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Chapter1
Harper
Dear Readers,
Is it just me or are you hankering for the next Hollywood scandal too?
This town has become so dull, I can barely drag myself out of bed in the morning.
Enough with the plastic surgery mess-ups. Hard pass on who’s a pain in the bootay to work with. Spoiler—everyone is.
Daddy needs some real drama, so somebody out there better give it to me before I shrivel up and die from boredom.
Dish,
Ferris Biltmore
* * *
You know how you can have a nightmare so vibrantly bizarre that you’re one hundred percent certain there reallyisan axe murderer looming over your bed, about to serve you pigs in a blanket before he kills you? That’s how I feel right now, except in reverse. I’m currently trying to convince myself that what I’m witnessing is nothing more than a horrific dream.
Standing in the doorway of my Mediterranean-style living room—lovingly decorated in earth tones, with pops of orange and rust reminiscent of the Tuscan sunset—I’m watching my husband bone the nanny. I realizeboneis a word that lacks class, but believe me, there is nothing classy about what’s occurring over the back of my cocoa-colored leather sofa. A couch I must now burn. Possibly while they’re still on it.
I should be devastated and rocked to my core, but sadly, this is not the first or even the second time I’ve caught my husband in a compromising position.
“Oh. My. GOD. Right there!” Justine yells.
Brett responds with, “You’re so tight I can barely hold back!”
I’m about to insert myself into the conversation with something along the lines of, “Yougive birth to two children who inherited your giant head and see if you bounce back to normal.” Instead, I glance outside to make sure my kids are safe in the backyard. Thankfully, they are.
“Oh, yeah, Brett, you’re so … sooooo …”
“Scummy? Deplorable? Clichéd?” I suggest loudly.
Brett jumps off Justine and scrambles to pull up his pants. Unfortunately for him, there’s no blood left in his brain, which obviously messes with his equilibrium. He staggers around for a few moments before falling, his butt making a slapping sound against the terracotta tiles. I think of all the wonderful sounds I could make hitting him with an assortment of art pieces around the room.
Justine mumbles, “Oh, Mrs. Kennedy, I’m so sorry. I was just … I mean … I was choking … and Mr. Kennedy was giving me the Heimlich maneuver.”
“He needed his pants down for that?”
She opens her mouth, then closes it.
That’s right. Shut it.“Justine, you’re fired,” I say with a superhuman calm I do not feel. “Get out now, and don’t bother to pack your bags. I’ll have your things delivered to the agency.”
“Please don’t tell them,” she begs, pulling up her underwear. Which look suspiciously like my underwear—Agent Provocateur, Taisia. At nearly $700 a pair, I’m pretty sure they aren’t in my nanny’s budget. And while I can certainly afford them, I would never waste that kind of money on underwear. Which means they were a gift. Likely from my idiot husband. “They won’t find me another position if they know that—”
“You needed my husband to give you the Heimlich maneuver with his penis?” This girl is about six eggs short of a dozen.
Brett finally gets to his feet. “It isn’t what you think, Harper.”
I’m pretty sure it’sexactlywhat I think. My movie star husband has a major problem keeping it in his pants. In the past, he’s assured me he was seeking professional help for his lack of impulse control, but I don’t even care anymore.
Every time he’s promised it’s the last time, he’s moved one step closer to being permanently expelled from my life. I’ve tried to forgive him for the sake of our children, but now that he’s brought his philandering into our home—my safety zone—it’s the last straw.
“You can go with her, Brett. You no longer live here.”
“You can’t kick me out!” He’s hopping around on one foot while he attempts to tug his jeans up. “I paid for this house.”
