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I shake my head.
She is definitely not a friend.
Her smile falls, and a faint blush colors the tops of her cheeks as she looks toward her grandmother for backup. “Ah, well. I’m sure they’re only acquaintances. You know how it is…”
What she means to say is among the upper crust, it’s not uncommon for men and women to step out of their marriages, or in this case, their fake engagements. Usually, it’s done with discretion, but not always. There are no paparazzi to capture scandalous moments—we’re too discreet for that—but gossipmongers like Victoria take it upon themselves to source every salacious detail so they can spread the news like wildfire.
She’s hardly the first to inform me of Emmett’s comings and goings. Over the last few weeks, it seems to be all anyone wants to talk to me about.
He was with a gorgeous woman at the Somerset Club last night.
There was a woman on his arm at the Boston Public Library auction.
I thought I saw him with someone outside Sorellinas yesterday evening, but perhaps I was mistaken…
Though I wish I could grow a thick callous around my heart, it proves impossible not to feel wounded. Each story is as painful as the last. Emmett seems intent on parading around town with as many women as he can manage, and I’m sure it doesn’t stop there. I press on my wounds by imagining him taking them home at the end of the night, crawling up and over them just like he did to me on the pier in Italy…his mouth slanting over theirs, his heavy body caging them in against the bed…
When Diana and Victoria leave, my grandmother stands, and all the careful grace and elegance she exuded for the last two hours melts away in an instant.
Her expression is murderous when she turns to me.
“He makes a fool of you!” she hisses, looking on as if hoping I’ll share her vehemence.
I reach forward and carefully set my half-finished tea on the coffee table, avoiding her gaze.
My voice is flat when I reply, “He’s free to do as he likes. We aren’t married.”
“You’re betrothed and the whole world knows it! Never mind about the actual ceremony or some silly marriage certificate.”
“I don’t think it truly matters—”
“It does, and you’re too young and too naive to see that. Or perhaps you just don’t care, but you’ll do as I say and bring him to heel.”
I almost laugh. “You have a great deal of misplaced confidence in me if you think that’s possible. Emmett doesn’t answer to anyone but his father.”
I’m wrong to assume that will end her tirade. If anything, it only makes it worse.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to have a word with him.”
I cringe and stand immediately, trying to catch her before she leaves the room. “No, please—”
But she’s already made up her mind. I have no doubt she’s on her way to give Frédéric a call this very minute.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emmett
There’s an anger in me that I can’t kill. If I keep busy, I can almost forget it exists, but it’s always there in the background on a low simmer.
Through the latter half of November and early December, I work like a dog. I’m back and forth from New York City and Paris. I’m close to buttoning up the new Leclerc & Co. buyout, and I’ve had four meetings with the historical restoration team from Banks and Barclay concerning the new GHV headquarters in Boston.
I’ve also made headway with my home. Though far from being complete, it’s livable. Pierce Waterhouse has finished furnishing several of the rooms on the main floor, enough for me to move out of my suite at the Mandarin Oriental two weeks before Christmas.
As soon as I’ve finished unpacking my last box, I regret my decision.
The city was already proving lonely. The days are growing short, night creeping in earlier and earlier each day. The snow is endless, and the conditions have pushed everyone indoors. At the Mandarin Oriental, I could have a drink at the bar or eat dinner downstairs and feel as though I wasn’t quite so lonely and adrift. In my quiet house, it’s not so easy.
The holidays take over in full force. The buildings around the city get dressed with red bows and twinkle lights, and I’m a scrooge, hating every bit of it, wishing the holidays would pass quicker. Happy families seem to follow me wherever I go. I walk past children making snowmen, tourists on ice skates, a makeshift hot cocoa stand run by two sisters with dark braids capped at the ends with alternating green and red beads.
“Mister! Hey mister! You want some hot chocolate?!” the younger one asks me.
“No,” I reply grumpily, picking up my pace.
I swear her eyes well with tears on the spot. I make it only two steps further before exhaling a heavy sigh, turning back, and withdrawing a fifty-dollar bill out of my wallet to stuff into a plastic cup that up until now was only filled with loose change.
