Page 17

Stella

“This place gives me the fucking creeps.”

Glancing up from the dry ingredients I’m sifting together, I shoot Mika a look. She’s sitting on the other side of the marble island, ass planted on a barstool with her casted leg propped up on two more. She’s a haughty queen overseeing her domain—except this is my house and my kitchen she’s in.

“That’s because it’s empty,” I explain. “Most houses feel that way when there’s hardly any furniture.”

And this place will never hold more than what’s already here. This is the house étienne and I were supposed to live in together after our wedding—a six-thousand-square-foot fully remodeled colonial-style build in Alexandria, Virginia. I was the one who pushed for the suburbs instead of the city, a calmer location to raise our future children instead of smack-dab in the city. Our penthouse in Dupont Circle was beautiful and located a stone’s throw away from several of my businesses, but it wasn’t where I saw myself staying forever.

I started moving my things in here the day the contractor said it was safe to occupy. But étienne dragged his feet. I see now why he did. Back then, though, I wrote it off as being attached to the place where we’d made so many great memories together.

How wrong I was. Now I’m stuck with a house that will never feel like home.

“Nah, it just has bad vibes.” Mika shakes her head. “Shitty house juju.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I won’t be here much.”

She grins wickedly at the reminder that I’ll be moving in with Thomas in less than two weeks, but it only makes my stomach twist. I’m picking up my entire life and shipping it across an ocean to live with a man I’ve spent practically zero time with.

“Have you told anyone you’re moving yet?” she asks.

I grab the bowl of egg whites I’ve already separated, slowly adding them to the almond flour mixture. I’m back to recipe testing today, working on Stella Margaux’s summer menu. “My board knows. They’re supportive of my desire to expand our reach in Europe.” And thankfully, they were also supportive of my impromptu wedding, if a little surprised. “I’m going to set up an office in London and put together a team.” I raise a questioning brow in her direction. “You want in?”

Mika is the marketing director for Stella Margaux’s North American Division. Some might scream favoritism, but her talent is part of the reason we’re so successful. I only hire the best.

She snorts. “I love you, and I want to be close to you and Janelle, but no. Reason number one.” She points accusingly at her cast. “I’m in this for a few more weeks, and hobbling around a new city sounds miserable. And two, I can’t ask Vaughn to just up and leave. He may be a househusband, but I don’t want to disrupt his life like that.”

I understand, and it was a reach to ask, but I had to see if I could keep my other best friend with me. “Promise you’ll come visit?”

“Oh, honey, you couldn’t keep me away if you tried.” She shoots me a wink before pushing a little jar of pink food coloring my way. “So the board knows you’re going. What about your parents?”

My lips twist into a grimace. “I was planning to tell them at Thanksgiving.”

“Girl.” The word is a warning. “You’ve got to give them more heads-up than that.”

“They’ll have a few days to process before I leave.” I unscrew the cap on the food coloring jar and add a tiny scoop to my mixer’s bowl. “Besides, I’m a grown woman. I can do what I damn well please.”

“A grown woman who’s scared of disappointing her parents.”

The truth is a pinch in my chest. It’s ignorable enough, even though it comes with a lingering sting. But it’s about more than just disappointing my parents—it’s about disappointing anyone . I’ve been handed so much in my life, all because of the success that those who came before me achieved, and I refuse to sit back and let their wins carry me through life. Raising the bar is my only option to show that while, yes, I’ve been given so much, I’m worthy of carrying the torch. Worthy of the success I’ve found myself.

“Whatever,” I brush off, not as casual as I hoped to sound. “It’ll be fine.”

She gives a noncommittal murmur before letting the silence hang, the whir of the mixer the only sound. I know what she’s about to ask next before her mouth even opens.

“Have you spoken to him yet?”

She doesn’t have to specify which him . Her cautious tone says it’s étienne.

I shake my head, keeping my eyes down. “He hasn’t tried to get in contact, and I haven’t called him either.”

