9. The Help Talk
9
The Help Talk
ALICE
It was the engagement party of my nightmares.
Every little girl grows up dreaming about Prince Charming whisking them away to live their fairytale. Even those of us who were closer acquainted with mud, briny water, and the reek of fish than we were designer bags and pools of silk.
My teenage visions looked like a mountaintop meadow overgrown with violet lupine. A handful of friends and family gathered in the tall, wild grasses of Mistyvale, overlooking the black rock cliffs and the rumbling gray ocean below.
As for an engagement party? If we bothered with the formality, it would’ve been greasy burgers or a fish fry in the local pool hall, filled with my siblings, cousins, and so much laughter that my cheeks hurt.
Instead, I was passed from one insufferable blue blood to another, like the latest commodity in a ballroom, more social statement than venue. The miles of shimmering white and gold marble reflected ostentatious chandeliers where they dripped diamonds like collected spring rain.
But this demand for my focus was just the beginning. The first wave of guests, clamoring for any morsel of gossip they could say they had first. No wonder these events were always open bar. You’d have to be inebriated to enjoy it.
Desperate for a break, I excused myself to the bathroom and skirted around the perimeter of the social melee. Luckily for me, years of being a nobody made me exceptionally good at evading their eyes, and I slunk into the hallway without being noticed. As the eighth of twelve, I was used to being the one nobody thought twice about.
Jeanne and Rhyett were always the high achievers, casting shadows so long none of us had a chance to compare.
Jameson always got into trouble, while Elora had to be the center of the show and the loudest voice in any debate.
Axel had been a super easy kid until he saw the attention they got compared to the rest of us. His life was notably better once he started boxing and playing hockey, but he’d always been the one smiling while he self-destructed.
Paxton was the athlete from the time he could toddle. Come to think of it, I was pretty sure El said he took his first steps with a ball in his hand.
This left Hadlee, me, and Finn as awkward middle children. We were so preoccupied with trying to make life easier for our overwhelmed mother that our actual personalities got lost in translation.
The twins were the spunky ones, and Maverick took the title of the designated family baby—i.e., spoiled rotten punk.
The perk to being the forgotten ‘easy’ daughter was that I was just as easily forgotten in crowds. I dipped my chin and melted into the chaos, dodging bodies like traffic cones as I navigated the hallway.
All the air left my lungs in tandem with the tension in my shoulders.
I’d made it halfway back to the ostentatious bridal suite when a familiar raised voice caught my attention. Reggie. Of course, the old ass would fly back from France just to make an appearance.
With a sigh, I glanced around and spotted the groom’s room door cracked open. As I inched closer to discern his words, my breath caught on my ribs like lace on barbed wire.
“I said Royal wedding. Royal , Greyson. Not rabble .”
Who the fuck was he calling rabble? My family might have built our legacy on the backs of blue-collar men, but they were the best men I knew. Far better than the entitled children masquerading as adults in that ballroom. Where I came from, not a soul in town didn’t know the last name Rhodes.
“ What were you thinking ?”
“Lower your voice,” Greyson uttered in an unaffected monotone.
“We raised you better than this. Ollie demonstrated just how easy it is for some whore to open her legs and destroy your foundation, but you’re just going to run off and do the same thing?”
“Lower. Your. Voice.”
The bridge of my nose burned as my mouth fell open. Frozen outside the door, I wrapped an arm around my ribs as my other hand pressed to my lips. Come on , I pled internally. Say something .
“You might’ve gotten too big for your britches the last few years, but don’t you forget how quickly you could throw this all away to get your dick wet.”
Nope .
That was enough for me. Repulsed, I reared away from the door, glancing around and relieved to see the hallway was empty. Briefly warring between opening the door to tell off the piece of shit that sat at the head of our board and fleeing, I landed on the latter.
My eyes burned as I retreated to the bridal suite on the quietest steps I could manage in these ridiculous heels.
Rabble .
I wasn’t na?ve enough to believe the respect our family name garnered in Mistyvale would translate here, but I hadn’t realized how easily I would be equated to trash after years of serving their company.
