The Price Of Scandal(53)

I understood women like Venice Stanton. They could both fiercely love their daughters and still feel as though they were in direct competition.

“Hey there, slugger,” Byron said, grazing a kiss on his daughter’s cheek. “Price,” he said with a brisk nod.

“Derek.” Venice smoothed the sharp edges from her tone and looked me up and down. “How lovely to finally meet a man who understands just how important perception is.” It was a compliment directed at me and a jab at the rest of her family.

She offered her hand, knuckles up. Dutifully, I kissed it, aware of the flash of a photographer’s camera.

“This is ridiculous,” I heard Emily growl next to me.

“Oh, there’s Bethenny,” Venice said, patting her perfect coif as she side-eyed her husband’s ex-wife from several yards away.

Bethenny Stanton—she’d kept the last name in what I could only assume was a solid “fuck you” to Venice who had tempted Byron out of his wedding vows and into her bed—had made shrewd investments with her prenup money and now headed the board of two charities. Where Venice was tanned and blonde, Bethenny was a lovely mix of Vietnamese and Welsh backgrounds.

She approached in a shimmery, simple column of gray. Her dark hair was cut with razor-like precision to her shoulders. Her hands were ringless. The only adornment she wore was a pair of chandelier earrings that glistened like her dress.

“Is that one of those new designers?” Venice said the word “new” as if it were lemon juice on her tongue.

“Of course,” Bethenny said, leaning in for a more sincere hug from Emily. “I enjoy supporting new artists wherever I find them.”

Venice pursed her lips and scrambled for her next match point.

“Emily, you look stunning as always. What is your secret?” Bethenny asked, giving her an affectionate squeeze.

“Why, she uses her own products religiously,” Venice said, steering the conversation back toward something winnable. “Of course, it’s unfortunate poor Emily didn’t inherit my side’s genes.”

“Bethenny, it’s wonderful to see you. Derek, how about a drink?” Emily offered suddenly. She squeezed my hand in an S-O-S.

“You read my mind.”

“Oh, darling, first we need a picture,” Venice insisted.

She waved a photographer over and positioned herself between her husband and me. Emily and Bethenny were pushed to the outskirts.

“Mrs. Stanton, look this way,” the photographer coaxed.

“I am, darling,” Venice trilled.

“I meant the other Mrs. Stanton,” he said.

If looks could kill, the photographer would have been impaled on one of the skewers of shrimp that were being passed around.

“There’s always plenty of room for more Mrs. Stantons in the world,” Bethenny said lightly.

Emily coughed to cover a laugh, and we all smiled big, phony smiles for the camera.

“How about that drink, Price,” Emily said when it was over.

“How about several?”

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.