Chapter 33 Genevieve
Genevieve
I stare at myself in the mirror of Lance’s guest bathroom, smoothing my hands down the fabric for the hundredth time. The woman looking back at me is polished, put together, and ready to smile on Art Penngrove’s arm like nothing in the world is wrong.
She’s also a fraud.
My lips are still swollen from last night.
There’s a love bite blooming on my collarbone I’ve covered with concealer, and another one on my hip that the dress hides.
I still feel him—not just his hands or his mouth, but the weight of everything he told me in that armchair before the world collapsed.
His father. The cage. Frederick. You’re my seven seconds.
In an hour, I’ll walk into a party full of Rosebrook’s elite on the arm of his best friend and pretend none of it happened.
You’re the queen. Patient. Waiting. Then you strike.
I take a breath and twist my earring once.
A knock on the front door, followed by the low rumble of voices, makes my heart jump. I give myself one more look, then walk out to meet my fate.
Art is standing in the living room, looking like he stepped out of a magazine. Navy suit, perfectly tailored, and his hair swept back and polished. He’s got that easy, boyish smile that made me fall for him in the first place pasted on, but it doesn’t hit me the same way it used to.
Back then, I thought easy meant honest. I guess I’ve changed.
He turns, and his face goes slack.
“Ginny, baby. You look…wow.”
I wait for the flutter in my chest. The warmth. The feeling I used to get when he looked at me like that. But there’s nothing except the ghost of Lance’s mouth on my neck and the memory of his voice cracking on my name in the dark.
“Thanks,” I say. “Felicity picked it out.”
He makes a face like hearing her name is distasteful.
“If it were anyone else, I’d thank her.” He crosses to me, his hands finding my waist, and presses a kiss to my temple.
His fingers rest on the exact spot where Lance’s fingers dug in hard enough to bruise last night, and I lock every muscle in my body to keep from flinching.
Earlier, I pressed on them, unable to keep the smile from my face, but now…
Over Art’s shoulder, I catch Lance’s eyes. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, his face carved from stone. But his gaze drops to where Art’s hands rest on my hips before snapping up to my face.
I look away first.
“We should go,” I say, stepping back from Art. “Don’t want to be late.”
Art grins and offers his arm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He glances at Lance. “See you there?”
Lance nods. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t look at me again. So I swallow the feeling of wanting to run to him, and let Art lead me out the door.
Art helps me into a black town car, the driver already waiting, and slides in beside me. The door clicks shut, sealing us together, and the space shrinks to nothing.
“You look incredible,” Art says as the car pulls away. His hand finds my knee, thumb tracing a slow circle on the fabric. “I mean it. I’ll have to fight off every guy at this party.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage.”
He laughs, like we’re a normal couple on the way to a normal event. Like I didn’t spend last night in another man’s bed with his name on my lips.
His best friend’s bed.
The guilt hits me so hard I almost double over. Because Art is right here, being attentive and charming and everything I used to want, and twelve hours ago I was riding Lance in an armchair and begging him not to stop.
What kind of person does that make me?
The kind who’s been lied to for months, a voice in my head answers. The kind whose boyfriend hides her from his father and disappears for weeks and keeps her in the dark about everything that matters.
But the guilt doesn’t care about context. It just sits in my chest like a paperweight.
“I know things have been complicated,” Art says. “With everything going on. But tonight, I want it to just be us. The way it used to be. Maybe this can be a fresh start for us, you know?”
The way it used to be. Before the email. Before Lance. Before I started questioning everything about the man sitting next to me.
“I’d like that,” I say, because it’s what he needs to hear.
He lifts my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles. “My father’s been asking about you.”
My stomach tightens. “Asking what?”
“Just questions.” He glances out the window. “He’s not always easy, Gin. But it matters to me that he sees what I see.”
And what is that? I want to ask. Because lately, I’m not sure you see me at all.
But I don’t say any of that. I squeeze his hand and nod.
“I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“You don’t have to be nervous.” He turns back to me, and there’s something almost vulnerable in his expression. “Just be yourself. That’s enough.”
The words land in a soft nook of my heart. A spot inside that still exists—will likely always exist—for the guy who texted me funny memes, and remembered names of the line cook’s I hated, and brought me tiramisu with forks while claiming mine was better.
For a moment, I almost believe him. I want so badly to believe him.
Then I think about Lance crushing me against his chest while his tears sunk into my skin, and that soft spot hardens.