My hands flew to my mouth the moment the door closed behind me. Leaning my back into it for support, I closed my eyes and pulled in a long breath.
Reginald Hart did not deserve my tears. Neither did Greyson, for that matter. In no universe would either of them have the satisfaction of seeing me rattled. I pulled in breaths until my hands stopped shaking, used the restroom, washed my hands with the water set on the coldest setting, and steeled my spine.
There was no going back now—we were already public knowledge. With that in mind, I returned to the party.
Over the next few hours, countless selfies were snapped with forced, chic smiles. These men might look like they’d been peeled from the pages of magazines, but like Reggie, they countered the appeal with a general lack of consideration for anyone or anything but the bottom line and who they could swindle to advance it.
The women, in my humble opinion, were even worse. Like Oliver’s ex-wife, they were out on the prowl. In a room full of modern-day kings, they needed only to trick one into bed, get lucky enough to carry their baby, and saving face would come with a healthy check and an NDA, after the paternity test, of course.
Their exhausting vitriol about dress size, the latest designers, and Emerald Bay’s most eligible bachelors—including either oblivious or tasteless remarks about my brother —had run me out of patience in the first hour. The second had me rooting for the Brioni-wearing man boisterously bickering with a brunette snake in Prada heels that cost more than most Americans’ paychecks. But their entertaining scuffle ended when security escorted them both out, much to my disappointment.
Pity, Greyson had said. What an interesting choice of words. One that made more and more sense the longer I was in a room with people who suddenly believed I was their peer rather than an underling to bark orders at and then forget just as quickly.
Much like the day of the photo session, Greyson had dropped the compliment, lifted my hand, and pressed my fingers to his lips with chivalrous formality before turning and vanishing into the organized chaos of party prep. It would have been the picture-perfect shot if a camera had been around. Some corner of my brain noted that he’d said it without an audience. The idea of it being authentic was even more haunting than hearing him claim nothing brings me to my knees faster than this woman with her hair down .
But then…why didn’t he defend me? The man had me more confused than a zebra confronted with a referee.
While I’d been attending the notorious Hart brothers’ parties beside Greyson for years, he was right; this was different. Being here as his assistant had been like wrapping myself in an invisibility cloak—not worth their time or energy. But the cloak had been stripped away, and I stood there in my lace dress, and the admittedly beautiful Jimmy Choo’s Greyson’s stylist selected, suddenly in the spotlight.
Everyone, no matter their social bracket, was clamoring for some nugget of information—about me, my family, the relationship with Greyson, how he proposed if we’d set a date or picked a location.
I was a small-town girl at heart with a huge family.
Our relationship developed slowly, during long nights spent poring over contracts while sharing pots of coffee and trips overseas, but it came to a climax last year in Paris.
He proposed on our favorite beach, and his German Shepard, Captain, wore a bow tie.
Women I’d met dozens of times at galas and luncheons suddenly deigned to remember my name as they attacked with mind-dizzying persistence.
“Oh, I bet your gown will be beautiful,” Julianne gushed, looking a little worse for wear after one too many glasses of champagne and a recently finalized divorce from husband number three. “Delilah Jean is absolutely to die for,” she added with a hiccup, not seeming to notice—or care—as she steadied herself on my forearm. “And Grey wouldn’t allow you to buy off the rack, after all.”
Grey . I hated that she felt comfortable enough to address him by his family’s nickname.
“Of course not,” Camilla added authoritatively. She was the daughter of an oil baron, her southern twang alive and well, no doubt aided by the martini sloshing in her hand. She eyed me up and down skeptically before adding, “He’ll have a bit of work cut out for him, I’m sure, just bringing you up to speed.”
It was a simple fact. Not slung like an insult but still insulting in her simple patronizing assessment and a passive-aggressive reminder of my status. Legally speaking, I was engaged to one of the wealthiest men in the country, and yet I’d never felt more like scum.
I pursed my lips, canting my head before saying, “Some men aren’t in the habit of finding women to work on so much as falling for those whose depth exceeds a pothole.” My smile grew as her confusion did. Probably shouldn’t have said it. But honestly. How many insults should a woman turn her cheek to before standing up for herself?
