19. Adair
Adair
The room is dimly lit, the only light coming from the neon-colored LEDs on the front of the bikes. My legs burn, and sweat drips down my back, but I grit my teeth and push through.
“Last hill, ladies!” Carla yells. “Crank up that resistance and give me everything you’ve got!”
I glance at the display on my bike, watching the numbers tick upward.
My quads scream in protest, but I keep pedaling, imagining my little wellness café thriving again, with full bookings and clients waiting for appointments weeks in advance.
That thought propels me forward until the final beat drops and Carla calls time.
The class erupts in a mix of applause and groans of relief. I join the other women in clapping, wiping my face with a towel as I dismount from the bike .
My muscles are jelly, but there’s something satisfying about pushing myself this hard.
In the locker room, the atmosphere shifts to relaxed chatter. Women wrap themselves in towels or change into breezy sundresses, their conversations flowing like the water from the nearby showers.
I sit on a bench, catching my breath and sipping from my water bottle.
“You were killing it out there, Adair,” says a woman I’ve seen around but don’t know well. Her name’s Denise, I think. She's petite, blonde, and perpetually tan.
“Thanks,” I reply, forcing a smile.
“First time here?” another woman asks. She’s tall, elegant, with the kind of effortlessly styled hair that screams money .
“First spin class,” I admit. “I usually focus on yoga, but I wanted to try something new.”
They nod approvingly. The conversation shifts to skincare routines, and I perk up, hoping to find an opportunity to mention my café.
“Oh, speaking of something new! Have you been to Dr. Weiss’s MedSpa in Northwood Village?” Denise asks, her eyes lighting up. “It’s amazing. I got the HydraFacial there last week, and my skin feels like silk.”
“I love her place,” the tall woman chimes in. “Her laser treatments are worth every penny. She used to be a dermatologist in New York, you know. Very exclusive.”
I stuff down a twinge of jealousy. Dr. Weiss’s MedSpa is legendary among the wealthy set, and her services are priced accordingly.
“Where do you go, Adair?” Denise asks politely, though it’s clear they’re all expecting me to name somewhere equally high-end.
“I own Citrine, here in Palm Beach,” I say, trying to sound casual. “We focus on holistic food and drinks—organic, whole foods, fruits and veggies, as well as offer lotions, serums, and natural retin-a products. And, of course, concierge facials and massages. ”
That last part was a complete lie, since I've all but eliminated spa services, but it seemed fitting. And if I could pick up this crowd, I could start to offer them again.
And a concierge service makes it sound that much more exclusive.
There’s a brief pause, and then, as if on cue, their polite smiles slip.
“Oh,” Denise says finally. “I think I’ve heard of it. Maybe.”
The tall woman shakes her head slightly. “I’ve never been. I usually wait until I can get to Dr. Weiss’s.”
“Well, if you’re ever looking for something closer, we’d love to have you,” I say, trying to inject enthusiasm into my voice.
Denise glances at the tall woman, then back at me. “Cute name. Citrine, was it?”
I nod, too eager. “We do cold-pressed juice, immunity shots, organic treatments, bodywork—it’s a little holistic haven.”
“Sounds... earthy,” she says, with a polite smile so thin it might snap in half.
They nod politely, but the conversation quickly veers away from my café. I sit there, feeling invisible, as they gush over Dr. Weiss’s cutting-edge treatments and impeccable brand.
Brand. That’s what I’m missing. No matter how good my treatments are, no one’s going to trust a name they’ve never heard of.
I grab my bag and head out, frustration simmering beneath my skin. My little wellness café feels so small compared to what Dr. Weiss has built. If only I had the money to expand, to market my services properly, to hire the kind of talent that would make Citrine a name worth knowing.
As I walk through the club’s lobby, my phone buzzes with a new email. I pull it out, hoping for some good news to salvage my morning. Instead, my heart sinks.
From: Thatcher Investments
Subject: Investment Opportunity - Update
Dear Adair,
After careful consideration and consultation with my financial advisors, I’ve decided not to move forward with your proposed investment opportunity at this time. I appreciate your passion for your business and wish you all the best in your endeavors.
Sincerely,
Evelyn Thatcher
I stare at the screen, a lump forming in my throat. I figured it was coming, but seeing it in black and white is a sucker punch.
This wasn’t some cold email or long shot. I’d taken her to lunch. Spent three weeks building the pitch deck. I let her talk about her damn Shih Tzus for half the meeting.
Thatcher’s financial advisors don’t see Citrine as a viable investment opportunity at this time.
