Prologue #2
A couple loaded questions. Ugh, why did I agree to come on this show with these tired, low-class, shady…
Again, that restless, low murmur stirs through the studio, and I take a deep breath, which does zero to ease my nerves.
Pause. Peace. Lord, find your power, Ebony Grace Livingston.
“I guess I can answer one.” I laugh, but inside I’m daring either of these women to try me and quickly find out.
“Fabulous!” Yvette claps and squeals. “Okay, we had so many questions come into the show when we announced that the Ebony Grace, half of the picture-perfect Livingston power couple, would be here…” Then her gaze drops to my stomach as she says, “Speaking of Mother’s Day…?”
I don’t need to hear the rest of her question—the audience is already a chaotic mess with applause.
Oh, no she didn’t.
Fury flares in my gut.
The sheer audacity of this woman, this TV host —in her pastel-blue Easter suit with tasteless white stockings and black heels—insinuating that I’m pregnant.
Unless immaculate conceptions are a thing again, we’d have to be having sex for that to happen, I want to snap back.
But I can’t.
I won’ t.
Do not let them drag you, willingly, into a public scandal.
Hand to heart, I summon every ounce of grace, forcing a smile for the audience. “Our family is looking forward to the holiday—”
You heard it here first, blazed in her murky brown eyes.
Whoops.
“By our family, I mean Julian and myself. Only.” I toss a shaky laugh to the audience then pat my flat stomach as proof.
No matter how hard I work to dodge the questions about marriage and children, the rumors continue to circulate.
Everyone’s eager to know when they can expect a baby Livingston.
My husband is Julian Livingston III, the charming anchor for KTEG News at Noon and Ellswood royalty.
After ten “kid-free”—Julian’s term, not mine—years of marriage, this town feels entitled to our life updates.
How dare I deny them access to my womb?
I’m just the upper echelon’s favorite former debutante turned not-so-perfect wife who cooks, cleans, and tends to her husband’s needs, however fleetingly these days. Who cares if my company is thriving and that I’ve planned dinners for actual royalty when I’ve produced no offspring?
Yvette doubles down, glancing pointedly at my stomach again before she goes for the gold on the untouchable Livingstons. “Got any news to share?”
I’m half expecting her to just blurt, “Ebony, do you feel like you’re married to a ghost with your husband always working late?
” so I can shatter this picture-perfect facade.
“ Why, yes, I do. Since we’re down to super-sexy ‘Missionary Mondays ,’ I’m 99.
9 percent sure the man is gaslighting me and is sowing his royal oats elsewhere—but I need proof first.
At least honesty’s got merit.
But the way these women go about spilling the tea…it’s stale, dry, and leaves a bitter aftertaste, like last week’s coffee.
Determined to regain control before I completely lose my mind, I twist dramatically on the over-the-top faux-fur sofa. “Josephine, shall we get the morning tea on this charity gala, benefiting the kids?” I clap, awkwardly at first, trying to summon some enthusiasm from the audience.
The production assistants, fashionably late, finally hold up the APPLAUD NOW cue cards.
With a cool blast, the air conditioning whirs to life, sending a chill crawling up my spine as time seems to stop.
Yvette and I are at an impasse, staring, waiting for the other to make a move.
“Josephine Carter and Ebony Grace Livingston, everyone!” Azalea says, and Yvette beams, laughing for the cameras like they’ve just won an award. “Thank you again for joining us today on The Morning Tea …”
Yes, Lord Jesus, please let ’s wrap this up.
“One more time, tell everyone about the event, and how they can show their support,” Yvette prompts me.
Another chill skitters over my skin as I suck in a breath, my head scrambled. Except it isn’t a chill. It’s that shaky Ace of Diamonds—my watch vibrating with a text notification.
My pulse spikes as I steal a glance at the name on the screen.
All morning, these women have turned my life into their afternoon circus while a private investigator’s gathering evidence of my husband’s misdeeds, and now, there’s an update I can’t check until this circus is over. Just when I think it can’t get worse…my diaphragm betrays me.