The Calloway estate is lit up like something from a fairy tale.
Lights wrapped around the columns, music drifting through open doors.
Valets, servers with champagne, designer gowns and tailored suits everywhere I look.
This is the world Art grew up in. The world Lance grew up in.
The world I’ve been hidden from for over a year.
“If Craig and Martha are gone, who lives here?”
Art laughs, then sobers when he realizes I’m serious. “Paxton and Tiffany, now. Alex, too.”
“It’s big enough,” I murmur, staring at the expansive French chateau-style mansion. Fifteen thousand square feet, maybe more, I’d guess.
I scan the entrance as we approach, the way Lance taught me. At this point it’s habit, looking for pale eyes in dark corners, and blond hair gleaming under lights. But it’s only tuxedos and ball gowns and waitstaff, and I push the paranoia down where it can’t show on my face.
Through the crowd, I spot Tyler Bault—Rosalie’s brother and Lance’s cousin—leaning against a pillar, nursing a drink.
His hair is longer than it was in the tabloids from when he was the headline after getting shot.
His eyes scan the entrance with the same restless energy I’ve seen in Lance.
When he catches me looking, he stiffens, and then his gaze bounces to Art, and they do a chin nod to each other, Tyler raising his glass in a small salute.
“Ready?” Art squeezes my hand, and I think he’s nervous. Like this matters. Like I matter. Or maybe he’s just on edge about his father.
“Ready,” I lie.
We walk in and heads turn. I feel the stares.
They’re curious, appraising, maybe even openly judgmental.
I’m the girlfriend from the Rag. The bartender from the wrong part of town.
The one photographed with Lance Calloway.
The nobody Art Penngrove upended his world for and then stashed away like a bad habit.
Art’s hand tightens on mine, and he leans in. “Ignore the vultures, baby. Just smile.”
The first hour is a blur. Art stays by my side, attentive in a way he hasn’t been since Boston.
He gets me champagne. He laughs at my jokes.
He brings up small memories and little moments of intimacy that would have made my heart race a few months ago.
I get introduced to people whose names I file away for safekeeping, and his hand is steady on the small of my back the entire time.
Everyone loves him.
It’s disorienting, watching people gravitate toward him. Faces lighting up when he approaches, leaning in when he speaks. Men clap his shoulder. Women touch his arm and laugh too loud. Even the servers stand straighter when he passes.
Art Penngrove, holding court. The prince everyone wants to crown king.
He plays the part effortlessly. A smile here, a handshake there, remembering names and asking about children. The kind of charisma you can’t teach.
I used to love watching him work a room. Used to feel proud that out of everyone, he chose me.
Now I’m watching a performance and wondering if I was ever meant to see backstage.
“Ginny!” Juliette cuts through the crowd, Roman a half step behind her. She’s stunning in soft pink, black hair swept up, and she pulls me into a hug like we’ve known each other for years. “You came. And you wore the teal.”
“Felicity will make you her new show pony,” Roman adds.
“I’d let her,” I say, and they both laugh.
Roman exchanges a look with Art I can’t quite read, but when their eyes meet, the temperature drops significantly, and I wonder why in a room full of important people who seem to love Art, the people who I’ve found most important don’t seem to share the sentiment.
Felicity. Now Roman. Even Juliette.
“Your father’s looking for you,” Roman says to him. “Something about a toast.”
Art’s smile tightens. “Duty calls.” He presses a kiss to my cheek. “I’ll be right back and take you to meet him.”
He disappears into the crowd, and Juliette loops her arm through mine. “Come on. You look like you need something stronger than champagne.”
Two drinks later, Roman’s in the middle of a story about hiking a trail in Verona County and losing his balance trying to paint something up high.
Juliette giggles. “You did not swing like Tarzan, you liar.”
“I find your lack of trust hurtful,” he replies, leaning in, “and a little hot, to be honest. Are you asking me to prove myself?”
“I’m asking you to not be annoying.”
He beams. “You’d get so bored if I did that.”
“Roman did actually have to swing from a branch,” Merrick slips into our circle, drink in hand. My chest warms. I haven’t seen him in a while, but his presence is always calming to me.
“See?” Roman says. “You need a high-maintenance lover. It’s time you accept it, Little Rose.”
“He screamed, did he tell you that part?” Merrick finishes, his gaze sliding to me with a wink.