Chapter 10 #2
“That’s pulling!”
“Twisting AND pulling is a perfectly valid strategy!” Mom yanks the claw with enough force to launch a chunk of lobster meat airborne. It sails across six feet of pristine table and smacks Blaire directly in the face.
Blaire freezes. The lobster falls into her lap, and her expression suggests she’s contemplating murder.
“I am so sorry,” Mom says, and she sounds genuinely mortified.
My Vera Veragamo dress, Blaire gasps with the thought. Ruined. Absolutely ruined. “It’s fine,” Blaire says through clenched teeth, dabbing at the butter stain with a napkin that’s clearly not going to help. It’s not fine. It’s never going to be fine. But we’re all pretending.
“So Macy,” one of the women calls out while reaching for more corn, “I saw your candles went viral. The Stink Bomb line?”
And here we go.
“It’s called Snack After Midnight. The candle people can’t seem to get enough of is called Seaside Surprise,” Macy corrects, her smile tight with murderous intent.
“Right, right. Surprising that anyone bought it,” Kennedy adds, and she’s clearly trying to fit in with the mean girls because that seems to be her survival strategy.
Laughter ripples around the table, and I watch Macy’s face flush.
“Actually,” Macy says, reaching for her wine glass with dangerous calm, “I have a waiting list. Customers are begging me to restock. But sure, keep telling yourself nobody wants it.”
The laughter stops.
Little do they know Macy is the original mean girl. And at this moment, I’m sort of proud of that fact.
“It’s not like it was intentional,” Blaire says, dabbing at her mouth. “The viral thing.”
“Wasn’t it, though?” Macy tilts her head. “Any marketing expert will tell you that memorable beats pretty every single time. And trust me, mac and cheese with caramel drizzle is memorable.”
She’s got a point, Tamsin thinks, and I catch the grudging respect there. Even if it does stink to high heaven.
“Still,” Blaire says, “it’s not exactly the publicity you want for a luxury brand.”
“Luxury?” Macy laughs. “I make soap and candles in Cider Cove, Maine. I’m not some high-end boutique in Paris. I’m not trying to be. But I do pay my bills, own my shop outright, and sleep pretty well at night knowing I’m not drowning in debt to maintain an image.”
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut yourself with.
Did she just— Kennedy’s thought cuts off abruptly.
Ooh, I like her, Blaire thinks, and there’s actual amusement there.
Sloane sets down her fork. “Actually, I think it’s brilliant marketing.
Viral is viral. Any press is good press.
Macy is playing a completely different game than the rest of us, and she’s winning.
” She sounds sincere. She sounds supportive.
She even looks impressed. Though I wouldn’t burn one of those bonfires waiting to happen if you paid me.
Her thought is pure acid. The packaging alone is pedestrian.
Macy catches the defense and shoots Sloane a grateful smile, but I can see she knows it’s hollow.
You don’t survive in retail without developing a sixth sense for fake kindness.
My sister’s been navigating the mean girl ecosystem since high school, and she’s learned that the prettiest compliments usually come with the sharpest teeth.
“Well,” Macy says, reaching for a lobster tail and cracking it with impressive efficiency, “at least my candles won’t land anyone in prison for fraud. That’s more than some businesses can say.”
She doesn’t look at anyone in particular when she says it, but I watch Sloane’s hand tighten on her wine glass.
That line has to apply to one of these witches, if not all, she thinks to herself with a smug smile.
She’s not wrong.
Careful, little soap maker, Sloane thinks with a dark smile. You have no idea who you’re playing with.
My mouth falls open at the threat.
“Speaking of businesses,” Blaire jumps in, clearly trying to redirect, “Macy, didn’t you just expand your store?”
“That’s right,” my sister adds with glee. “I added a whole bath bomb section. And sales have been up thirty percent ever since.”
“That’s wonderful,” Blaire says, and her smile is so saccharine I’m getting a cavity just looking at it. “It must be so fulfilling to work with your hands. Very, you know, grounding.”
The insult is wrapped in so many layers of politeness it takes a second to land, but when it does, Macy just grins.
“It is. Almost as grounding as actually having a job instead of calling yourself a ‘brand consultant’ while living off Daddy’s lottery winnings.”
I choke on my drink just as Blaire goes absolutely white.
How does she—no one knows about— Blaire’s thoughts are panicking, scrambling.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Blaire says, but her voice shakes.
“Sure, you don’t.” Macy reaches for another lobster. “Anyway, the stain remover’s right there if anyone needs it. Works on butter, wine, and reputations built on lies.”
Leave it to my saucy sister to give the zinger of the night.
The sun is almost gone now, just a sliver of orange on the horizon, and the string lights overhead are doing their magic.
The whole scene could be an influencer’s dream post—beautiful women, beautiful food, beautiful beach—except for the butter carnage and the fact that at least one of these women is a killer.
Mackenzie’s been complaining nonstop. The lobsters are too small. The wine’s too warm. The staff isn’t moving fast enough. The bibs are tacky. The whole thing is beneath her friends’ standards and, by the sounds of it, hers, too.
I’m starting to understand why Huxley looks so tired all the time.
Sloane stands up suddenly, wiping her hands on her bib before removing it. She excuses herself from the table—something about needing air, which we’re literally surrounded by—and walks toward the boulders at the edge of the beach.
Away from the group. Away from the lights.
Alone.
I catch Mom’s eye and nod toward my new mark. Mom understands immediately, bless her, and within seconds Georgie has knocked over another wine bottle—her third of the night, and I’m starting to think it’s intentional—and everyone is suddenly focused on the cleanup.
I slip away from the table, my feet quiet on the sand, following Sloane toward the shore.
She’s standing there looking out at the water, her silk dress catching the last light, and for the first time all night she’s not performing for anyone—which means I’m about to find out who she really is when the cameras aren’t rolling.