HICCUP!
Josephine laughs and rubs her warm, velvety hand along my arm, smiling as if to say, No need to lie. This is happy news. As if hiccups are a telltale sign.
I know that old wives’ tale.
My own mother has accused me of hiding pregnancies when I’ve had hiccups and fish dreams, or if I slept too long.
But this? This is nationally syndicated television.
I’m angry. Some people cry; others lash out.
I can’t help it if untimely diaphragm spasms are my body’s mode of choice for anger release.
Ugh—
HICCUP!
Stay calm. Rivers. Trickling streams. Rushing water. Waterfalls…
“I’ll take this, Yvette.” Josephine smiles, shifting into business mode and quickly giving the audience all the gala details, before she hands it back to Azalea.
“Thanks again to our guests…” Azalea, eyes fixed on the camera, fans out a hand at us.
Her laughter slowly fades, and her voice smooths into a measured cadence.
“Coming up at the top of the hour on KTLE’s ten o’clock news, our own Nora Whitfield will be sharing the details on the upcoming Zion & Zara cotillion, and the city’s plans to sell and restore Ellswood’s famous downtown luxury venue Madison Manor to its former glory. After this!”
And that’s it.
My heart is in my throat, and I’m free to go check my phone.
Breathe, Ebony —
HICCUP!
The audience applauds of their own volition, the producer wraps the show, and Josephine and I graciously hug our hosts before exiting stage left—with me barely holding on to the little dignity I have left.
I let out a small, stilted sigh as one of the assistants leads us to the green room where we stashed our purses.
But before we make it to the door, the wide-eyed, braided, and beautiful producer—Christina or Krystal, I can’t recall — appears in front of the doorway.
She’s geared up in a headset, a clipboard under her arm, and a two-way radio squawking from her back pocket.
She looks like she’s about to make us an offer we can’t refuse.
“Mrs. Livingston, Mrs. Carter…” She gasps, clutching her chest. “ Oof , I’m so glad I caught you.”
“Slow down, honey,” Josephine says, warmly. “Take a breath then tell us what’s on your mind, hmm? We’re in no hurry.”
Speak for yourself.
Christina— or was it Krystal? —grins. “I just didn’t want to miss you before you left. I was hoping to get a little more, uh, footage.”
Josephine and I exchange confused glances.
“No, not with Azalea and Yvette.” She chuckles. “More behind-the-scenes optics to promote the gala. The two of you meeting mothers, shaking hands, extending personal invites while touring the station…”
My gaze drifts to the small group of women gathered at the far end of the hallway.
“Oh, wow . Okay, uh…” Another hiccup jolts out of me. “I really should take care of this. I’d love to, but—”
“Shucks, yes.” She slaps a hand over her face, shaking her head. “Mrs. Livingston, I’m so sorry. This must put you in a tough spot with you husband working ‘for the competition.’” She air quotes and shifts to the side, wincing and quietly chastising herself.
I nod.
Honestly, I’m relieved. Between the message waiting on my phone and the nagging feeling that just showing up here is a betrayal to Julian, I’m ready to get the hell out. I almost lean in to the traitor angle, but a man’s voice crackles over her radio.
“Kristalina, we need Nora on set. I’ve got to brief her on Madison Manor. Looks like it’s about to turn into a bidding war.”
She silences the radio, her stare intense.
“Y’all have got to meet her before she starts her segment.
After you meet the mothers, of course,” Kristalina insists.
“If she hasn’t gotten a ticket yet, she’ll want to attend the gala.
This will be amazing PR for everyone involved,” she adds, clearly winning Josephine over.
Who in Ellswood wouldn’t want to hobnob with Nora Whitfield, the most famous Luxe Lady turned news anchor? Not only is she drop-dead gorgeous, but the woman is also a verbal gymnast—hence, why she’s everyone’s favorite cast member.
It’s not a tough sell.
I’m about to nod when I catch the red light on the camera aimed directly at me. I freeze.
Is she setting me up?
