that … dirt?”

  “I fell in the flower bed at Longbourne,” I answered matter-of-factly, plunking my bag on the couch. “Can I borrow some pajamas?”

  Ivy closed the door and waddled in. “Yeah, sure—as soon as you tell me what happened.”

  “I told you—”

  “I caught Brock fucking Natasha Felix, can I stay with you, is not an explanation. Now, sit. On the coffee table, please. I can’t vacuum anymore without needing a three-hour nap,” she said, hand on her burgeoning belly.

  I did as she’d requested, sitting straight-backed, crossing one leg over the other, and clasping my hands on my knee. “What do you want to know?”

  Ivy sank into the couch next to my bodega bag, her face softening, eyes wide. “Are you okay?”

  “As okay as I can be. It did a lot for my ego when he tripped and fell trying to catch me with pants around his ankles just as the elevator doors closed. I hope he broke something. Can a dick break?”

  “Penile fracture is a thing, though I don’t think he’d get it from falling.”

  “Shame,” I lamented on a sigh.

  Ivy’s lip slipped between her teeth, her eyes on me like I was a lost puppy.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine. I mean it.”

  “Lila, you’ve lived with him for two years, shared your life with him, your achievements. We’ve all been waiting for him to propose. You’re allowed to be not-fine.”

  A flash of emotion shot through my ribs, gone as soon as I felt it, scared off by sheer force of will. “I know,” I answered gently. “I’m fucking furious and embarrassed and …” I took a breath, unsteady, then steady again. “I am upset, I’ll admit that. But I’d rather think about all the ways Brock lost out. I’d rather recount all the things I just won by him nailing a Femme in my hallway.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I get to come stay with my sister and help with her baby, if I can crash for a little while.”

  “As long as you need,” she said softly, reaching for my hand.

  I smiled, squeezing it. “I get to take all that money I’ve saved and buy my own place, one where I don’t have to deal with Brock’s Sunday work calls or piles of sweaty gym clothes in the entry. I don’t have to share a shower with a guy who has more hair products than me or clips his beard in the sink without rinsing it out. I don’t have to cook for a vegetarian anymore. I’m going to eat all the meat straight off the bone with meat juice all over my face and imagine him gagging.”

  She laughed.

  “It’s true,” I admitted, my voice losing its edge. “I thought … I thought this was it. I feel like a fool, Ivy. I trusted him. I accepted what he showed me as truth. Me.”

  “You don’t trust anyone.”

  “Except you. And this is why. People lie. They have their own agendas, and we can’t trust them not to manipulate us.”

  “Not everyone, Lila. Not everyone.”

  I gave her a look. “Everyone in my world.”

  “Then maybe your world is the problem.”

  I frowned. “This is everything I’ve wanted. I fought my way into this world. My career, my social life, all of it. Brock is just an asshole.”

  Her eyes flicked to the ceiling. “He really is. I’ve never heard someone bitch about a wine list like he can. Remember when he made the waitress cry at Delmonico’s?”

  “Entitled prick. I hope he and Natasha are happy together. They deserve each other.”

  “The entire planet knows she’s a homewrecker. She’s practically built her brand around her knack for stealing boyfriends out from under people. I suppose we should have seen it coming.”

  I ignored the sting of that truth. “But she always goes after famous people. What the hell does she want with Brock?”

  “I can’t imagine. He’s hot and rich, but he’s definitely not famous. And he hasn’t even given you an orgasm in months.”

  I groaned. “It’s tragic. Really and truly tragic.”

  “I mean, could anyone really consider him a catch?”

  “I did,” I answered quietly. “But now, I can’t help but think that I was only settling. It’s only been an hour, and I’m already struggling to remember one reason I was with him.”

  “You loved him. It’s a marvel how much we can overlook for the sake of love.” She sighed. “Lila, when this really hits you, I’m here, okay? Get mad. Cry. Come crawl in bed with me, and we’ll talk shit about the preemptive hair plugs he got last year and his calf implants.”

  An unladylike laugh snorted out of me. “To be fair, I didn’t know about the implants until we’d lived together for a year, and he swore me to secrecy.” I paused. “I should tweet it.”

  “Hey, no need to defend. I’m not judging your choices in partner.”

  I gave her a look.

  “Anymore,” she clarified. “But I mean it, Lila. I’m here for you. Okay?” she
insisted, making sure I understood the invitation was open and waiting.

  “Okay,” I answered just as Dean strode in, smile on his face.

