The Price Of Scandal(4)

“Tell me all about your life,” she insisted, pretty blue eyes sparkling as if we were girlfriends.

Knowing full well she meant who was I seeing and when would I be marrying them over a tasteful ten-karat diamond ring, I answered passive-aggressively. “Work is ramping up. We have a new product line launching in the third quarter, and the predictions for the IPO are robust. It’s shaping up to be a banner year.”

“Ugh,” she said with an elegant eye roll. “I mean, who are you seeing? I haven’t heard a thing about you in the gossip columns in weeks.”

It didn’t matter to my mother that I had more money than the entire rest of the family combined. In her eyes, a woman wasn’t secure until she’d scrawled her signature on a favorable prenup.

I glanced around the restaurant, sedate by Miami standards. White linens and potted palms. Forty-dollar hamburgers. This could have been any over-priced bistro in New York or Chicago, which was probably why my mother liked it.

There were a few subtle glances in our direction. I wasn’t famous by Hollywood standards—thank God. But I was one of the city’s resident female billionaires. It came with an elevated level of attention.

“You could text me instead of stalking me through the columns,” I reminded her.

“I need to stay on top of the family’s image.”

“Speaking of image, how is Trey?” I asked, pushing another one of my mother’s buttons.

“Oh! Your brother won’t be satisfied until he’s ruined this family,” Mom scoffed dramatically. To underline her point, she waved the waiter over and ordered her second vodka tonic. Always two and only two. Enough to take the edge off but not quite enough to get sloppy.

Stantons didn’t tolerate sloppiness.

Unless it was generated by my brother.

“Did you see his last post on Instagram?” she said, lowering her voice as if divulging state secrets.

“I did not,” I said, spearing a piece of flavorless chicken. Twenty more minutes and I could head back to the office. I still might have time to check in with Esther at the lab.

“Six topless women,” she hissed.

Byron Stanton III, or Trey as he was known by his fifteen million Instagram followers, was a charming, shiftless, trust fund baby content to do nothing but soak up the sun on yachts and party his life away. He’d spent his trust fund distributions twice now and was living on my parents’ generosity… and occasionally mine.

I loved him. I did. In the way that all sisters loved brothers they didn’t understand.

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“I’m talking to your father about cutting off his credit cards,” Mom said, neatly carving off a microscopic sliver of chicken.

It was an empty threat, and everyone but she knew it.

“I’m sure he’ll settle down someday,” I placated.

I was sure of no such thing.

My brother made bad choices like it was a compulsion. And my parents bailed him out, unable to stomach the idea of their baby boy suffering the consequences.

“Even worse,” Mom continued. “He said he isn’t coming home for the gala later this month. What could be so important in the Mediterranean that he can’t come home for one little appearance?”

“I don’t know, Mom,” I said, wishing I would have at least ordered a glass of wine.

“So you’ll need to take his tickets,” she continued.

I put my fork down. “Mom, I am booked solid for the next two months. This IPO is—”

“Darling, I know it’s not fair that you have to keep making up for Trey’s messes, but that’s just the way it is,” she said, steamrolling me with a flick of her Tiffany tennis braceleted wrist. “We have a—”

“Responsibility,” I said for her. The word tasted more bitter on my tongue than the kale. “I don’t have the time in my calendar for more responsibilities.”

“Emily, I don’t ask for much from you,” she said.

Except to pick up Trey’s slack for his entire life. To never do anything fun or interesting that could cause you untoward attention at the club. To focus my entire life on finding the proper husband so you can play hostess at a multi-million-dollar wedding.

“We need to put on a united front. Your father’s ex-wife will be there,” she said as if that explained it all.

“Which one?” I asked, tossing my napkin on my plate. I’d find a protein bar at the office.

It had nothing to do with the cause. Rainforests or homelessness. There was nothing more important to my mother than showing up at Dad’s ex-wives’ functions and rubbing his checkbook in their faces.

I had nothing against the two women who’d tried to get the great Byron Stanton II to settle down before Venice. In fact, I was a fan of the second one. Unlike my mother, I didn’t have the luxury of time that a good vendetta required.

“So you’ll come? It’s only one night of your life. What could be more important?”

I gritted my teeth, mentally juggling my events, appearances, and meetings. If I said no, it would only lead to two straight weeks of guilt trip phone calls culminating in my father showing up in my office and demanding that I make an appearance to save my parents’ marriage. It was just easier to say yes. “Of course.”