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I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been in serious trouble with my parents, and those all happened my senior year of high school. There was the time my mom walked in on me fucking my dad’s client’s daughter—I was grounded for a week.
There was the time Jefferson found a bottle of tequila in my backpack and ratted me out—grounded for a week.
And there was the time my friends trashed the Hamptons house. My parents came home to find me passed out on a deck chair. I was banned from throwing parties for the rest of the summer.
I’m not sure any of my teenage shenanigans could have prepared them for something like this.
My father stares at me, silent as a graveyard, and my mother wipes away a continuous stream of tears.
Yes, I’ve seen the video.
No, I don’t remember what happened. I blacked out so hard, I don’t even remember if I had sex with Khaleesi, who wound up being Jessa Fawn, an adult film actress who sustained whiplash and bruises when I rear-ended the stopped taxi while she was palming my cock from the passenger seat. And she hasn’t shut up about it in the press since.
I’ve tried calling my parents dozens of times in the last twenty-four hours. No response. I’ve spammed them with texted apologies and pleas for understanding, begging them to talk to me. Radio silence.
Jefferson was the one who contacted me about what time to show up today. My father’s lawyer Bob Cohen is in my usual spot at the table, which means I’m in deep shit.
There’s no food laid out, not that I could eat anything right now if I tried. I’m not even offered a coffee. All I have at my seat is a glass of water. Probably from the tap.
“Olivier,” Bob begins.
My skin erupts in chills.
“Would you like the bad news or the good news first?”
“There’s good news?” I ask, a much-needed spark of hope lighting my chest.
“We paid off the actress to keep her from talking anymore, and we’re in talks with the DA to drop the multiple charges.”
I don’t even want to ask. It’s all such a fucking relief that tears well in my eyes.
“The bad news is,” my father cuts in, “You won’t get off with us so easily.”
I give him a solemn nod, and a few tears manage to spill over. I’ve always cried easy.
I figure they’re going to make me move back in with them. Sell my penthouse and my car—that kind of thing. It’s fucking tragic, but I’ve been slowly coming to terms with my probable fate since I woke up in a cell. “Yes, sir.”
“This wasn’t some little incident we can sweep under the rug this time, Olivier. This is a scandal. For the last twenty-four hours I’ve been determined to throw you on the mercy of the system. Prove that our family in no way condones these—excesses—and we’re not too proud to face the consequences of your actions. You can thank Bob and your mother for talking me out of that.”
My chin trembles as I try to hold in a sob of relief. I am not cut out for prison. “Thank you,” I manage to whisper.
“Restoring the family reputation is going to cost me a fortune, and that means you’ll have to pay.”
“Anything,” I say.
“Good. I’ve tolerated the drugs, the hookers, the Page Six gossip, the salacious bits on TMZ, but this is too much. You need to clean up your act. Now. If you don’t—I’m cutting you off.”
Hookers? He thinks I have to pay people to sleep with me? I shake off the thought—not important. The point is, I believe him when he says he wants to cut me off. Sort of. I mean, I’m their only child. It’s hard to believe they’d just hang me out to dry and let me try to make it on my own. They know I have no life skills. I can barely boil water, much less do something like pay taxes. I shudder.
“Anything,” I say again. As long as I’m not cut off, I can handle whatever he throws at me.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, because we’ll be moving quickly. You’re familiar with the Lafayette Family?”
Is this a trick question?
Elodie Lafayette was the bad girl of St. Agatha’s prep. The daughter of a media magnate, she’s a socialite, a fashion influencer, and a notorious nymphomaniac. She makes Page Six twice as often as I do. She’s a real freak. Of course I’ve heard of her. Everyone’s heard of her. How she could possibly help me out of this situation, I have no clue. She’s one of the only women my age on the Upper East side I haven’t fucked. She’s terrifying.
I nod, wary.