Rabble.
Has Greyson scheduled your boob job yet? A-cups are so 1999.
Oh, I have a surgeon that can do something about your nose.
Your face is pretty, just much too long.
Have you considered adjusting your smile?
A fisherman’s daughter?! My, who knew Grey would like someone so…rustic?
These two had been aggressively chipping away at my flaws for the better half of the last hour while pretending they were thrilled to see me. Frankly, I’d had enough.
Jealous .
I knew they were jealous, but they had no idea what they were so green over. Their assumptions were laughable given my scenario and even more ridiculous given how comedically unappealing Greyson found the socialite dating scene. I might not like the man, but at least I knew he wouldn’t fall into the clutches of one of these vipers.
“I’ll see you around, ladies,” I chirped in a saccharine tone, mimicking the obnoxious fluttering finger wave I’d been on the receiving end of all evening. Sighing my irritation, I turned away, downed the last of my vodka tonic, and wove through bodies toward the bar, ignoring eager smiles along the way. If I thought high school was catty, it had nothing on these rabid heiresses. Evidently, a man’s merit was entirely dictated by the money in his wallet rather than the heart in his chest or razor edges of a mind worth exploring.
Reaching the bar, I smiled at tonight’s bartender and wiggled my glass in hopes of a refill. His nod was like a life preserver. I clung to it, quite certain we were about to become very close friends.
Suddenly, I didn’t feel so bad about Greyson’s promised alimony. That thought was interrupted by a slick black tux hugging a slender body with a rather smug, albeit handsome, face attached to it.
Money might not buy happiness, but it certainly bought jaw lines and rhinoplasty just fine. The inhuman perfection around me was like a blinding mirror focused on my unacceptable pore size and prominent Mediterranean nose. I’d never cared about it until I was supposed to pass as one of them.
The suit extended a hand.
“Evening, Ms. Rhodes. Royce Ashcroft, pleased to meet you.”
Eyeing the blond man before me, I recognized the smile, then the eyes. He’d shaved off his GQ beard in favor of defined lines of shadow. We’d hovered around each other at a few dozen events like this over the last couple years, including that trip to Barcelona. Auctions, mostly. I bit back the fact that he hadn’t been pleased to see me until I had a title like ‘future Mrs. Hart’ to care about. Instead, I smiled up at him—all tan skin and fair blue eyes—and extended my hand to take his as my mind rifled through the folders of the who’s who in Emerald Bay.
“Royce! Nice to see you. How’s Miranda?”
Surprise glittered in his eyes for a breath before he smiled. “She’s wonderful! Pregnant with baby number three. She would’ve been here but was afraid she’d be hugging the porcelain throne.”
“Awe,” I cooed, sliding my hand away when he lingered longer than necessary. “Congratulations, you two. I hope she feels better soon.”
“Thank you! Any future Harts we should know about? Cassy is just big enough to be in love with babies.” Cassy . His second-born daughter, I remembered.
Did these people only marry for status or breeding? Royce was the fifth person to ask a question along these lines since the evening started. I was beginning to doubt the words Greyson had left looping in my mind and fought the urge to look down at my stomach to check for a muffin top.
“Not at the moment,” I answered, forcing a laugh. “Though I’m sure Greyson will have plans as soon as things are official.” Was that puke climbing up my throat at the idea of carrying my boss’ babies? Yep. Yep, it was. On second thought, a favorable prenup sounded fantastic. Get enough cash in my wallet to pick up, change my name, reconstruct my face like all of these glamorous, glittering sociopaths, and vanish into the void somewhere they didn’t have social media.
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll get right to work,” he said with a wink. “I know I’ve kept Miranda busy.”
This was my idea . This was my strategy. The parties, the slow drip of information to prolong the media buzz and keep their eyes where we wanted them. That didn’t mean I didn’t have to remind myself of it in every single conversation I had tonight. Looking past his shoulder, I scanned the space—both irritated and relieved, when I spotted Greyson looking equally miserable across the room, chatting with a couple of day traders.
