"Of course, sir."
The drive home is silent.
I stare out the window at the sleeting rain as the city of New York passes us by. By the time I arrive back to the penthouse, the entire place feels cold, emptier than ever.
I pour myself a Scotch and stand at the window, looking out at the city.
And I try not to notice that my bedroom door is open, that I can see the pile of video game wedding memorabilia in the corner.
The pixelated frames. The controllers with our names. The Player 1 & Player 2 blanket.
Evidence of a drunken mistake that somehow became the most real thing in my life.
Or so I thought.
I finish my scotch and pour another, just as my phone buzzes.
GINA: Car arranged for Ms. Beaumont. Driver will take her to Queens address per her request. Confirming billing to your personal account?
ME: Confirmed. Thank you.
Queens. She's going home to her family.
Where she should have gone for help in the first place instead of considering FoodFirst's offer.
Where she'll be safe.
Away from me.
I set down my phone and look around the penthouse, ignoring the fact that home has never felt less like home.
26
DESPERATE TIMES, DIAMOND RINGS
HARPER
Eight days later, I'm sitting in my childhood bedroom in Queens, staring at a bridesmaid dress I don't remember agreeing to wear.
It's been eight days since the gala. Eight days since Victor fired me. Eight days since I watched him walk away while I stood in the middle of the St. Regis ballroom, trying not to meltdown in front of half of Manhattan's tech elite.
Eight days since my entire life imploded.
Outside the windows of my parent’s home, December has buried New York under a cold that makes your bones ache—nineteen degrees with wind that cuts through every layer you're wearing, matching the frozen wasteland currently occupying my chest.
Inside my old bedroom—the one I haven't lived in since high school but that still has my debate team trophies and a poster of Julia Child—Christmas has vomited everywhere.
My mother went full Québécois holiday mode three days ago. There are lights strung across every surface. A small tree in the corner, decorated with ornaments Amelia and I made in elementary school. Garland wrapped around the bedposts like some kind of festive hostage situation.
It should be cheerful.
It's not cheerful.
Because today is Amelia's wedding day, and I'm supposed to be happy for my sister, but all I can think about is the fact that Victor was supposed to be here.
Not supposed to. Invited to.
By my mother. Who put him on the guest list before I could stop her. Who still asks about him every single day like I didn't tell her we broke up.