I thought he would say something after news of my Vegas wedding leaked, but it’s been radio silence. We’ll have to speak soon enough to decide what we’re going to do with our properties and other shared possessions. But the fact that he hasn’t sent me a text or a letter or even sicced his lawyers on me? It’s fucking crushing that he could cut me out of his life so easily after so many years together.

“You should talk to him before you leave for London.”

I scoff. “If he wants something, he can reach out. He’s the one who left, not me.”

Mika blows out a disappointed breath, but she doesn’t push. I’m being stubborn, yeah, but can anyone really blame me? That man didn’t just break my heart, he fully humiliated me. And while I definitely did my part in adding insult to injury, he’s the one who blew up our relationship. He can be the one to initiate the cleanup process.

“All right,” she concedes. “Just let me know if you need any help handling that when the time comes. I can be your DC liaison for anything face-to-face if you don’t want to make the trek back from London.”

Despite the mood shift, I have to smile at Mika’s commitment to being my ride-or-die. If I asked her to, she’d hunt down étienne and make his life miserable. The only reason she hasn’t yet is because of the broken leg and her dedication to keeping me sane. She can’t do that if she ends up in prison.

“Thanks,” I say as I turn off the mixer. “But first, you’ve got to help me get through Thanksgiving.”

Mika’s cackle echoes through the empty house. “Hope you’re ready to get eaten alive.”

CIA interrogators have nothing on Black aunties who insist on being in your business.

I don’t know how I’m related to half the women who descended on me the second I stepped into my parents’ Atlanta-suburb mansion, and yet I’ve been asked questions I wouldn’t feel comfortable answering even if Mika or Janelle posed them.

Speaking of those traitors, neither one has come to rescue me yet despite the frantic texts I keep shooting off. Not even Ron came over, even though I know he spotted me in the living room when he passed by the doorway a few minutes ago.

“It’s a good thing he’s handsome,” one of my great-aunts quips, a gnarled hand lifting her cane to point at me. “You can’t be having babies with no ugly man. Our genes are strong, but they only go so far.”

“I liked the other one better,” says another woman, who stares down her nose at me. “At least he was cultured. This man looks like he thinks the world begins and ends with England.”

“Give the girl a break,” an auntie in pink and green cuts in. I’m almost relieved that someone is coming to my defense until I see her wicked grin. “The dick must be spectacular if she married him that fast. Ain’t that right, Stella?”

There’s a mix of cackles, scoldings, and invocations of the Lord that make me want to groan and scrub my hands over my face. I know that’ll just give them more to gossip about, so I settle for sending another GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE text to Mika. Again, I’m left on read.

I’m dragged back down to the couch two more times when I try to get up, but my third attempt at escape is successful when I announce that I absolutely have to go check on the status of the desserts. No one here would dare stand in the way of the sweet potato pie’s fate.

The hallway offers a reprieve from the aunts, though their laughter and raucous commentary continue to float through the air. But my peace doesn’t last long, because Daphne rounds the corner, bouncing her adorable toddler on her hip.

“Stella,” she greets brightly, like it’s a pleasure to see me leaning against the wall and looking miserable. “I was wondering when you were going to show up.” She makes a big display of glancing around the hallway, searching for someone else. “Your husband didn’t want to join us?”

She asks it so innocently, but I can hear the glee in the question, as if Thomas’s absence is an indicator of a relationship on the rocks. Or worse—that it’s not a real relationship at all.

“He’s working,” I say, smiling at her daughter instead of giving Daphne more attention. “The Formula 1 schedule stops for no one, not even newlyweds.”

The baby grins back at me, and the sight succeeds in mitigating the blood pressure spike Daphne’s arrival inspired. The kid is precious, with her chubby cheeks and cherub curls, and I swear there’s a pang in my ovaries when she lifts her little fingers and waves, making me almost wish I hadn’t canceled the appointment to get my IUD removed a few months ago. I’d done it at étienne’s urging, after he changed his mind about wanting to start our family right after we got married. Instead, he asked if we could wait a year, to let it be just us for a while. I reluctantly agreed.

