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The kitchen is crowded with the catering staff coming in and out. The chef who’s bent over the kitchen counter putting the last touches on a tray of hors d’oeuvres doesn’t even look up to acknowledge our presence. I relax my stance and head straight to the cellar. No need to linger and push our good luck.

I rush down the stairs with Jacob close behind me. When I reach the bottom floor, I spot the wine racks to my right, just as Santino said. The cellar is a glass enclosure that takes up most of the space. Through the doors, I can see row after row of different vintages with the middle shelf stacked high with magnum size bottles. The Senator appears to be very serious about his wine.

“Look.” Jacob shoulders off the canvas tube carrier and sets it on the stained cement floor.

“Thank God.” I unbutton my tuxedo jacket and retrieve the cloth cutter I brought.

Jacob and I get into a rhythm fast. I cut, he rolls and stuffs into the carrier. In under ten minutes, the frames are stripped, and we’re ready to head out.

“Gardenia.” I press my body against the wall at the bottom of the steps.

“I’m sorry. You’re stuck for another ten minutes. Stay put.” She types on her laptop, while Jacob and I stand there waiting with literally a spotlight over our heads.

“If anyone catches us on the way out,” I whisper to Jacob. “Take the paintings and run. I’ll hold them back.”

“You’re the boss.” Jacob releases a breath, holding the tube carrier close to his body. He goes quiet as his gaze shifts to me on repeat.

“What’s on your mind, Jacob?” I ask.

“You did the right thing. Letting her go.” He looks away, but not before I catch the pity in his eyes.

Fuck off is what I want to say, but he’s right. I compromised too much already. The fact that I dragged them here tonight to grab my grandparents’ paintings because I couldn’t wait another day, because I needed her to know the truth, is very telling of how much I’ve lost control of the situation, how much Paloma is messing with my logic and my plans for her father.

“Um,” Gardenia says quietly. “You guys can go now.”

“Yeah.” I dart upstairs.

Once again, the catering crew is not at all bothered by our presence. I gesture toward the kitchen door, but as I make to leave, I hear a murmur linger in the air. “The real Swan Queen is here.”

“What?” I block the staff member on his way out the door. “What did he say?”

“The real Swan Queen is here.” He repeats it with glee in his eyes. “I hope I get to see her.”

“As in the Senator’s daughter?” I grip the lapels of his cheap suit and ask through gritted teeth. “Paloma Davis?”

“I don’t know. We’re not allowed to go beyond the dining room.” His gaze darts from me to Jacob. “I need to deliver this bucket of champagne. They don’t like waiting.”

“Then how do you know she’s here?” I clench my jaw.

“Someone said that.” He steps back, and I let him go.

“Wait. Why is Paloma at an orgy?” Gardenia’s voice barely registers over the thumping in my chest.

“That’s a fucking good question.” I push the kitchen door open and call over my shoulder. “Jacob, go home.”

CHAPTER32

YOU LIED TO ME

Paloma

The black sedan rolls to a stop on the street several houses down from my family’s East Hampton beach house. I’m not surprised Dad chose to spend time here after he lost our Bedford home. Growing up, I spent every weekend here each summer. Dad’s favorite time to enjoy the beach was during the off-season. He loved it when the town was quiet and tourist-free.

What’s odd is that he would agree to throw a party this size. Limousines line the entire street while valet drivers greet guests clad in black tie attire. I’m still wearing the cashmere sweater and jeans from earlier today. Would they stop me from entering my own home dressed like this?

I check Freya’s phone again. I was hoping I would get to talk to Dad before getting here. When I left Bedford, I called him and left a voice mail. Sole, our housekeeper, was the one who told me where to find him tonight. But that was two and a half hours ago. And of course, she didn’t mention he was entertaining at our home, which is probably why he hasn’t returned my call.

He was recently at the hospital. How is he in good enough shape already to be hosting a big party? I rub my temples, trying to decide what to do. I could go home and come back with Archer in the morning. No, I can’t do that. My conversation with Dad can’t wait. And I’d rather meet with him alone. Not just because I don’t want Archer to confirm that Dad flat out lied to me, but because this situation with Mom is private. A part of me wants to believe that Dad had a good reason to hide Mom’s true identity.