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His fingers meet mine as he touches it. “When I was eight, Lex, Pace, and I were playing ‘iceberg’ in the parlor.”

“Iceberg?”

There’s a surprising lightness to his grin. “Same concept as hot lava. You know, that game where you try not to touch the ground by jumping around the furniture?”

I mix in another layer of concealer. “Yeah.”

“Well, back then, the parlor had this pristine white carpet.”

“Gotcha.”

“I tried to make this epic jump from the couch to the rocking chair—and I made it, except I didn’t account for the backswing of the chair. My chin hit the edge of it, giving me a good gash. Blood just wenteverywhere.”

“Ouch.” I wrinkle my nose. “Facial wounds are always the worst. I bet you were scared.”

“Not about the wound, but yeah.” There’s something faraway in his voice, and when I look at his face, expecting to see his standard smug expression, it’s not there. “Anyway,” he tilts his head and gives me a slow grin, “Chicks think it’s sexy.”

My stomach flutters at the shift in attention, although it’s stupid. Wicker turns on and off the charm like a light switch. But I’ve been on the receiving end of his kisses, and as hard as I try not to fall for it, they still make my insides melt.

“Okay,” I say, handing him a compact mirror. “I think that’ll work.”

He angles his face, checking out my attempt. “Good work, Red.”

I toss the makeup back in the bag. “So, who is Trudie Stein and why did you invite me to come with you tonight?”

“She’s chairperson of the city council, and one of Father’s associates.” He leans back and tosses an arm over the back of the seat. “She’s having a campaign fundraiser, and I’m Father’s contribution.” The wording is strange, but before I can ask him to clarify anything, he adds, “Father’s kept me busy as fuck lately, and we’ve got this tournament coming up and coach keeps giving us extra practice.” He lifts his hips, grinding his cock into his hand. “If I’m not going to be home to make my deposits, you’re just going to have to come with me.”

The car turns down a long winding driveway, ultimately ending up in front of a brightly lit mansion. It’s newer than the Palace, but no less grand. “So she’s loaded,” I say, peering up at the stone house. This kind of wealth… I’m not accustomed to it.

“All of Father’s associates have money or power. Usually both.” He looks out the window at the big house. “Tonight’s the night you put all those lessons your mama paid for into practice.”

The car stops and we’re ushered to the walkway, where a banner announcing that we’re about to enter a fundraiser for the support of the Open Hearts Adoption Agency hangs over the doorway. I smooth out my skirt while a servant goes to the back of the vehicle and removes Wicker’s cello. Another attendant opens the front door, and I move to step forward, but the feel of Wicker’s hand sliding into mine causes me to stumble.

“Stay by my side, Princess,” he whispers, fingers tightening against mine. “We’re about to be surrounded by vultures.”

Inside, the party is in full swing, people—members of Forsyth—schmoozing openly. I see vaguely familiar faces from the front page of the local paper. The university president, the police chief, council and school board members, each holding a glass of wine or tumbler of liquor, all with the same false smile plastered on their faces.

These are not my people. This is not my world. The urge to run is overwhelming, but none of it is as surreal as seeing Wicker morph into another personality as he places a hand on my lower back and murmurs, “Smile,” then fluidly grabs two glasses off a passing tray. “Drink, pretend to love me.”

A smart retort is cut off by the sound of Wicker’s name being called.

“Whitaker Ashby.”

We turn, and a woman with brassy blonde hair strides toward us. She’s wearing a wrap dress, the tits she bought threatening to spill out of the deep cut V. Wicker’s hand returns to my back, his fingers curling around my side. I wince as he brushes against the wound left by Lex’s bite.

“Christine,” he says, leaning forward and kissing her cheek. “You look lovely tonight.”

She giggles, but nothing on her face moves. It’s as if all the natural lines of her expression have been removed. “And you look fantastic.” Her hand clamps down on his bicep. “So handsome and strong.”

He clears his throat, a stiffness to his smile I’m not used to seeing. “Have you met Verity? My Princess.”

Her gaze cuts to me, some of the friendliness disappearing. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Verity, this is Christine,” he takes a slow sip of his drink and then adds, “Oakfield.”

“Oh,” I say, clicking in on who this woman must be. Bruce’s mother. “I-it’s lovely to meet you.”

Your son is dead, I think as she returns my smile. Either she’s yet to be made aware of this fact, or she couldn’t care less about her son’s existence. In Forsyth, either could be a possibility.