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Barbara's mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. "I—I wasn't questioning?—"

"Because it sounds remarkably like you're suggesting that a woman couldn't possibly earn her position through merit alone," Bev continues, her tone conversational but with unmistakable venom underneath. "Which would be not only offensive but embarrassingly outdated, don't you think?"

Barbara's face has gone from slightly flushed to an alarming shade of red. "You misunderstood me completely, Bev. I was merely complimenting Tess."

"Were you?" Bev tilts her head, her expression one of polite disbelief. "How fascinating. Because it sounded precisely like the sort of petty, thinly-veiled insult that got you removed from the Art Museum board last year. You remember—after that unfortunate comment about Margaret Wilson’s curatorial credentials?"

Barbara's knuckles go white around her martini glass. "That was a completely different situation."

"Was it?" Bev raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Because it seems to me you have a pattern of questioning the achievements of women more talented than yourself." She places a hand on my arm. "Tess, darling, Jane was looking for you. Something about the quartet playing your favorite Debussy piece."

I recognize the escape route being offered. "Of course. If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Carlton."

As Charlie and I walk away, I hear Bev saying, "Now, Barbara, I think it's time we discussed your recent comments at the Hospital Foundation gala as well..."

"I'm sorry about that," Charlie says once we're safely out of earshot. "Barbara Carlton is a poisonous woman who can't stand to see other people succeed."

"Your mother was amazing," I say, still stunned by Bev's precise takedown.

"Mom doesn't put up with that shit," Charlie agrees, pride evident in his voice. "Especially not when they're attacking someone she cares about."

The realization that Bev Astor considers me someone she cares about enough to defend publicly hits me with unexpected force. I feel the sting of unshed tears.

"Hey," Charlie says softly, tilting my chin up. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." I blink rapidly. "Just...stupid pregnancy hormones."

He smiles, seeing through the excuse. "Barbara Carlton is irrelevant. Everyone who matters knows exactly how talented you are."

I glance across the room to where Bev has Barbara cornered, the older woman nodding emphatically while Barbara looks increasingly uncomfortable.

"I think I'm beginning to understand why people find your family intimidating," I say with a small laugh.

"We protect our own," Charlie says simply. His hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining. "And you, Tess Whitlock, are definitely one of our own now."

The way he says it—like a promise, like a future—makes my heart beat faster.

"Come on," Charlie says, tugging me gently toward the dance floor. "Let's give people something to really talk about."

As he spins me carefully into his arms, I catch a glimpse of Barbara Carlton slinking toward the door, Bev Astor watching her retreat with satisfaction. I smile against Charlie's shoulder, feeling like I truly belong here—not as an imposter playing a part, but as myself, exactly where I'm meant to be.

Chapter 30

Tess

The steam rises from my mug of herbal tea, swirling in the golden light that filters through my kitchen curtains. I thumb through a parenting magazine, reveling in the Sunday morning quiet broken only by Art's occasional purring as he sits on the table next to my tea. Such a naughty boy, but I’ve given up trying to keep him off things he shouldn’t be on.

My mind drifts to all the real estate listings Charlie and I have been sifting through over the past couple of months—so many possibilities, none of them exactly what we’re looking for.

Art stretches, his black and white fur rippling, before leaping down to wind between my legs. He meows insistently, reminding me he needs breakfast. I've already fed him once, but he's convinced that Sunday means multiple servings.

"Nice try," I tell him, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. "The doctor said I'm the one eating for three, not you."

My hand moves to my growing belly. At twenty-three weeks, there's no hiding the twins now. I'm firmly in maternity clothes territory.

Art gives up on second breakfast and jumps onto my lap instead, careful to avoid my bump. He's been extra gentle withme lately, as if he senses the changes. I sip my tea and look through some more real estate listings.

For months now, Charlie and I have been trying to figure out where we'll live once the babies arrive. It's become a weekend ritual: open houses, private showings, debating neighborhoods and school districts over dinner. Sometimes I catch myself wondering how we got here so quickly—from fake dating to planning our future together in the span of months.