CHAPTER 60: DINNER HOSTAGE

ELIZABETH HERALD

I was the least liked in my family. That hadn’t always been the case. Before I was the oldest child at twenty-two. According to my loved ones (hahahaha—loved, my ass), I wasn’t as talented or as pretty as my younger half-sister, who was twenty-one. Blaire was the progeny of Dad and my stepmother (AKA mistress), Gardenia. (Yes, Blaire and Gardenia. Blech, right?)

In public, my stepmother played the martyr spouse, who bravely raised the troubled child of her husband and his first wife. Behind closed doors, she treated me like crap, and Dad wasn’t around much to defend me. Not that he would go against Gardenia. He still had a sense of self-preservation.

My father opted out of our home life because he was miserable. However, he was also the CEO of a 100-year-old multi-generational corporation, so he trotted out his family for dinners with other CEOs, gallery openings, charity auctions, political fundraisers, and blah, blah, blah. This evening, we were having dinner, along with other CEO families, at the Carters.

We were sitting in uncomfortable chairs eating things like pistachio-crusted salmon (decent, but not pizza), roasted oysters (pass, it wasn’t pizza), and foie gras (not. pizza.). There was also something spiky and green (spinach? kale? vomit?) that tasted like gasoline-soaked grass.

Gardenia (AKA The Evil One) often kept me from attending these types of social outings, but tonight, she had no choice but to include me. Dad insisted. Probably because it was my twenty-second birthday and he’d promised we’d have cake at Georgio’s after meeting our obligation with the Carters. Georgio’s was my favorite restaurant because the owner was friends with my grandfather, whom I adored. I hadn’t been there since Grandfather went into the assisted living facility more than a year ago.

If we’d been a normal family (ahahahahahahaha), we might’ve, I dunno, declined an evening of corporate elbow-rubbing to celebrate my birthday. But no. Schmoozing the Carters was more important (bitter, you asked? Uh ... yeah. I was.) This looooooong table was filled with guests. My stepmother had managed to seat me at the opposite end of the table, where I was basically sitting alone. She and her daughter and my father—he was on his fourth glass of wine—sat with our hosts, the Carters.

When I wasn’t on display as the problematic daughter of my long-suffering parents, Gardenia liked to pretend I didn’t exist. It wasn’t like my father would protest or like my sister would help. My sibling profited from my misery, and I couldn’t compete with Louis Vuitton and Prada when it came to her love.

The chairs around me were empty. Everyone else was busy talking amongst themselves, leaving me to poke at the weird vegetable (I mean, probably it was a veggie?) on my plate. It was okay. I was used to it. Actually, I preferred it. I wasn’t good at small talk and I hated these people, anyway.

"Is this seat taken?"

I looked up and saw a tall, gorgeous, dark-eyed, well-dressed man standing next to the empty chair. "All yours," I said.

He sat down, put his cloth napkin on his lap, and then nodded toward the green mystery food. "What is that?"

"Hmm. I’m gonna go with alien poop."

He looked startled, then he laughed.

I felt my cheeks heat up. "I’m sorry. That was crass."

"It was honest. And funny. No need for apologies."

I studied him, and he didn’t seem to mind my frank appraisal. "You don’t look like you belong in the losers’ section," I said.

His brows went up. "Losers’ section?"

"All the action is at the other end of the table where the Carters sit. The closer you are to this end of the table," I gestured at my chair, which was the last one on the left side, "the bigger loser you are."

"I had no idea."

"Ah. It must be your first time. Don’t worry. We don’t judge those who are banished. As the reigning queen of Loserdom, I welcome thee." I inclined my head regally.

"Thank you, your majesty."

I grinned.

He grinned back. I felt my heart twist. Oh, no, no, no Elizabeth. He’d find out who I was, and the flirtation would be over. Pull back.

His gaze dropped to my so-called vintage dress. The pink silk had spaghetti straps, which showed off my bony shoulders (according to my stepmonster). Overall, the dress made me look like a shiny pink stick with brown hair. Given his expression, Mr. Gorgeous agreed that this garment was atrocious.

