22. Look After You
Look After You
My first Thanksgiving in over five years. I felt neutral about it at first—maybe even hopeful—after my father’s surprisingly polite phone call congratulating me on the Grammy nominations.
But I have a feeling I’m walking into a lion’s den.
Alex had been relentless since the announcement. Every morning, a new post: blurred, intimate photographs that danced just close enough to exposure. Some were cropped, obscured—enough to spark questions. Is it her? Was it ever not?
When it wasn’t photos, it was lyrics from songs we’d listened to. Or underlined stanzas from the poetry books we used to read side by side. Of course the media was having a field day over it.
He was sending a message. You’re on my mind.
He called, too. Over and over. Always late. Always, just as I was about to fall asleep. I never picked up.
But he’s getting harder to ignore.
What does he want? Surely Madison wouldn’t be happy with him doing this.
The pit in my stomach deepens.
I’m so terrified to let him back in—to answer that call and be left with more questions than answers.
“You okay?” Riley asks as we arrive out the front of the Montgomery home.
I nod, but it’s stiff. Tight. I’m trying to hold myself together with grace, a forced smile. Just survive the day.
They greet us warmly enough—Philippa and Andrew look blissed-out and tanned from their honeymoon.
Carole is polite, like always.
My father doesn’t say a word. Just nods, jaw tight. I knew it. He’s not happy. Whatever polite pretense his congratulatory phone call carried—it’s already gone.
The only good thing about today is the food.
Carole tops off Mortimer’s glass, the wine bottle barely making a sound against the crystal. The dining room glows with candlelight and centerpieces that look straight out of a luxury florist’s showroom.
Philippa talks about the spa on Harbor Island for ten minutes straight, one hand resting on Andrew’s arm affectionately.
Riley hides her face behind a napkin. I can feel her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“Anyway,” Philippa says, voice dreamy, “we didn’t really leave the resort much, but honestly, it was exactly what we needed. I haven’t felt that relaxed in years.”
“You look it,” Mortimer says, lifting his glass toward her. “Marriage suits you, my dearest.”
Philippa glows. Andrew smiles like he’s just been knighted.
Then my father’s eyes shift to me. He raises his glass again. “And you, Elena. Your nominations. It’s good to see you focusing on something important—something meaningful.”
My stomach sinks at his tone. He’s displeased.
I raise my brows, catch the curve of his mouth. Just enough of a smirk to set me off. Still, everyone lifts their drinks. Carole claps delicately, like we’re at a garden party.
I roll my eyes and take a sip.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, voice too even.
“Well, since things ended with you and Alex…It’s nice to finally see you focused on what matters to you.” His words are casual, buttering a roll like we’re discussing traffic. “It is over isn’t it?”
I don’t know what comes over me, but the look on his face shatters what little self-control I have left.
Rather than ask me civilly or in private, he chooses now, of all moments, to put me in my place.
I set my glass down. “Yeah, he fucked me and then dumped me—if you must know.”
Riley gasps, hand flying over mine. “Oh my God, babe.”
Carole actually clutches her pearls.
Andrew looks stunned, chewing slower like he doesn’t want to miss a word.
Philippa just shakes her head, shoulders slumping in quiet, exhausted defeat.
“Don’t be vulgar,” Mortimer says, not even blinking. “Though considering the headlines lately—and those half-naked social media posts—I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
I nod slowly, heat creeping up my neck as I take a longer sip.
“You are the company you keep.”
“Headlines and half-naked posts, that’s showbiz, mate,” I echo sweetly, twirling my wine. “And why are you punishing me for posts I didn’t even make? For headlines written by strangers who treat my life like it’s a free-for-all buffet?”
Carole shifts uncomfortably, eyes glued to her plate.
Philippa gives me a warning glance—shoulders tight, chin barely shaking. Not here. Not now.
Andrew chews. Watches us like we’re a lit match and a stick of dynamite.
Mortimer stays calm. “I’m aware.” He slices into his turkey like he’s signing off on a quarterly report. “You’re not seeing him in secret are you?” His voice drips with mirth and smugness.
His knife scrapes against the plate.
So does my spine.
I stiffen.
The question slides across the table like oil. Riley shifts. Andrew coughs into his napkin.
Does he really think so little of me that I’d chase after someone who made it clear he doesn’t want me? Or worse—stoop to his level and go behind Madison’s back with Alex? I don’t exactly like her, but I could never do to Madison what Carole did to my mom.
“No, I have values—unlike some people.” I level him with a stare.
Carole’s shoulders stiffen.
Mortimer still doesn’t look up. “Because I don’t think he understands the stakes. Your name carries weight now. He clearly doesn’t care that people are watching.”