  Ivy’s boyfriend—and baby daddy—was six and a half feet of muscle swathed in ochre skin. “Heya, Lila. What are you doing here?”

  Ivy looked over her shoulder. “She’s going to be staying with us for a minute.”

  “If it’s no trouble,” I added.

  He rolled one massive shoulder and sat next to my sister, his smile fading. “Sure. I mean, the baby will sleep in our room for a while, so her room is free. What happened?”

  Coolly, I answered, “I just walked in on Brock and Natasha Felix.”

  His eyes widened, the dark irises ringed with white. “You’re kidding.”

  “Fortunately, I’m not.”

  That earned me a frown. “You mean, unfortunately?”

  “No, fortunately. I feel like somebody just ripped open the veil. Maybe he’s been cheating on me all along. Maybe I never knew him at all. He was a stranger in a familiar mask, and when the mask slipped, I saw the monster underneath. I’ve never run so fast in my life. Figuratively. I’m not running anywhere in these.” I wiggled the crossed Louboutin.

  “Wait, there wasn’t a camera crew there or anything, was there?” Dean leaned in, brows drawn.

  Surprise shook me. I hadn’t even considered that possibility. “No, thank God. I … I can’t even imagine what I would have done. As it stands, I chucked a candlestick. Lucky for them, my aim sucks.”

  “What are you going to do about Natasha?” Ivy asked carefully, noting the unfortunate fact that I’d be seeing Natasha almost daily for the next eight weeks.

  Another flash, this one hot with rage. It didn’t die so easily as the last. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” she echoed in disbelief.

  “Nothing,” I insisted. “She’s not worth my job, and the Felix wedding is the biggest event I’ve ever handled. If Addison wasn’t slammed with a Hilton wedding of her own, she never would have given me so much responsibility. And I’m not going to waste a shot at impressing my boss just because Brock can’t keep his pants on.”

  Ivy chuckled.

  “I mean it. Without a belt, I think his pants would slip right off that tiny ass of his and hit the ground. Why didn’t anyone tell me his ass was so small? It looks like the end of a hot dog bun. Maybe he should have opted for butt implants instead.”

  Another laugh, this one hard enough for Ivy to rest her hand on her drum-tight belly.

  “You don’t think Natasha came onto him, do you?” Dean asked.

  “Oh, I’m sure she did,” I said on a tight, humorless laugh. “She’s taken home somebody from every meeting we’ve had. Angelika brings her sisters—and the Felix Femmes camera crew—everywhere with her. But it’s not her fault Brock is a shitbag. If he’d loved me like I thought he did, he would have walked away from Natasha without a second thought. Like you two. I’m guessing you don’t even have a Hall Pass list, do you?”

  “Hall Pass?” Dean’s brows quirked.

  Ivy smiled sideways. “You know, a list of celebrities you could sleep with without consequences.”

  “That’s weird,” he said, lip curling. He turned to Ivy. “You’re not allowed to sleep with anybody else. Even Zac Efron.”

  Ivy’s expression turned all goopy as she cupped his jaw. “Aw, see? He even knows my celebrity crushes.”

  “I’m not kidding,” he said, his face as serious as his tone. “If Zac Efron came here right now, begging you for just one night with a check for a million bucks in hand, I’d crumple it up and punch it down his throat.”

  “This,” I said, gesturing to them. “This is a prime example of why Brock and I were all wrong for each other. I’d just convinced myself it was perfect, and he played the part of the perfect boyfriend. But he wouldn’t take a bullet for me. He wouldn’t sacrifice what he wanted for my sake. Not in a million years. I just wish I’d figured it out sooner.” My throat tightened, and I swallowed to open it up. “Thank you. For letting me crash.”

  “Always,” Ivy said.

  Dean stood, making his way around the couch. “I’ll get the bed ready and make sure the closet’s cleaned out.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a weary sigh and a grateful heart. “I didn’t want to go to a hotel,” was the most I’d admit.

  But my sister knew the truth: I didn’t want to be alone.

  “You’re always welcome here. As long as you need.” She shifted to try to pull herself off the couch, but without abdominal muscles, she didn’t make it far.

  I stood and offered my hand, hoisting her off the couch. But once standing, she didn’t let my hand go. I could tell she wanted to hug me but curbed the impulse.

  “You deserve better than Brock,” she said, her blue eyes earnest.

  “I know,” I answered, and I did.

  But it sucked so bad that I felt like I didn’t. The pain I’d so proudly noted as absent wasn’t absent at all. It trickled under the surface, beneath the bedrock of will and anger. As Ivy gathered up some clothes and shepherded me into the bathroom, I considered that pain, the deceiving smallness of it.