There is nothing this town— the world— would love more than a front seat to my cracking on live TV.
What kind of tactless woman—plus invited guest and event planner—would say no to touring the station and shaking hands with mothers and fans?
What kind of “soon-to-be mother,” according to these damn hiccups?
Furthermore, who would risk passing up a chance to meet Nora Whitfield?
My blood runs cold.
The way her Luxe Ladies fandom will fabricate a narrative and cancel me so fast, it would be an immediate fall from grace. They’ve done it to others before.
I bite the inside of my cheek, weighing my options for getting out of this without confessing that I hired a PI to track my elusive, location-less husband and I need to check in with him, stat.
Flipping my wrist, I see it’s already a little after nine thirty. “I really do need to get going.”
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” Kristalina insists.
Tension tightens my throat as I glance at the green room door, my mind fixated on the message waiting on my phone. It sucks to wait even one more second to uncover the truth about Julian, but I force a smile to mirror Kristalina’s. “Sounds lovely.”
Despite my initial reservations, the first stop on the tour isn’t bad.
The moms gathered at the end of the hallway are all kind and sweet, offering hugs, flowers, and gifts to Josephine and me.
They’re amazing, asking questions about the gala and donating.
We stand to the side, quietly soaking it all in while KTLE’s staff—who are practically glowing, possibly from meeting “the competition’s” wife—scramble to find Nora Whitfield, who’s notably absent from her dressing room.
As the scene plays out around me, I think of soothing water signs, and my body begins to relax.
The tension drains from my muscles, my shoulders easing down from their uptight set.
Even my diaphragm, which has been holding on to that weird, staccato rhythm of a potential hiccup fit, lets go.
The rhythm breaks, the silence stretches, and a small sense of relief loosens the tension in my chest. The moment of uncertainty, the pressure to perform, fades away.
Kristalina snaps her fingers. “I’ve got it!”
Josephine and I share a quick laugh, already in sync after years of navigating these types of things. We’ve learned not to ask questions, just to follow Kristalina’s lead. She guides us around the corner and down a quieter hall to a door labeled simply, Guest suite.
The door looks like it hasn’t seen much action lately—scuff marks line the wood, and there’s a faded nameplate that’s been there so long it’s lost its sheen. It’s tucked away, almost as if it’s forgotten. This room doesn’t see much traffic.
“She comes in here sometimes to clear her head before going on,” Kristalina explains, her fingers lightly grazing the door handle. She glances at the cameraman, signaling for him to get ready, then turns to us with a smile. “All right, ladies…”
It’s all very much a showbiz countdown before she drags in a deep breath and fans the door open, and my stomach drops.
My jaw drops. “Julian—”
“Nora?” Kristalina inhales, sharply.
At the same time, Josephine gasps, and the cameraman’s breath hitches behind us.
The room goes still, but I don’t have to turn around to know the camera is on me.
In front of us, on a lumpy blue velvet couch, is Nora Whitfield, exactly where Kristalina knew she’d be, half dressed, on her back, beneath my husband.
I knew it.
In my gut, I knew I shouldn’t have come here today. I knew Azalea and Yvette would bulldoze my boundaries, just like I know—without even checking—the text waiting on my phone holds the truth. I’m alone in this marriage.
The red camera light glares at me.
“Ebony, are you okay, honey?” Josephine cuts through the haze.
The world is waiting for me to react. But the words won’t come.
Every fiber of my being screams at me to lash out, to charge at them for treating our lives like a cheap reality show.
I want to scream at Julian—tell him I’m not surprised, just disgusted that he chose this moment, in front of the cameras, to humiliate me.
Humiliate us. And Nora—how could she not see she’s just a pawn, stepping into a life she’s only seen on Instagram and PopShot, desperate to take my place, wear my clothes, hold my title?
But I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I dig deep into my debutante arsenal and smile. “Thank you, Josephine, Kristalina. It was an honor to appear on The Morning Tea . I sure hope to see you at the gala…”
And just like that, I turn and walk out, not sure if I’m leaving my marriage or just running from the truth.