“I didn’t realize you cared so much,” I say sarcastically folding my napkin tighter in my lap.
“I’m not trying to be difficult,” he says. Calm. Too calm. “I’m saying the association is damaging. You’ve worked hard. I’d hate to see that dragged down by his recklessness.”
“Is that what you think happened?”
“I think he’s bad for you. And your image. If you’re serious about building something of your own, you need the right people around you.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Why your team hasn’t issued him and his people an injunction is beyond me—the incompetence.”
Carole reaches across, gently touches his wrist. “Monty—please.”
“You want me to do what?”
“Elena, it’s the practical thing to do. You need to grow up, establish stability and ownership of your career and your image.”
“Don’t,” I snap. “You don’t get to lecture me about stability. The double standard is rich, really.”
Philippa’s fork clatters against her plate.
“Daddy, please stop,” she says.
“I’m not judging you, Elena,” Mortimer says, finally meeting my eyes. His voice is level. Polished. The corporate tone he uses when he wants to sound concerned but really means I’m disappointed, and it’s your fault. Do better.
“I’m trying to keep you from making the same mistakes your mother did.”
“What did you just say?” I spit.
He doesn’t say anything, our eyes locked on each other in a silent war.
“The only mistake she made, was marrying you.”
The table freezes. No one breathes. Not even Riley. I stand, napkin balled in my fist. No one stops me as I storm out.
And all I can see is his face—tattooed behind my eyelids, stunned, disappointed, and stubborn as an ox.
The front door clicks shut behind me.
Cold air cuts straight through my sweater, as I yank my coat on. The street is too still for the city—but the silence is a comfort.
I inhale. In and out, the crisp air is a salve to my lungs. I want to scream. I want to punch a wall.
I take the steps down to the street.
“Elena!”
Philippa’s voice cuts through the stillness.
“Come back inside.”
“Elena!” she calls again.
I turn. Her coat is thrown over her shoulders haphazardly. Hair still perfect. Riley jogs behind her in socked feet, holding a half-eaten bread roll like it’s sacred.
“You cannot just leave it’s Thanksgiving,” Philippa snaps.
“Actually I can,” I say. “He brought up Alex and Mom—what the fuck is that?”
“He’s worried about you—”
“He humiliated me.”
“Calm down,” she says. “He’s just concerned. About you, about your career.”
“Did you see Carole’s face?” I hiss. “He did it on purpose.”
“He doesn’t know how to talk to you anymore. You avoid his calls, you dodge his visits. And when he does try to talk to you make everything a fight.”
“And you always take his side. Daddy, please. What happened to standing up for me?”
My hand tightens around my phone.
Riley steps in between us, breath fogging. “Okay. I vote we all go inside and pretend this is just low blood sugar. You storm in, we eat turkey, drink something hard, and scream at the parade rerun. Yeah?”
“No,” I mutter. “I’m done.”
Philippa folds her arms. “I’m trying. But it’s hard when you blow up like this.”
I laugh. Bitter. “Right. I forgot—I’m the hot mess, and you’re the rational, perfect daughter who always knows how to stay perfect under pressure.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is sitting there pretending he’s proud of me, then bringing up Alex in the same breath like it’s my fault—like maybe I’m encouraging him to post that garbage.
“And worse,” I add, voice cracking, “he did it in front of everyone.”
Philippa sighs. Her shoulders sag. “You’re right. He shouldn’t have done that. I’ll talk to him.”
Finally she sees some reason.
“Don’t bother.” My chest tightens. That’s not her job.
Riley raises the roll between us like it’s a truce flag. “I love you both. Deeply. But I am freezing my nips off. Can we maybe yell about this over mashed potatoes?”
I don’t answer. My hand’s already on the car door.
“I need some space.”
I get in and slam the door shut before she can say anything else.
“Where to?” Luca asks.
“I don’t know, can we drive around for a bit?”
“Yes, ma’am. Whatever you need.”
As Luca navigates the streets, my mind is a mess. Quiet tears streaming down, as I try to come to terms with what just happened. It feels like the moment we take a few steps forward, I get yanked back. I sigh, sinking deeper into the seat. Will we ever be able to fix what’s broken between us?
We pass Goodman Enterprises—Broderick’s building. I wonder what he’s doing. I pull out my phone, tapping his name.
As it rings, I realize he might be celebrating Thanksgiving with his family—people who probably don’t judge him for his life choices. Just as I’m about to hang up—
“Hey,” Broderick answers.
“Hey, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to bother you. You’re probably busy?”
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice concerned. “Do you want me to come get you?”