Now kids won’t be in my future for at least another year anyway, one more wrench thrown in my life plan. If the past month has taught me anything, it’s that I might as well wing it all.

“Newlyweds,” she repeats. “I had no idea you were interested in him for more than one night.”

She says it teasingly, like we’re both in on a joke, but even though I force out a laugh, I know she’s judging me hard.

“In fact, I had no idea you knew him before the bachelorette party.” Daphne cocks her head to the side, eyes searching my face. “When did you two meet?”

I’m careful to keep my expression schooled into something neutral and pleasant. Nothing that betrays the way my heart rate has skyrocketed and how my armpits have gone suddenly damp under my cashmere sweater.

Thomas and I haven’t decided on an official story yet, but I can’t deviate too far from what I told my parents in case Daphne seeks them out to verify the details. As far as I know, the general public doesn’t know our “love story” past the little things Thomas has mentioned in a handful of interviews, so at least I have that going for me. But this woman is sharp as hell.

“We actually met the same night that Janelle met Ron,” I answer with a wow, what a wild coincidence, am I right? kind of tone. “Vegas is such a lucky place.”

I don’t dare give her any more details, lest she poke holes in the story. But that doesn’t seem to matter, because she’s already raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“Really?” she challenges. “Because Janelle never mentioned that you knew Ron’s best friend’s brother.”

“Why would she mention it?” I fight to keep my voice light. “Thomas and I were just casual acquaintances then. Besides, she has plenty of friends that I’ve never heard of before. Is she supposed to know all of mine?”

“Just a little strange that it wouldn’t ever come up, don’t you think?”

“Not really,” I reply cheerily before making a silly face at her daughter, earning me a delightful little baby giggle.

Daphne shifts so that I’m forced to stare at her instead of the toddler, and…Wait, why does she look worried?

She swallows before wetting her lips, as if she’s fighting to find the right words. “Stella, I just—”

But she’s cut short by rushed footsteps careening into the hallway, and we glance over to find Janelle hustling toward us with an apron clutched in her outstretched hand.

“You better get in the kitchen before Grandma decides she’s on pie duty,” Janelle warns as she shoves the apron at me. “It’ll be your fault if any of them have soggy bottoms.”

Desperate as the dessert situation seems, I find myself glancing over at Daphne again, curious about her concern and wanting her to finish her sentence. But upon second look, the crease between her brows is gone and her breezy smile has returned, widening further when her daughter loudly repeats, “Soggy bottoms!”

“That’s right, baby,” Janelle coos. Then she refocuses on me, a plea in her eyes. “Can you take care of it?”

I sigh and take the apron. “Yeah, of course.”

“Thank you,” she gushes, backing away. “Just be warned, it’s chaos in the kitchen. And I think your mom wants to talk to you.”

She’s gone before I can protest, disappearing around the corner as quickly as she came. I hesitate before turning to Daphne again, hoping to return to our conversation, but she’s already headed for the living room. Her daughter gives me a bright wave before they step through the doorway. I’m tempted to rush after them, but knowing my mother wants to speak—and wanting to avoid all the aunts—keeps me from doing so.

With a groan, I stride after Janelle. I’m in enough trouble with my mother. Putting off this conversation won’t get me back in her good graces.

But when I get to the kitchen, there’s too much happening for us to talk besides shouting to each other to pass the butter and asking if anything needs more seasoning. Just as I think I’ve escaped the fate of having a chat until after dinner, Mom crooks her finger, motioning for me to follow her out of the kitchen. Damn it.

As the others start bringing platters and bowls out to the dining room, I brush past and sulk my way to Mom’s office. She doesn’t see clients at home often, but the space is set up to facilitate it, making me feel like I’m sitting down for a deposition.

She takes a seat in the cushy leather chair behind her massive oak desk while I take one of the two smaller wingbacks in front of it, crossing my legs and trying not to shrink in on myself. I’ve never been afraid of her, but I’ve always been…intimidated. She’s a no-nonsense woman, and it carried over into her parenting style.