"I think it’s Carrie’s prom dress ... you know, before she got soaked in pig’s blood." I rubbed the material between my breasts because this awful gown was itchy. "But the night is young. It’s possible blood will be spilled at some point."

"Why?"

"Because my sister Blaire is in a fight to the death with the Garrisons’ daughter, River, to marry the Carters’ oldest son, Winston. Or as I call him, Winner Winner Chicken Dinner."

He spat out the water he’d just sipped.

"Oh, my God. Are you all right? Do you want my napkin?" I lifted the black square cloth from my lap and tried to hand it to him. He waved me off, grabbing his own napkin to wipe his face.

I felt a tug on my dress and looked down to see five-year-old Creek Garrison (the younger, sweeter brother of River ... and no, I had no idea why the Garrisons named their children after bodies of water) staring up at me. We’d had an interaction earlier that involved a stealthy sweets exchange. "Miss Elizabeth, do you have more candy?"

"I do," I said. "What do you have for me, Super Spy?"

He reached up on his tippy toes and loudly whispered, "Mrs. Herald says that you’re going to Paris for a while."

"News to me," I said. "You’re an excellent eavesdropper, Creek. Remember, this is a secret mission."

"I won’t tell anyone."

"Really? Can you resist being tickled?"

"Yes."

"What if someone pinches your cheeks and calls you cutie patootie?"

He nodded.

"Okay. But can you endure ... kisses?" I smacked my lips together, and he giggled.

"Yes," he said, smiling widely. "I can."

I removed two wrapped Lindor truffles from the purse hanging off the back of my chair. "Here you go. Hey, did you eat the green stuff?"

"No way," he said, "it’s spinach."

"Are you sure?"

He shrugged.

"Get going, kiddo." I gave him a thumbs-up, and he made himself scarce. Last time, ten minutes had passed before the Garrisons realized their son was missing from his seat.

"You’re good with kids," said Mr. Gorgeous.

"I like kids and animals. They love you unconditionally and they don’t judge."

"You ever find an adult like that?"

"Never. Sad, right?"

"Very." He stared at me, and I noticed how chocolate-y brown his eyes were. "So, you didn’t know you were going to Paris?"

"Oh, I’m not going, unless it’s Paris, Texas. Stepmonster doesn’t do nice things for anyone without it benefiting her. My guess is that she wants me out of the way for some scheme, so I’ll be shipped off to definitely-not-France. You know, it’s probably the marriage thing with Winston. Not that I can compete with Blaire."

"Who says?"

"My parents, the Carters, everyone sitting at this table, society in general, and that guy at the gas station who said my hair was frizzy. Oh, and probably Winston, too. Not that anyone’s seen him since he went overseas to do ... well, whatever Carters do."

"Run multi-billion-dollar corporations?"

"Yes, that." I leaned in and whispered, "Gossip says he pissed off his parents, and his punishment was to take over the least profitable Carter business. Joke’s on them, though. He turned the business around and made it profitable." I sat back in my chair. "But now he has to come home and marry a CEO’s daughter to cement corporate relationships."

"You feel sorry for him?"

"A little."

"What about you?" he asked. "Why do you put up with your stepmonster?"

"For my grandfather. I’m all he’s got, and my stepmother controls his fate."

He leaned back in his chair. "Aren’t you afraid of confiding in me? You don’t know who I am."

I laughed. "Tell whoever you want. They won’t believe you. It’s well-documented that I’m a pathological liar." I used both hands to scratch under my breasts. My skin felt hot and raw. "This damned dress is itchy. Really, really itchy."

"Why did you wear it?"

"Choice was not involved, so I accepted my fate." I leaned forward and put my hand to the side of my mouth. I whispered, "If you don’t want to suffer with me, escape now while you have the chance."

"I’m not afraid of Gardenia Herald."

"You know her?"

"Creek called you Elizabeth, and your sister’s name is Blaire, so I assume you’re Elizabeth Herald. That means Gardenia is your mother."

"Stepmother."

He acknowledged the correction with a nod. His gaze flicked to the "cool kids" end of the table where the Carters and Heralds and Garrisons and other rich-ass people chatted and laughed. "Why aren’t you sitting with your family?"