“Hopefully, those vapid piranhas haven’t been too brutal on you tonight,” he added, glancing down to his hands, where they wrapped around a glass of what I assumed was Greyson’s favorite Macallan. “Miranda was a preacher’s daughter when we met. Did you know that?” When I just shook my head, he smiled softly, nodding as he stared into the single malt like it was a time capsule. Eyes reminiscent, he said, “I was the big bad party boy that corrupted the innocent princess. At least, that’s how her father would tell the tale.”
“I’m sure you were an upstanding young man,” I teased with a smirk. The comment earned a low laugh and a smile that split his stubbled cheeks.
“I was a scoundrel . But…I fell hard and fast for her. Been proving myself to her and her family for seven years now.” He knocked back his drink. “I guess what I’m trying to get to is that this—” He shrugged like he was lost for words as he motioned vaguely around the room, “ life of ours. It’s an adjustment if you didn’t grow up with the rest of these trust fund babies. Go easy on yourself. You’ll find your way.” Okay, so maybe I’d misjudged Royce a bit. “Welcome to the circus, Ms. Rhodes.”
A throat cleared behind us, and we both straightened, turning to find Greyson, his hands in his pockets in that effortlessly superior stance only the wealthy could pull off. “Getting to know my bride, Ashcroft?”
Royce chuckled, smoothly transferring his glass from one hand to the other in order to shake with Greyson. “She’s lovely, Greyson. Congratulations to you both.”
“Thanks,” Greyson replied, voice uncharacteristically clipped. “How’s the missus?”
“Miranda is pregnant with their third,” I supplied. Reminding Greyson of important names had been a predominant part of my job description. Who knew my weird talent would also equate to job security?
“Congratulations to you , then,” Greyson said smoothly, sliding an arm around my shoulders to tuck me against his ribs. I forced myself to relax into his warmth, wishing the heat of him and mouthwatering cologne was a sincere comfort in this shark-infested water. “Boy or girl?”
“Surprise this time,” Royce shrugged. “Figure we’ll let the tiebreaker keep us on our toes.”
“Very old fashioned. Patient. I applaud you. I know this one would need to know the moment it was possible,” he declared, giving me what was likely meant as a playful squeeze but felt like a possessive reminder of who I was here with. “She likes to plan all of the details out. Keep control of whatever she can.”
That’s fucking rich coming from you . Instead of vocalizing my sincere thoughts, I amicably agreed, “That’s true.” Because he wasn’t wrong—I would want to know so I could prepare—I just didn’t appreciate his tone.
“Well, Ashcroft, say hi to Miranda. My bride and I are needed elsewhere.”
“Will do. Congratulations again,” Royce repeated, raising his now-empty glass in a symbolic salute. We turned to leave, but he added, “Oh, and Alessandra, do be careful with who you open up to. You’d be shocked how quickly a server will blab confidential information for a few hundred dollars.”
I’d barely nodded when Greyson laughed and pulled me across the room. Royce’s warning was still turning circles in my mind when we slid into the cool limo with its low lighting and lower music. Scooting away the instant the door closed, I glanced out the window, breathing a sigh of relief that our first performance had come to a blessed close. Which, of course, was when Greyson decided to hit me with a one-two punch.
“Cozying up to rivals won’t win us any points with the press.”
Blinking, I jerk my face back to his. “Excuse me?”
“Ashcroft. He’s a buddy on the golf course but a rival outside it. You’ll do well to remember that.”
“He was the first person to treat me with any ounce of dignity, but your opinion has been noted.”
“Trust no one in these circles, Alessandra.”
“Does that include you?” I asked under arched brows.
“Depends on what your objective is. If you intend to see this arrangement through to fruition, then I intend to be the best alliance you can make in your lifetime. But if you’re going to publicly indulge in dalliances that create new media fires for me to extinguish, then I would go with no, Ms. Rhodes. Because I won’t cover for you when they chum the waters if you’re planning to dishonor my name.”
My jaw popped, it dropped so suddenly. A headache was blooming behind my eyes as my heart rate escalated. “Are you fucking serious right now?”
