Page 145 of Twisted Knight

To get rid of the distraction said her text.

Mallory looks over to me and smiles a smile any man would appreciate.

And any other time, there is absolutely no fucking doubt I’d act on it. On her. On the opportunity that she’s put out there.

“I know it’s none of my business even though it is technically my business,” Rupert says, pulling me back to him as he chortles at the pun. My face remains impassive. “When it comes to the deal, are there any sticking points that might cause a delay or a problem?”

“You’ll have to excuse me for saying this, Rupert, but I can’t discuss the specifics of the deal with anyone. Rhett and I are under a nondisclosure agreement, and I take those very seriously.”

In other words, no, you can’t know anything other than the memos the board members get—and those are scant on details.

“Yes. Of course. Ever the consummate professional.”

My smile is there but disingenuous. “Always.”

He continues to stare at me as if he thinks that will make me talk even when his questions don’t. It’s awkward for him. A shift of his feet. A clearing of his throat. I just continue to stare back, waiting for him to get the hint that nothing more will be said.

“Well, it was great talking to you,” he finally says. “So great. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course,” I say with a nod.

You’ll be back. You’ll rephrase the questions. You’re Rupert Rothschild. You’re used to people doing what you ask.

Not me.

Not when it comes to them.

Fuck that.

I lift my beer to my lips and look around the Rothschilds’ lavish backyard. People I’ve come to learn are the who’s who of Westmore society stroll about. It’s old money—subtle and unassuming with classic style—beside new money—loud and obvious with everything on trend. Regardless, the guests are decked out as extravagantly as the yard.

Massive trees provide a canopy of shade over the perfectly manicured lawn. The patio furniture is abundant and placed around the patio area, white with turquoise cushions, much like at the country club. Servers mill about with food and drink. An acoustic guitar player is in the corner providing background music.

Just a “quaint, friendly backyard barbecue,” read the invitation.

That’s how far removed the Rothschilds are from reality.

Caterers? Servers? A musician?

This is a place where they’re used to hiring the help. Is this what my mom saw every day—the lavishness, the waste, the excessiveness—as she cleaned their houses before coming home to us every night? Is this disparity what drove her to not give up so we could have the same opportunities?

I saw it in my job at the Westmore Country Club back then—but what was on display there more than anything was a sense of entitlement. She saw this—an embarrassment of wasted food—while we could barely feed ourselves, often eating the same thing over and over because the ten for $10 deals on canned goods were our staple at the end of most months when the money ran out. People complaining about the hired help not doing this or that when she was the hired help. The inability to pick up after yourself because you’re so used to someone else doing it for you.

My gaze drifts toward the pool area, and that’s when I find Rowan again. She’s standing among a group of people. Her smile is wide, the glass of wine in her hand almost empty.

She’s a part of this world. I have a habit of forgetting that. She might not say the things they say or act the way they do, but she’s still a part of the culture and the privilege.

That she fits in here is without question.

I put the image I have of Rowan at the diner, concerned about the waitress, side by side with the one I see right now. Diamonds glinting, hand reaching out for a fresh glass of wine from a server with barely a nod, and more than comfortable with how over-the-top this party is.

Rowan leans her head on her mom’s shoulder as she laughs at something being said. It’s normal to be at odds with someone in your family—their ideals, their whatever—and still want to be around them. And still love them.

I get that. Everyone gets that.

And yet it’s hard to reconcile the things Rowan says about her family, the way she feels, with seeing her like this. Hard to believe she truly means those things.

When the world falls down around them, when I make it tumble, what will happen to her?