“Did your assistant get that list of divorce lawyers I sent over?” she asks without preamble. No How are you doing, honey? No How’s married life treating you? I didn’t expect there to be, but it would have been nice.

And of course she’s the one who drew up the list, though my assistant failed to mention that in the email. “She did,” I answer. “Thanks for that, but I won’t be needing it.”

Mom’s lips turn down at the corners. “You’re really going to stay married to that man?”

Her comment has me bristling. I understand she doesn’t know Thomas and she’s well aware that I’ve stumbled into this marriage, but the dismissal of him and our relationship—fake as it is—hurts. She thinks I’ve made a terrible decision, one that she’s determined to rectify, despite me telling her multiple times now that I don’t want or need her help.

“ That man has a name, you know,” I say, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “And yes, we’re staying married, because that’s what two people who want to be together do.”

Her scoff is loud and harsh, though the way she cringes a little as it echoes through the room tells me she didn’t mean to let it out. Either way, it stings like a slap.

“We both know that marriage was a mistake,” she says, gentler this time, but her disbelief continues to shine through. “This was a drunken Vegas wedding to a man you claim you know. Maybe you do know him—maybe you weren’t lying to me about meeting him when Janelle met Ron. But my gut is telling me that you did something you regret and now you’re trying to cover it all up.”

Her gut’s not wrong, and mine is churning hard enough that I’m worried the truth is going to come up and out, splattering all over her desk.

“This is all very real, Mom.”

She stares me down, either searching for signs of deception or waiting for me to break and tell the truth. It’s a look that has worked on plenty of people in the past, myself included, but today I stay strong.

Eventually, she sighs and glances away, realizing she’s not going to get what she wants out of me. “I’m just…I’m disappointed in you, Stella.”

A crack opens up in my chest. Her words seep into it, burning and biting the entire way down.

“I understand you’re hurting from what étienne did,” she pushes on, dark eyes finding me again. “And I know you have that wild streak—I swear it’s been there since the day you were born. But the daughter I raised knows better than to let it run her life, and yet you went ahead and got yourself into a mess.” She leans forward, forearms on the smooth wood, her gaze imploring. “Let me help you. We can clean up this mess together and you can move on with your life. Please, Stella. I don’t want to see you doing this to yourself.”

I’m wavering, the chasm in my chest filling now with the love I know she has for me, even though she has a hell of a way of showing it. I could so easily collapse into her arms and confess everything, then sit back and let her fix it all in that calm, efficient way of hers. She’s offering it up on a silver platter, waiting for me to take it. Waiting for me to admit that I need her help because I’m incapable of fixing this on my own.

But I’m not. I’m perfectly capable of handling this in the way that I see fit. To be quite fucking honest, the fact that she thinks I can’t is infuriating.

I don’t need Mommy to coddle me. I don’t need her cleaning up after me like I’m a child. I’ve already got a plan in place that helps not only me but Thomas too, which has given me an opportunity to start fresh in a new city.

She views everything I’ve done as a misstep. And she’s not wrong—none of this was meant to happen, and it’s put me on a different path than I expected. But I’m viewing my actions as stepping stones instead. They’re taking me to the life I want to be living right now. That I need to be living.

“I appreciate the offer,” I say calmly, even with fire ripping through my veins. “But I’ve got this handled.” Before she can say anything else, I push back my chair and then stand, smiling tightly across the desk. “Let’s go eat before the food gets cold.”

I catch a glimpse of her astonishment, but I don’t dwell on it. I just stride back out into the hall, though I don’t turn in the direction of the dining room, where the rest of our family is laughing and chattering, blessedly oblivious to our conversation.

My purse sits on the narrow table in the foyer, where I was forced to drop it when the aunts cornered me. I grab it without a second thought and pull my phone from my pocket. After tapping the screen to life, I navigate to my contacts and then listen to it ring.

“Maeve?” I ask when a woman’s groggy voice greets me. “Hi, it’s Stella. Listen, sorry to wake you, but do you think you can get me a paddock pass in the next sixteen hours?”