“You know first-hand what an image of you on the arm of another man would do to this campaign.”
“I wasn’t on his arm, and Royce is married.”
“Royce?!”
“He has a first name.”
“Marriage means nothing to these people. You understand that, don’t you? It’s an alliance. A piece of paper bartering for allegiance in business.”
“Just because you’re buying a bride to cover your ass doesn’t mean that everyone is. I highly doubt a preacher’s daughter advanced Royce’s place in this social circle.” The hum of the motor filled the silence as we rounded a corner, Greyson scowling out the window across from us.
“This needs to be precisely executed, is what I’m trying to say.”
“Then say that . Don’t insinuate I’m not doing my part because I just entertained the vapid musings of plastic sex dolls and feral men who would happily befriend me to get to you for the last three hours.”
“Don’t trust them, either.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday,” I snapped. “Contrary to the selection of breeding mares available in those walls, I actually have two brain cells to rub together and know when someone isn’t acting in my best interest.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“You approached me, not the other way around. I highly suggest you don’t forget that.”
“Like you’d let me,” he scoffed petulantly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t show your face unless it’s obligatory—you don’t even eat dinner with me.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“You’ll have to do more than the bare minimum to satisfy the arrangement, Alessandra.”
Ooh. I wanted to knock him the hell out. “The terms of our agreement are simple, although I’m happy to get a translator to re-outline them if you need clarification, though I doubt you want to involve another party, no matter how ironclad your contracts are. I sold the story. All night long.”
“We’re going to need a deeper understanding of each other—beyond our scandalous office romance and fictitious European proposal—to pull this off.”
“You might,” I countered, crossing my arms over my chest. “I know plenty .”
His eyes narrowed. “Coffee to creamer ratio isn’t exactly what I was going for.”
Grinding my teeth, I argued, “How about exactly how many pins in your spine required you to be medically discharged after the accident that killed your father? Or the fact that there was a criminal investigation to follow, where they proved you weren’t at fault but never found the driver who was? The only reason they believe he was drunk were the open containers in the totaled vehicle he left behind.”
“Those facts are public record?—”
Maybe so. But I was on a rampage and wasn’t about to slow down. “You’re allergic to shrimp and crab but can eat clams and lobster. Your first girlfriend was named Jenilee. Your high school sweetheart, Selene, was the one woman you claim to have loved. You’re the oldest of three boys, but a drunk driver killed the youngest while he was still in elementary school. Your mother blamed his loss for the strained relationship between you and your father, although the logic behind the fallacy evades me. Your why in life is Mattie, shortly followed by Beau, who was named for your late brother, and if you absolutely had to choose a third, it would be Oliver. Oh , and I don’t think you want me sharing this tidbit, but you never orgasm inside a woman—condom or not—because your Uncle Reggie told you not to sire any inheritance-stealing bastards. I guess Oliver didn’t get that speech or didn’t particularly care. I’m not sure which.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Alessandra,” he ground out.
“ You forget yourself when I’m around, Mr. Hart. But the help talk. And you and Ollie aren’t as quiet as you think you are when you’re too busy being men to realize I’m there. The perk of playing the pretty doormat is that everyone underestimates you—nobody bothers to notice when you enter a room. But don’t preach to me about learning my subject. I know you inside and out, Mr. Hart. That’s the job.”
“What is wrong with you?” he snarled as the car slowed around familiar bends in the road.
“You. It’s been you for two damn years, and I’m insane for thinking I could tolerate you for more.”
“You’re insufferably condescending.”
“And you’re arrogant and self-centered. You mock me as though all I’ve learned in two years under your supervision is your coffee order, but I highly doubt you could supply mine in a pinch. You don’t bother to learn rudimentary things about the rabble that serve you. We’re so far below your pay grade I’m shocked you bother to learn names, although maybe that’s generous because you haven’t bothered to learn mine. So, I suppose you’re right. We need deeper communication if this is going to work. But it’s not me—or the men I talk to—that you should be concerned with.”
I was out of the car before the driver had it in park.