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He was Aaron Astor, son of the biggest travel agency empire in North America, and fiancé of Margot Massey, heiress of the hotel I wallowed behind.
I instantly regretted ever opening my mouth. He might’ve nodded, posed a question here and there, but Aaron Astor—whose golden life was so pearly and perfect—most definitely understood none of it. Hadn’t related. As soon as I’d seen the Italian shoes, I should’ve known that someone like him never would’ve understood someone like me.
The hollowness returned, yawning wider inside of me. “Oh,” I murmured—the word slipped out.
The man—Aaron—tilted his head. “Oh?”
It seemed so mocking now.Heseemed so mocking now. Offering to buy me my mother’s dream house, turning something I’d worked so hard for into something so flippant. Years of training kept my poker face from slipping, kept my resentment from showing. I stood, body aching from how long I’d been sitting. “Thank you for lending your ear,” I said stiffly. “I should head in.”And head home, sleep off this godforsaken day.
“Did we solve your dilemma already?” he asked as he slid to the edge of his seat, sounding genuinely confused. “Of if you should jump? Because I didn’t think?—”
“I just needed to get things off my chest.” I moved to the firepit and twisted the gas knob, cutting the flow. We plunged into darkness, with nothing but the lights from the hotel to illuminate us. I could barely make out his features now, wishing that was how it’d been from the start. “I’m sorry luck had it that you were my punching bag.”
“I wanted to be.”
I hated that my body reacted to those words.Sit down, my heart coaxed.What would it hurt?“I have an early start tomorrow,” I said, forcing the thoughts down. “And I?—”
“I believe we agreed you’d tell me your problems, and I’d tell you mine.” Aaron’s voice was casual, but now that I knew who he was, I found myself looking for the condescension in it. The superiority. “You’re running away before I have the chance to.”
I gave him my signature Alderton-Du Ponte smile. “I’m sure my advice would be mediocre to what you need, Mr. Astor.”
His face fell at that—Mr. Astor. My tone had given myself away. “You workhere?”
I tried to think of something to say, but ended up merely tipping my head in a small, polite bow, before I turned around again.
And didn’t get more than three steps away before Aaron called after me. “I’d—” he started, and then paused, letting the one word hang in the air, almost as if he wasn’t sure he should finish his sentence. “I’d love to hear you play it. Elgar’s Cello Concerto.”
My throat tightened. Of course, the first person I shared my secret with had to be Aaron Astor. Along with his words, a cold, cold breeze washed across me.You ignored me earlier, I could almost hear my mother saying.Don’t ignore me now.
“Look up Lovely Little Virtuoso on YouTube,” I told him without turning. This time, my hands did tighten to fists. “I’m afraid that’s the only way you’ll ever hear me play.”
“You shouldn’t keep living a life you resent.” His voice almost sounded sad. “You should jump.”
Everything in me rebelled hearing him say it now. The statement reeked of privilege. As if anyone could change their circumstances because they wanted to. As if the universe answered to determination, not dollar signs.“Thanks for the advice.”
As I walked away from him, I landed on an answer to my existential crisis. The debate that had me sitting out here for hours, I finally decided.
I couldn’t jump. I couldn’t abandon everything because I wanted to—I couldn’t be that selfish.
And even if I did, knowing it was because I tookAaron Astor’sadvice would haunt me.
The dark feeling that’d washed over me earlier chilled me again now, and this time, there was no ignoring its name.Disappointment. The emotion made no sense, but it was there.
What did Aaron Astor know about living a life you resented? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And I’d be a fool to listen to him.
CHAPTERTWO
Springtime at the Alderton-Du Ponte Country Club was not for the weak.
Correction: Springtime at the Alderton-Du Ponte Country Club was not for the weakstaff members.
All the socialite clubgoers were coming off of the cold Connecticut winter. Gossip was best served hot, not shivering with frostbitten toes. No, instead, the members bided their time, scheming their next glorious outdoor party. And once they found out that Saturday was going to be a high of fifty-five, they pounced.
My phone lit up at five this morning, Verdi’s “Dies Irae”filling my room.Theringtone. The Alderton-Du Ponte ringtone. An ominous voice began speaking the second I pressed the accept button, matching the dread-inducing accompaniment.“We need you to come in.”
Turned out they needed help transforming the back patio into a spring oasis. They’d set up the ballroom the night before, but when Mrs. Holland woke and saw her weather app, she demanded the change. That meant taking the linens and fairy lights and florals from the ballroom outside. The spring air had still held a chill from the overnight low, turning the outdoor work a pins-and-needles hell.
And after hours of setup, I ended up here, mid-Saturday party, refilling mimosa flutes while fighting to keep my eyes open.