Page 160 of Gilt

“Let them.” And for the first time today, a genuine grin brightens his handsome face. “I want the world to know you belong to me.”

“Belong, huh? They think I’m a blood-thirsty, psychopathic gold-digger. I think the world assumes you belong to me.”

His laughter dissipates the tension in the air. “Then they’ll know you’re my psychopathic gold-digger.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Monroe’s nails click on the polished mahogany top of the dining room table. If being under the scrutiny of tabloid surveillance teams is awkward, this is unbearable.

“He’ll be out in just a minute,” I say apologetically for the tenth time. Later tonight, I’m going to have to talk to Jameson about abandoning me at the mercy of his mother and sister in the middle of a crisis. Maybe it’s unfair, given that he’s probably on the phone trying to handle the situation, but his absence only gives them more time to sharpen their claws.

Monroe runs her tongue along her teeth across the table from me.

She’s going to eat you alive, a tiny voice warns me. Tell me something I don’t know.

Evelyn, Jameson’s mother, has been eerily silent since our arrival. Usually, she’s the warmest member of the family, having gone out of her way to make me feel welcome, despite the circumstances under which Jameson and I met. Tonight, she seems to have taken a page out of her son’s book, keeping her thoughts and emotions under wraps.

She sits at the head of the table, her black silk blouse a stark contrast against the creamy white of her throat. A string of pearls nestles against her collarbone. From all outward appearances, this woman is in mourning. Knowing what I know about the nature of the West family, her show of grief is less about actual sadness and more about propriety—a topic I have a feeling I’m about to get a lecture in.

“Mother. Monroe.” Jameson greets his family as he strides into the dining room. It feels like ages since we’ve both been in his Mount Charleston home. Can it really only have been a few days? The boy who brought me here a few months ago has been replaced by a man in a white oxford and suit pants with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows and his tie unknotted at his neck. I miss the t-shirt and jeans. I miss the picnic basket with crunchy peanut butter sandwiches, but most of all, I regret that he’s given it all up to protect me.

Monroe clears her throat. “Can we get going with this? I have plans this evening.”

I shoot her a look that suggests I suspect what those plans might be, but she maintains her studied indifference as she inspects her manicure.

“Of course, we can—now that we’re all here,” Evelyn West says in a benevolent tone. Jameson takes the seat at the opposite end of the table, and the tension between them is palpable. On one end, his mother, still reeling from the murder of his father, has been left to parent two children who took the Autobahn into adulthood. On the other end sits her son, who has risen to power in the absence of his father. I’m glad I’m not battling for which end is up, but being stuck in the middle sucks.

“Well, you called this meeting,” Jameson prompts.

“We’re sorry to interrupt your little holiday in New York,” Monroe sneers, “but you left a mess behind yourselves.”

I grip the edge of the table, trying to maintain some sense of decorum. Considering that my relationship with Monroe has primarily consisted of flipping the bird to each other behind the backs of teachers for the last three years, this is harder than it sounds.

“Monroe.” Her mother’s voice is rich with admonishment. “I asked us all to be here because this concerns all of us.”

“I don’t see how what her stepfather did…”

I’m halfway out of my seat when Jameson cuts her off.

“Shut up, Monroe.”

“You can’t speak to me like that.”

“I don’t know why you think I can’t,” he growls.

“You will both be quiet.” Evelyn’s fist pounds the table. “Neither of your names has been dragged through the mud half so much as poor Emma’s, and you don’t see her starting fights.”

I shrink further into my chair, thankful that she doesn’t realize how close I’d been to lunging across the table for Monroe’s throat. Jameson takes the heat for me, squaring his shoulders and meeting his mother’s gaze with defiance.

“Is this a family meeting or a lecture?”

“It seems you are in need of both, my son.” Their eyes stay locked on each other, providing Monroe and I with some common ground as we glance at them nervously.

I hadn’t expected a play for power between the two of them, but then again, I never expected to find myself in this situation at all.

“I called this meeting to clarify some points of interest,” his mother explains.

“Then why is she here?” Monroe asks.