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Chapter1
Molly
“Areyou seriously making out with someone at our wedding shower?” I gawk, watching my soon-to-be husband devour a woman like she has the last blackberry pavlova stuck down her throat.
“Oh. Hey, Molly,” Lance says, taking a step back and buttoning up his shirt with the laziness of a stagnant breeze on a hot summer day.
Nobody can see myperfectfiancé in the closet with another woman—especially today.
Lance Bradbury has always been good at putting onthe act. Why couldn’t he wait to swap spit with one of the staff until after the festivities?
“Please wrap this up,” I plead. My stomach wrings into knots.
“Calm down, this is part of the arrangement, remember?” He shrugs and swipes at the lipstick on his chin. The caterer hesitantly looks between us.
“Not here, and not today.” Panic slews in my veins. “What if people saw?”
“Who’d be poking their nose into one of my closets?” He notices my fretful expression. “Fine, just give me a minute.” My fiancé turns to his necking partner and whispers incoherently.
He’s the worst.
In the year I’ve been engaged to Lance, we’ve never been fond of each other.
Well, maybe that’s notentirelytrue.
He’s keen on what my family can offer him. We’re wealthy. We have a name that is engraved into museum halls and hospital wings. In our world, the difference between old money and a hot-off-the-press multimillionaire is stark. Lance can’t buy class, but, through our marriage, he can secure a legacy for his own family.
Bradbury-Greene. In three short months.
I roll my eyes at his hushed whispers and turn back to check the damage.
The throng of New York high society litters the Bradburys’ Tribeca residence. Down the hall, the first floor holds two hundred people—half of whom I cannot recall the name of. They’re dressed in monotone suits amid white orchid centerpieces, seemingly unaware of my fiancé’s indiscretions. Midday light floods through the large windows, making the high ceilings seem enormous, yet I’m suffocating.
Then I see the sharks of the Upper East Side. Portia Royce, Emma Elingdale, and Miranda Laurel beeline toward me. Their Jimmy Choos and Manolos clack along the hardwood.
A banshee wails in the distance. At least, I think it does.
Relax, Molly. You’ve been trained to handle this.
Straight spine. Glimmering smile. Polite laughter—not too loud, not too high-pitched, just right.
My lips pull upward. I gently glide the closet door shut, but Lance wedges in an oxford, trying to exit.
“There you are, doll.” Portia swings one of her almond-shaped nails in the air. Heads swivel toward us at her screeching tone. I must get these three out of this hallway and away from the closet.
“Portia! So lovely to see you here.” My voice quavers. “Have you had a chance to check out the ice sculptures in the backyard?”
Lance makes a terrible wall with his body to conceal his mistress. My ten-carat engagement ring feels more like a restraint than a symbol of commitment.
“The only ice I do is cryotherapy. Besides, this little situation seems far more chilling.” Portia is only a few inches away, peering her razor gaze over Lance’s shoulder. “Are you and Lance having a littlecoup d'état?”
Certainly she doesn’t know what that phrase means. Although this is beginning to feel like a seizure of power.
“No,” I respond and nudge my elbow into Lance, trying to get him out of the way. We need to shut the door.
Portia’s eyes widen with intrigue.Oh no, she saw.
“O-M-G—Lance, were you in there with someone else?” Her neck cranes around us.
