Page 77 of The Price of Scandal

We abandoned what could be dubbed as the sinking ship that was Venice Stanton’s plans for an evening of event domination and headed in the direction of the bar.

“Or your plastic surgeon’s phone number on speed dial,” Emily seethed under her breath.

“What was that?”

“Only the perfect comeback for my mother.”

“She seems to be a bit… competitive,” I offered.

“My entire life, she’s demanded that I be successful in whatever I do while still cutting me down for not being exactly like her.” Emily ordered a champagne. I stuck with beer.

“That’s quite the mixed message.”

“And don’t even get me started on how my father wishes I were the son he never had or rather a better version of the useless son he was saddled with. I keep hoping that they’ll move to New York or Paris or anywhere but here. It would be nice to have some breathing room.”

“Have you tried hypnosis?”

“What? Bring a hypnotherapist to family dinner to implant suggestions?” Emily laughed.

“Please pass the potatoes. Seattle is nice this time of year,” I teased.

“If I get desperate, I’ll consider it.”

We took our drinks and found our table front and center, of course, near the stage.

Emily eyed the stage and shuddered.

“What was that for?”

“Oh, just remembering how I met Cam, Daisy, and Luna.”

“I’d like to hear that story.” How did four female billionaires find their way to each other? Was it luck? Money? Had they bonded over their bank accounts, or did it run deeper?

“Maybe someday,” Emily mused. “For now, let me catch you up to speed on the wealth in the room.”

While I emptied my beer, she began a rundown, light on background, heavier on current gossip, keeping me entertained.

I knew most of them. Miami was a smaller town than most realized. I’d worked with several people in the room. Some discreetly on—shall we say—sensitive issues. Those clients gave me a subtle nod before disappearing back into the crowd.

It was fascinating, really. I ran a successful business. I had money in the bank. Perhaps not with the same number of zeroes but still respectable.

Yet to some of them, I was a mere servant. They paid me to meet their needs. It was an unsettling thought. One that had me offering a more personal thank you to the woman in the checkered vest who buzzed by and took my empty beer bottle.

She smiled at me.

“Someone is a fan,” Emily mused, watching the waitress disappear into the crowd of the wealthy and the well-dressed.

“Believe it or not, I have some concept of how it feels when other people set rather ridiculous expectations for you,” I said, itching for another beer. I settled for Emily’s champagne flute.

“That’s mine,” she said when I took it and sipped. “Get your own.”

“I’d rather have yours.”

“We can’t always have what we want,” she reminded me.

“But we can certainly try.”

“Everyone’s looking at us,” she said, doing a subtle scan of the room.