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I closed my eyes, breathing hard. The last thing I wanted was his charity, but my parents weren’t proud people. They just wanted to work and earn their way. I pinched my nose with my fingers, hating that I needed his help and was going to accept it, even after everything we’d been through.
“Thanks,” I said. “Well, I’ll let you go back to your party.”
“Bye,” he said, as if nothing had happened. As if he didn’t save my butt…again.
“Wait,” I hurried out before he hung up. The line was still there, but he didn’t say anything. I rubbed a hand against my thighs. “When will you be back in New York?”
“Can you just admit you miss me? It’s not that fucking hard.” I heard the smile in his voice.
I cringed. I did. I missed him. I hated that he wasn’t here today.
“I’m willing to give you your five minutes.” I dodged his accusation.
“Ten,” he argued. Even after all this time.
“Eight,” I retorted. It was all a game. I’d have given him as many hours as he needed to explain everything to me.
“Terrible negotiator,” he said in a tsking tone. “I would’ve taken five in a heartbeat. Good night, Em.”
Em. A tentative smile curved my lips. I knew it would stay there for long hours afterward.
He called me Em.
On Thursday, I wore a white and gold floor-length dress to the exhibition, letting my thick wavy hair fall against my bare back. Brent rented me this dress—rented!—knowing how important the exhibition was for me. I couldn’t sleep all night thinking about it. I tried to convince myself that it wouldn’t be a big deal if no one bought my painting. It was going to be the first time a painting of mine would be on display and for sale in a gallery—a prestigious one too—and I was with some of the best artists in New York. I should’ve just been happy with the fact that my painting was there.
On the pristine white wall.
Looking at me. Smiling at me. Demanding my attention.
I couldn’t focus on anything but that painting.
This afternoon, I’d spoken to my parents on the phone. They were already in Los Angeles and were living in an apartment in the same building as Vicious’s penthouse in Los Feliz. I didn’t want to know how many apartments the HotHoles had purchased over the years.
Mama was still upset about what happened at the Spencer mansion. “The worst part”—her voice shook again—“was that they think what caused the fire was our stove. I never leave my stove on. You know that. I check it three times before I go to bed every night. I’m telling you, Millie, it wasn’t us.”
“I know,” I said, brushing my hair in front of the mirror, minutes before Brent picked me up. “It wasn’t you. I know that. But who knows? Maybe Josephine came in? Maybe one of the other people who worked for her?”
I left Vicious’s name out for obvious reasons.
Mama sighed. “What if they think we left it on purpose because she fired us?”
“Well, does anyone actually know that she fired you?”
“No.”
“Let’s try and keep it that way,” I said.
“Your boyfriend said the same thing.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” I was getting a little tired of repeating this to everybody, mainly because I wanted the opposite to be true.
“Well, I have to go, Millie. Dean is taking us to buy some things for our apartment. It’s really nice. Big. But all the neighbors are so young. It’s really weird to live here.”
Dean was helping them out? I bit my inner cheek but didn’t say a word. That was the main thing about the HotHoles. They were such assholes, but deep down, they had great hearts.
“Enjoy, Mama.”
And now, here I was, living my dream, or what was supposed to be my dream. I stared at my painting again, clutching a tall glass of champagne and taking a deep breath. Rosie should’ve been here, but she’d taken a double shift at the café. She didn’t want to do it, but she was covering for a sick co-worker, and Rosie knew how it felt to get screwed over by illness. She didn’t want the girl, Elle, to get in trouble.
It was fine. I didn’t need anyone to celebrate with me. Besides, I had Brent.
A tall, beautiful woman in her early fifties approached me, wearing a black cocktail dress, a pearl necklace, and red lipstick. She smiled as she studied my painting on the wall.
“Nature or love?” she mused. She just wanted to start a conversation and had no idea I was the ELB who’d signed the bottom of the painting. Emilia LeBlanc.
“Definitely love. I mean, isn’t it obvious?” I quirked an eyebrow.
She laughed breathlessly, like what I’d said was utterly funny, and took a sip of her wine. “To you, maybe. Why do you think it’s love?”
