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“Oh, I don’t know if you can help me, but I know I can sure help you.”
I put her on speaker and button my dress shirt.
“You sound like a salesperson who’s about to screw me over. Just say what you want to say.”
“I just got off the phone with Winnie. I called her to catch up, as I do every week.”
“And?” I ask casually, my heart already beating faster.
“And she told me she took a job in Mulberry Creek. She’s staying there, Arsène.”
A rush of nausea takes over me. I ignore it. It’s fine. It was never meant to be.
“Good for her,” I say, my mouth sour with bile. “I hope she’s happy in Mulberry Creek, because she has nothing to look forward to in New York when it comes to employment.”
“Arsène,” Arya reproaches. “Go talk to her. Seriously.”
“I thought you told me to stay away from her.”
“That was before!”
“Before you got a brain implant?”
“I can hear you. You’re on speaker,” Christian bellows in the background.
“Before I realized that you care.” Arya sniffs.
I press my lips together. I want to scream.
“I don’t care any more about her than I do any other successful employee who helped me make money,” I insist. “Now I ask that you and your nosy husband keep out of my business. Winnifred Ashcroft means nothing to me.”
I hang up.
I go out. A dinner party two blocks down from my apartment. I mingle. I flirt. I discuss work. I even contemplate taking someone home. Riggs, Christian, and Arya are wrong. I am having fun. Even if I don’t remember the name of the host or what the fuck we’re celebrating here.
“Hey, Arsène.” I turn around after dessert, in the drawing room, to find a man I faintly recognize as Chip, Grace’s boss from Silver Arrow Capital. Draped on his arm is a woman who is not his wife, and he is not even a little embarrassed by this fact. I smile ruefully. Hedge fund management is great for your pockets and disastrous for your morals.
“I thought it might be you.” He claps my shoulder.
Chip. Chip who kept Paul and Grace’s secret. Chip who knew. Chip who ignored Winnifred for months when she begged for answers. Chip, Chip, Chip.
Turning around completely, I decide to play his game. “Chuck, right?”
“Chip.”
“Right. I remember, from Italy.” I snap my fingers, then turn to his companion. “Mrs. Chip, my sincerest apologies, I didn’t catch your name in Italy. What was it again?”
The woman has the decency to look mortified. She untangles herself from the man and introduces herself as Piper. She is a good-looking thing. In an obvious, sorority-girl way. Tightly woven blonde curls, nice rack, and a smile I bet cost her parents a small fortune but got her through a few beauty pageants. Chip ignores the very deliberate blow on my part.
“Saw you on the Post’s fifteen top hedge fund managers list. Why are you not expanding your company? A lone wolf is weaker in front of a pack,” he says.
“That’s okay. I’m no wolf. I’m a motherfucking tiger.”
“Still.” He laughs, shifting uneasily.
“You just said you saw my name in the Post. I didn’t see yours. Perhaps I should be the one handing out unsolicited advice.”
Chip’s face falls. “Am I missing something, Corbin? Have I done something to upset you?”
Other than keeping the affair between Paul and Grace a secret, nothing much. I’m not even upset about that part. But the way he and Pablo treated Winnifred after the fact still grinds my gears. She didn’t deserve any of this.
“Nothing at all.” I smile.
“Because . . .” He hesitates before glancing sideways and dropping his voice. “I always had an inkling, but never a concrete idea of what was happening. You must know, Corbin, we have a strict no-fraternization policy at Silver Arrow Capital. Sure, Paul and Grace seemed close, but never beyond what I considered normal.”
Seeing as he is giving me this little speech with a woman who could pass for his daughter draped on his arm, I’m going to go ahead and file this in my big-pile-of-bullshit folder.
When I don’t answer for a whole excruciating minute, letting him know I’m not buying what he is selling, Piper shifts and turns to me. “Would you mind giving me a ride home?”
“Not at all.” I smile cordially at Chip before turning my back to him. “I’ll wait for you at the door.”
Ten minutes later, Piper and I are in my car. She gives me her address—she lives all the way over in Brooklyn—and apologizes for the long journey.
“You’re fine,” I say tersely. It’s not like there’s anything waiting for me at home. Every minute away is a minute I’m not tempted to call Winnifred.
“Or . . .” Piper bites down on her lower lip, glancing my way in the passenger seat. “We can just go over to yours, and I can catch the train in the morning? It’ll save you the trouble.”
