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The host for the evening is a famous comedian, who I barely even hear as he begins his introductory speech; partly because my mind is still reeling from the thought of Jett and Violet working together, but also because Charles Carter keeps up a running commentary in my ear, telling me how excited he and Gabriella are to see the golden couple ‘back together’ as he puts it.
“Yeah, but they’re not ‘back together’, are they?” I whisper back. “They’re just working together. That’s not the same thing.”
“It is as far as the fans are concerned,” says Charles smugly. “They always loved Jett and Violet. Worshiped them. And when the news comes out that they’re going to be playing husband and wife… well, who knows where that might lead?”
“Wherewillit lead?” I ask innocently. “Why don’t you say what you mean, Charles? I can tell you’re dying to.”
“Oh, come on, Alexandra,” says Charles, taking a sip of champagne. “You’re not a stupid girl. You know perfectly well that this little arrangement between you and Jett wasn’t going to last forever. And you got what you wanted out of it, didn’t you? You got your money. So now it’s time to give it up and go back to Scotland, where you belong. Let him be with Violet. It’s what he wants. It’s what we all want.”
“It isn’t,” I say loudly, making everyone at the table glance around at us. “It isn’t what Jett wants,” I go on, in a lower voice. “And stop trying to make out that I’m after his money, Charles. Just because you keep on saying it, it doesn’t mean it’s true.”
“Is that so?” he replies, feigning surprise. “But we all know how you met, don’t we? How you agreed to pose as Jett’s girlfriend for money? And I know Jett gives you an allowance now, too. He told me. It’s not like you have any other talents you could use to support yourself, is it?”
I pick up the glass in front of me and take a gulp of champagne, mostly to stop myself from screaming.
“Okay,” I say, when I’ve finally got control of my emotions again. “Okay, for one thing, when I met Jett, I didn’t agree to the fake-dating thing for the money; I did it because you got Asher to threaten me with deportation if I didn’t go along with it.”
“Oh yes,” says Charles, with a slimy grin. “Your little Visa issue. I’d almost forgotten about that.”
“I was only allowed to come back to the U.S. because Jett’s lawyers managed to smooth it over for me,” I tell him, still in a whisper. “But you know the terms of my Visa don’t allow me to work here, which is why I don’t have a job right now. Yes, Jett gives me money for the essentials, but I’ve never spent any of it. I don’t want his money. I never have.”
The only part of this that isn’t true is the bit about the money Jett gives me just being enough for “the essentials”. Actually, he gives me way more than that; or he tries to, anyway. What he doesn’t know is that I don’t ever use it. I still have all the envelopes stuffed into a drawer in my bedside table. I get all the clothes and makeup I’d ever need from the PR people who keep sending me stuff I didn’t even ask for, and everything else is right there at the house — food, drinks,everything.
It’s never been about the money. It’s only ever been about him. About Jett and me, and how we love each other too much to care about any of that other stuff.
His father will never understand that, though; and, realizing this, I turn away from him, determined not to let him get to me any more than he already has.
“Okay, how about this?” he says, leaning a little closer. “I’ll pay you myself. I’ll pay double whatever it is Jett’s giving you, just to get you to leave him alone. How does that sound?”
“It sounds like a bribe,” I tell him, my hands trembling as I replace my glass. “Only it can’t be, because you don’t have anything on me, Charles. There’s nothing you can use against me this time.”
“Maybe not. But you better believe I can make life difficult for you. How’s your mom?” he asks suddenly. “I heard she got into a bit of trouble last year. Had to sell the family business, didn’t she? Something about sabotaging another brewery? My, my.” He smiles, looking delighted at the thought of this. “I guess it’s true what they say about the apple and the tree, huh?”
“You wouldn’t.” I stare at him, finally understanding what people mean when they say their blood ran cold. “You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I? If you say so.”
Charles shrugs, as if he’s agreeing with me, but everything else about him suggests otherwise.
“People back home already know what Mum did,” I say slowly, my brain struggling to function through the fog of panic that’s descended on it. “It’s not news to them. Far from it, in fact.”
This is true. What happened with Mum and the Buchanan brewery was the talk of the town a couple of years ago, but it’s old news now.Or is it?
“Sure, sure,” says Charles pleasantly. “It’s probably well-known in that podunk little town you came from. But that doesn’t mean the rest of the world wouldn’t find it interesting,does it? Especially given the connection to Jett. Remind me: Jack Buchanan chose not to press charges, didn’t he? I wonder if that decision might be taken out of his hands, though, if someone were to call the cops? Hypothetically speaking?”
He strokes his chin thoughtfully.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I say again, as if repeating it will somehow make it true. “If you went to the police — or the media — about Mum, you’d just end up dragging Jett into it, too. And he’d hate that. You know he would. You know how much he hates that kind of attention.”
“He does,” agrees Charles solemnly. “Which is why I know you’ll want to protect him from it, won’t you? And don’t worry, Alexandra, I’ll make sure your mother’s reputation remains intact. You’ll both be looked after very well.”
He raises his glass, as if he’s toasting an agreement we’ve made, and something breaks inside me. I think it’s my very last shred of patience.
“You’re pathetic, you know that?” I tell him, fury making my voice rise. “You don’t even care about Jett, or his happiness. You don’t even know what makes him happy. All you care about is yourself, and what’s in it for you.”
“Au contraire. I care about Jett very much,” Charles replies smoothly. “I care about protecting him from gold-diggers like you. And I know that what makes him happy — really happy — is making movies. Which he can’t do with you hanging on his coattails, whining about every girl he ever has to film a scene with.”
“That’s not true,” I reply furiously. “You’re just trying to psyche me out. “You’re… you’re… you’re a leather-faced, boak-breathed… bawbag.”