  When she closed the door and I was alone, it cracked open like the earth, spreading in a rumbling chasm. The hiss of the shower covered the hitch in my breath. The steam from the stream masked the tears in my eyes. And I stepped into its scalding rain, welcoming the punishment as pain swallowed me whole.

  Pinging, stinging water against my scalp, rolling down my back, singeing my shoulders, teasing my skin to a dangerous shade of red. And every second brought another wave of memories. Brock in his tux, spinning me around a dance floor, my hand in his, his eyes full of love and a joke on his lips. His face, beautiful and tender across our pillows. The easy way he laughed, the easy way he loved.

  But it was a lie, every moment, every kiss.

  And I was a fool for believing him.

  The water cooled by the time my tears slipped down the drain. I stepped into a pair of Ivy’s sleep shorts and a tank, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. The mist on the mirror receded slowly until my reflection sharpened. The girl peering back at me looked equally like the fresh-faced teenager I’d once been and a woman older than me, more world-worn and cynical. Gray eyes, bright from tears, sunken from grief.

  So I reached for Ivy’s eye cream and did something about it.

  Because that was who I was—a woman who did something about it. I was a fixer, a problem solver, a perpetual motion machine who only moved in one direction. Forward.

  And forward I would go.

  After tidying up and gathering my things, I exited the bathroom and stepped into the quiet, dark house. The sound of their voices were muted by distance, the light from their bedroom slanting into the hall. Ivy laughed, a soft burst, followed by Dean’s deep baritone, and a sudden longing struck me, a fissure in the patch I’d mended the chasm with. But I smoothed it, turning for the nursery and my solitude.

  The baby’s room was shades of heather gray and white, marked by the occasional shot of coral in the way of the blanket hanging artfully on the crib wall or the throw pillow in the rocking chair. The velvet loveseat had been converted to a twin bed where I’d lay my head for a little while, and Dean had made it up, complete with sheets, two pillows, and a downy comforter that looked like a heaping pile of cloud fluff. Ivy had left a neat pile of clothes for me on top of the changing table, and on the pile sat a phone charger and a note.

  Good riddance to bad lays.

  Love you. Sleep tight.

  -Ivy

  I laughed as I picked up the charger and plugged it in. Brock really was a terrible lay, which I’d seen from a new, horrible perspective today. I’d settled in so many ways, convincing myself that he was perfect. A wealthy, beautiful doctor, charming and smooth. A man who had never had to work for a woman, present company included, which meant he’d never had to impress a woman in bed. He got what he wanted and never cared to learn t
he topography of a clitoris. Given that he had a medical degree, the oversight was as gratuitous as it was grievous.

  Curse of the Adonis. Why would he be bothered to care? An endless supply of women was apparently at his beck and call.

  I clicked off the lamp—a sweet, star-studded thing—and slid under the comforter, sighing the weight of the day into the comforting confines of the nursery. I’d have to find a way to be around Natasha, and there was only one plan: ignore her and pretend like nothing had happened. Business as usual, tally-ho, onward we went.

  Of course, I also knew Natasha to be manipulative—the youngest of the Femmes had a penchant for drama that her sisters paled beneath—and wondered if she’d be trouble. I couldn’t imagine a reason for her to sleep with Brock unless she wanted to get to me. Maybe for the sake of their show and any excuse to spark a fight in front of the cameras. I tried to tell myself she’d probably never see him again. He was too old and established for her, as her taste leaned more to the latest breakout DJ, other celebrity offspring, and whoever was making the most trouble in the media. She didn’t want anything to do with Brock other than to humiliate me.

  The best—and perhaps only—revenge would be to don my armor and show her just how unaffected I was. It would likely drive her insane, and if that was to be my only recourse, I’d wield it unflinchingly.

  And with that happy thought clutched in my fist, I closed my eyes and sought sleep, though I never quite found it.

  5

  Labradoodle-dee-doo

  KASH

  I saw her the second I turned onto Fifth, standing at the foot of a flat-fronted onyx building.

  There was no way to miss her.

  She wore white again, stark against the glossy black wall she stood before. This time, she’d donned a tailored dress, the sleeves capping her shoulders and the hem brushing the top of her shins. Her profile was elongated, straight out of a fashion illustration from the fifties—hip cocked, chin high, that vivid red hair swept into a bun at the nape of her swan neck. With the phone pressed to her ear, her lips alternated between clipped words and a thin line, a slash of red against creamy skin.