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Do not read into it, Paige. Repeat: Do not.
“And all it took was a whole lot of messing with his coffee,” I joke, smiling as I get out of the car. “Thanks for the ride.”
The sessions are each at least an hour long. I type notes until my fingers might fall off.
I raise my hands in front of me, shake them out, and keep going until the laptop battery dies. By then, they’re calling a break with catered food.
Awesome. I’m starving and I can’t wait to find a place away from the crowd to recharge my computer. I pack up my stuff, head to the lobby, pile a plate with cheeses, fruit, mushrooms, cured meats, and olives, and escape the boisterous crowd.
I set my stuff down at the end of an oversized couch, plug in the lappy for the final leg, and cut into a cheese-stuffed mushroom. So good.
Deep in snack time heaven, I don’t notice the shadow blocking the light from a window I’m sitting at right away. When I look up, she almost makes me jump.
A frowning older woman with dark frizzy hair. It’s a nice color, though. A good hot oil treatment would work miracles on her.
“Paige,” she says.
How does she know who I am? I search her face and it’s a little familiar, but I just can’t place it.
She points at my chest. “Your name tag. How are the mushrooms?”
I smile tentatively. What does she want?
“Heavenly,” I throw back. “You should grab a plate and try them.”
The corners of her lips turn up, but it’s not really a smile. She nods and moves to sit beside me.
I scrunch over to the other side of the couch as far as I can.
“I’m surprised he sent you here to represent the whole company at an event this big. This is normally Beatrice’s turf, you know. He must trust you a lot,” she says softly, greenish eyes flashing.
Okay. Who is she?
She’s way too old to be a jaded ex. Not that I’m jealous, perish the thought.
Her head turns as she fluffs her bob of hair. “I didn’t think my son had any trust left in him—especially for a woman.”
Wait. Back up.
Son?
My heart stops and I try not to choke on my bottled tea.
This is the terror who birthed Ward? The narcissist who was all about drinking herself into a crater, and wound up getting that kid killed on the yacht?
I squint at her, trying to remember the photos from the articles I’d Googled.
Yes, she’s older, but there’s no mistaking that face. If you could make a thin, petrified lemon rind into a pair of lips, it’d be a good stand-in for the sly almost-scowl she wears like an accessory.
Like she knows too many appalling secrets nobody should.
“You’re Ward’s mom. Giselle,” I whisper through my numbness.
She laughs like a dry door hinge. “Took you long enough. Congratulations on the upcoming nuptials, by the way.”
Woof. Is she being sincere?
“Thanks,” I clip, realizing that if this was a real wedding—and if Ward wanted anything to do with her—she’d be my mother-in-law.
Big yikes.
She pulls a cigarette out of her purse with her bony fingers and lights it, blatantly disregarding the hotel’s No Smoking signs.
“Um, I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke in here,” I venture.
She puts the cigarette in her mouth and exhales a cloud of smoke. “Oh, honey, I’m technically still a Brandt and before that I was a Simms. I’ll do whatever the hell I please. I suppose I should welcome you to the family. Hope he’ll have more time for you than he ever does for me.”
Welcoming me to the family is pointless when she’s not part of it. But I hold my fire.
I say nothing, straining to even look at her.
She blows a puff of smoke too close to my face.
“Let me give you some friendly advice for my son’s sake. Don’t let that bitch put you under her thumb—”
Oh, no. She can’t possibly mean who I think she does.
“Beatrice is a sweetheart,” I say, meeting her eyes with an anger I can’t hide. “How could you have anything against her?”
Giselle snorts, the one mannerism she might share with Ward.
“Keep believing that, missy. Oh, she might start off perfectly charming, but it’s all for show. She’ll run you off the instant you step out of line.” She takes another drag from the cig. “My ex-husband was a flawed man. I’d never deny it, but he had to learn it somewhere, didn’t he?”
If she wants an answer, I’m not coughing it up.
I don’t want to play whatever twisted game she’s after.
“Sometimes the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” she continues. “I know people think Victor’s a disgrace, a spoiled brat gone rotten. You weren’t around when his dad was alive, but you can take my word for it. Godfrey Brandt was a very nice man. He learned that shit from his mom. She screwed her son up so bad he’s a total basket case, and then she wanted my poor sons so she could play with them like dolls, too.”