I stare at the screen, a lump forming in my throat. I’d been counting on that investment, hoping it could be the break I needed to get back on track. Now it’s gone, just like that.
I take a shaky breath and tuck my phone away, forcing myself to keep moving. I don’t have time to fall apart. I have a meeting with Paul tonight, and I need to pull myself together.
But as I drive toward my condo, the desperation I’ve been trying to suppress claws its way to the surface. This fake marriage with Parker has to work. Once he gets his inheritance, I’ll get my cut, and that money might be my only chance to save my café.
I tighten my grasp on the steering wheel, trying to push the thought away. It’s too risky to pin all my hopes on something so uncertain. But what choice do I have?
I check my reflection in the mirror for the third time, adjusting the neckline of my dress. The soft emerald green fabric hugs my curves enough to look polished without trying too hard.
My makeup is subtle enough to make me look awake and put-together, and I’ve tied my hair into a low, elegant bun. I look the part, but my stomach is a tangled mess of nerves.
Paul emailed us last night as expected, and we had planned on dinner for tonight, but he insisted on meeting in the lounge at the Club instead.
Less is more as far as I'm concerned. I'll do much better with a glass of wine than having to smile throughout dinner.
Parker and I have rehearsed every detail of our story, practiced our answers to the questions we’re sure Paul will ask. But knowing the stakes, I can’t stop the tiny voice in my head from whispering doubts.
What if he doesn’t buy it? What if we slip up?
Worse, what if Parker finds out how desperately I need this to work and makes the same assumptions that Leeland did?
I grab my purse and walk to the door, pausing to take one last deep breath. I can do this. I have to do this.
The evening air is warm as I make my way next door to Parker’s condo. The short walk gives me too much time to think.
My phone buzzes in my bag, but I ignore it. It’s probably another notification I don’t want to deal with—another rejection or some new wellness café crisis. Tonight isn’t about that. Tonight, I have one job: to sell the perfect story of Parker and me.
I knock softly on his door, and when it swings open, Parker is standing there, freshly showered and devastatingly handsome in a navy button-down shirt. His dark hair is slightly damp, and his smile is enough to momentarily quiet the storm inside me.
“You clean up alright,” he says, eyes roaming enough to make me blush. “That dress should be illegal.”
“Cute,” I deadpan, brushing past him. "You look pretty good, yourself."
“You okay?”
I give him a small smile, trying to match his warmth, but my nerves must be written all over my face. “I’m good. Just want to get this over with.”
He takes my hand and pulls me inside, closing the door behind us. “Hey,” he says gently, tilting his head to catch my eye. “It’s going to be okay.”
I nod, but I don’t trust myself to speak yet. What he doesn't know, and I don't want to go into, is that I wish I hadn't read that email before this. I need to reserve all of my angst for Paul.
“We’ve got this,” he continues, his voice steady and reassuring. “Paul’s going to believe us. We’ve done the work, and, to tell you the truth, you’re impossible not to like. He’d be an idiot not to approve.”
I let out a small laugh, the tension in my chest loosening a fraction. Parker has this way of making everything seem manageable, even when it’s not.
“Thanks,” I say finally. I lean in to kiss him. I'm not sure why, and I know no one is watching. But it seems right.
“Mmm. That was nice,” he says, squeezing my hand.”
I force another smile and do my best to quiet all of the noise in my head. “Ready to go?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he says, grabbing his keys.
We head to his car, the sound of our footsteps on the pavement filling the silence. I glance at him as he unlocks the doors, his calm confidence a sharp contrast to the storm brewing inside me.
As we drive to the Palm Beach Club, I stare out the window, watching the scenery blur past. The landscape is beautiful in the golden light of the setting sun, but I can’t bring myself to appreciate it.
Parker tries to make conversation, but I’m too preoccupied to contribute much. He doesn’t push, giving me space to gather my thoughts.
My nerves are coiled so tight I can barely breathe. Evelyn’s rejection is still rattling around in my chest, bruising everything it touches. And now I have to smile, act like nothing’s wrong, and convince some stranger that this entire marriage isn’t a lie.
Parker glances over, his hand brushing mine. “Hey,” he says gently. “We’re a team, remember?”
I nod with a tight throat.
“You’re right. We’ve got this.”
But as we walk toward the doors, my smile frozen in place, one thought won’t let go .
If I can’t sell this, it’s not Parker’s inheritance on the line.
It’s my dignity, my brand, and everything I’ve pretended isn’t already slipping through my fingers.
And the worst part is, I’m not even sure which loss would hurt more.