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LIA

T he next day I got up early to go to hair and makeup, because I was scheduled to attend a luncheon with the Hearth Committee—and I already knew it was going to be more like an interrogation.

The Hearth Committee had been founded decades ago by some politician’s wife, for politician’s wives, and if Arnold’s prep was to be believed, it was one part tea ceremony, another part hand-to-hand combat, with brass knuckles made out of diamonds and pearls.

My driver let me off in front of the sedate Hamptons estate where the current leader of the Committee lived, and I straightened the line of my very beige slacks before walking to the door.

A servant opened it before I could even knock. “Welcome, Lia, is it?” she said.

And then I realized it wasn’t a servant, it was Maribeth Tolliver, Senator Tolliver’s wife—the senator who wasn’t running for re-election this season. I’d seen her in the papers before, and also on TV, smiling blandly at her husband’s right-hand side.

But she seemed different in person, especially as she was waving a martini.

“Mari—Mrs. Tolliver,” I said, in surprise.

“You can call me Maribeth. We’re all friends here,” she said, giving me a secret smile, before letting me into the house further. I passed a bone-white foyer full of oil portraits, and at the end of the hall there was a drawing room full of women wearing Very Classy Things.

And judging from how many of them seemed to be on their third, or higher, drinks, they’d all kicked this off as a brunch, earlier in the day, without me.

“You can sit by me,” Maribeth said, settling down onto an overstuffed couch and patting the empty space beside herself.

“This is Anne, Lauren, Brooke, and Martha,” she said, going around the room.

All of them were somewhat equidistant from one another, like police considering a crime scene.

“Not everyone could make it out to meet you today, on such short notice.”

“Yes, well,” I said, ducking my head down a little. “I appreciate the invite.”

An actual servant appeared, and Maribeth’s eyes pinned me. “Sweet, sour, or straight up?” she asked.

“I’ll drink whatever you’re having. I don’t want to be a bother.”

“I doubt you could be,” Anne said. Her legs were crossed and an elegant Manolo heel was swinging from her toe.

I knew she was Anne Whitmore, and her husband was an incredibly large donor to the Tolliver campaign—Arnold had given me information on all the people who might be here, and quizzed me on them like we were playing the game Guess Who? on the helicopter ride over.

“Yes, well,” I said, graciously accepting my drink from the butler who brought it. “I look forward to getting to know all of you. Both now, and in the future.”

Maribeth took a resigned inhale and gave me a puckered smile. “We don’t think that’s going to happen.”

I stopped, just before taking a sip of my drink, on the off chance it was poisoned. “May ask why?”

“Because,” Martha said. Her blonde hair was aggressively bobbed, and she trailed short round red nails up her slacks—they were the color of blood. “We’ve known Marcus for ages. We were friends with both of his ex-wives.”

“And we know you’re not his type,” Lauren cut in.

“And he knows it, too—he wouldn’t have tried to hide you from us, otherwise,” Martha said, toasting Lauren’s wisdom with her glass.

“Not his type,” I began slowly, like I didn’t understand it, right before I struck back. “Because I don’t have birthing hips?”

Maribeth laughed. “Oh, no—trust us, those come with time. But mostly, based on your pedigree. You’re…not like the rest of us.”

Brooke shook her head after clearing her throat. “First off—you’re still a child.”

“And we have to go through this nonsense at least every three years,” Anne cut in, before looking at Maribeth with a sigh. “Why can’t widowed men date women their own age?”

“Or just keep it in their pants? Lord knows, the rest of us don’t want it,” Lauren said.

I prepared to bite back—but then I realized they had a strange, if cruelly given, point.

Marcus…didn’t seem all that interested in me.

And I had a feeling that it wasn’t all about Trevia slipping that clause into the pre-nup.

Was I supposed to be a beard? Were he and Arnold an item, and was I surreptitiously living out Arnold’s dream wedding?

Honestly, that made more sense than whatever the fuck was actually happening.

“And if getting into here is what you or your father’s end game is,” Maribeth said, gesturing around the room, and then out to the surrounding grounds. “Let me be the first one to tell you—you’ll never be let in.”

“No matter how many grandfathers you fuck,” Anne added.

Martha turned to Anne. “Marcus has a grandkid?”

“Oh come on, you’ve seen his sons. Do you think they wrap it up?” she said and cackled.

“Don’t be sad, darling,” Maribeth drawled. “We’re really doing you a favor.”

“By exposing your casual racism?”

Brooke rolled her eyes at me. “We don’t need to be racist. You didn’t even go to an Ivy.”

“Plus, there’s the other thing. Or thing-s, I should say. Plural,” Lauren said, giving me a look.

I stood up and set my drink down. “Insults don’t really land the same when I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Lauren tilted her head, pretending to file her nails—then, slowly, theatrically, dragged the imaginary file across one wrist, then the other.

Somehow this crew of bitches knew what I had done to myself.

I settled my shoulders and gave all of them a leveling stare. “I’m sorry for having been a child with feelings once, as opposed to being a middle-aged woman trying to turn her liver into a flammable object with rose,” I snapped, then turned on my heel for the door.

“We’re drinking gin and vermouth!” one of them hooted after me, and I realized it didn’t matter who it was.

Someone I knew had betrayed me.

I didn’t have my driver take me out to the helipad—instead I went to the nearest Brass Finch to get coffee, but also to have time to handle things solo. I got my coffee and went outside, holding my phone, doing my best to look happily privileged, while I called Rio.

“Miss Ferreo?” he said when he picked up.

“Is my father there?”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Good. I need to get your private number to Enzo. The one he answers, no matter what.”

“Do you need medical assistance?” he asked quickly.

“No.”

“Am I allowed to ask why?”

I held my breath—but I knew he’d gone through the wringer I’d put my father through, at my father’s side. In a very real way, Rio was probably the closest thing I had to actual family.

That didn’t make me want to throw up, at least.

“I just left an awful luncheon with the Hearth Committee, where I found out some of my private medical information has been leaked. But I know my father never would’ve said anything, so?—”

“Had to come from somewhere. Got it. Want me to go there with you?”

I heaved a sigh. “No. Someone needs to stay with dad. And I trust you—even if sometimes I don’t trust him.” That earned me a knowing snort. “Call 911 at the end, even if he doesn’t want you to.”

“I will. I don’t want him to die any more than you do. I’ll text you Enzo’s number.”

“Thank you, Rio. I’ll keep in touch,” I said, and got back into my waiting car.