Chapter Three
The Switch-Up
Ebony
My phone trembles against my cluttered bathroom counter.
Giving myself a mental countdown, I meet my own lined and faux-lashed gaze in the mirror, taking in the warm brown angles of my half-contoured cheeks, then force myself to answer.
“Hey, Mom, I’m just about to head out the door. What’s going on?”
Her excited squeal fills the line, and immediately I know. This isn’t just her usual “maintain the facade of a perfect life” crusade. The Ellswood grapevine has twisted its way around her ear.
“Sweetheart, why am I just hearing your news? I about fainted.” She heaves an exhilarated sigh. “And your first wedding back? Lord, won’t he do it!”
Yes, it seems he will, given the opportunity, yoke my daydream to a nightmare. “It’s really something,” I say.
“Something glorious. Ebony, this is Hailey Winston and Donovan Livingston…” she states, as if I need the reminder that I just freed myself from the mother of the groom, and now I’ve gone and backtracked.
Right on cue, another text notification from Julian pops up at the top of my screen, which I promptly ignore, like all the others.
Pause, peace, power.
I’m gliding on the backing to my earring when she pauses, and I sense the other expensive shoe about to drop.
“Listen, I know you’re still sour about the way things ended with Julian.” Why yes, I am, Mother. “But there is a silver lining, sweetheart.”
“Oh, there is?”
Her exhausted sigh echoes through the line. “Yes,” she says, matter-of-fact. “It’s no coincidence that we’re here, a year later, and neither of you has been in any…noteworthy relationships.”
I laugh, plucking lint from my cardigan. “ Wow. Nicely done, Mom.” Let’s just forget about infidelity and those pesky divorce papers. Who needs ’em, anyway? “Eleanor King has her ear to the ground, ladies and gentlemen.”
I suck in my cheeks one final time, assessing the results of my mediocre contour job in the mirror before I hurriedly tug on my cream-colored wide-leg knit pants.
“There’s no need to get haughty with me.
All I’m saying is, this wedding doesn’t only have to be an opportunity for you career-wise.
This could be the opportunity to get close to Julian, go to this year’s cotillion together, and win him back from that…
” Hussy of a news anchor . It’s her usual preferred term for Nora Whitfield, but for some reason, Mom holds back. “My point is, people are talking—”
“Like I said, I really need to get going to my appointment. I’ve got, like, five minutes to zhuzh up the wrapped mane under this bonnet, throw on some heels, and grab my coat before I hop on the road, so…” The words are in the air all of two seconds.
“Ebony, he’s a man, and they have needs—”
I cut her off as I grab my coat and keys, jingling them loudly.
But something inside me snaps under the pressure of knowing how far she’ll take her “good man who made a one-time mistake” crusade.
“Besides, I haven’t mentioned it, for obvious reasons, but I’m seeing someone, and, um… I might bring him to the wedding.”
The lie catapults into the air, seemingly small and meaningless, but I can see the unsteady house of cards threatening in the distance.
Instant regret flares in my gut, and I brace myself for the flood of questions about the stock he comes from and his finances, wishing I could reel the lie back in.
But the toothpaste is out of the tube.
“Ebony, you didn’t mention—”
And I ’m not planning to.
“Gotta run. Talk later.” I hang up and dash to my car.
I reach Sterling Plaza in exactly nine minutes. Breathless, I burst through Savannah’s door, crisis mode ramping up thanks to my high-heeled sprint.
“Oh my God, hi!” I exhale a breathless sigh as I rush over to tufted cream-colored sofa across from hers. A wave of calm begins to wash over me.
Her office is spacious and serene, with elegant textured rugs in soft creams and beiges. Everywhere I look, bright hydrangeas sit in crystal vases, and vibrant floral-scented candles rest on warmer plates, soothing my senses. The place screams, “You’re in the presence of a problem solver.”
Lord, please let this woman have the answers.
“Take a minute and relax your nerves.” Savannah flashes me a soft, endearing smile.
“Ooh, I can’t thank you enough for seeing me. When I tell you I’m falling apart at the seams, and I need the Lord …” An exhausted laugh spills out of me. “You look amazing, by the way,” I add, taking in how gorgeous she looks today.
She is the picture of blessed and unbothered in understated, white tailored trousers and a bold, flowy fuchsia blouse.
She’s in her early fifties, but between her flawless skincare routine—one I’ve tried to imitate, thanks to her social videos—and the way her rich melanin is hitting, she doesn’t look a day over forty… Perfection.
Not to mention she’s got the social calendar to match.
Savannah Sampson is as renowned as her elite clientele.
She’s got decades of experience in PR and talent management under her effortlessly chic belt.
Almost single-handedly, she’s crafted the careers of actors, athletes, musicians, and executives, so the seamless transition into life coaching just made sense.
Her skill in helping her clients balance their personal and professional lives has made her one of the most sought-after coaches across multiple industries.
But that high demand also means she’s selective, and any new client better come prepared to be honest and vulnerable, ready to put in the work.
“Thank you. I feel good, too.” She slides her notepad onto her lap, pen in hand, signaling I’ve got the floor. “Let’s pivot a bit today, and dive into what’s making you feel like your life is unraveling.”
By the time I finish giving her the rundown on everything that’s happened over the past three weeks—seeing Julian for the first time since the divorce, gearing up to plan an event that reconnects me to Cornelia, and now a love interest I’ve pulled out of thin air to throw off Mom—Savannah is nodding, her expression showing she gets why an emergency session was a must.
I don’t even get to Lincoln Bridges or the fact that Hillary has ignored my last three calls and texts. At this point, it feels like overkill.
I’m fully expecting her to latch on to the low-hanging fruit, taking on a wedding after a year-long hiatus.
Except she throws me for a whole loop when she fixes me with a pensive stare and asks, “Do you want Julian back?”
Julian?
The crease between my eyebrows deepens, and I gasp. “What? No!”
She gives me that slow, deliberate nod—the kind that usually means she’s weighing the truth in my words.
So, just to make it clear that hussy of a new anchor can have him, I repeat myself. “No. I absolutely do not want him back, under any circumstances.”
Again, she nods her understanding.
But a flicker of disbelief flashes inside me. Out of everything I just unloaded, Julian is what she thinks I’m most hung up on? How? Why?
“Savannah, I’ve spent the last year finding my footing again,” I say, the weight of this truth settling in my chest. “Yes, it was awkward and unnerving seeing him face to face, but trust me, I’m more certain than ever.
I’m ready to embrace my independence, redefine my life on my own terms—without the social constraints set by my mother, the Livingstons, or any other highfalutin, entitled folks who think they get to dictate how I live my life. ”
“And you feel like you’re ready to set goals and action steps toward that end?”
I pause, considering what she’s really asking. I’m not even sure what life looked like before everyone started telling me what it should be. “Honestly?”
She nods, her pen poised above the page.
“I’m restless and unsure where to start, beyond planning this wedding.” I laugh, feeling lighter. “Needless to say, after my marriage’s downfall being broadcast for everyone to see, then my being villainized for it, I’ve got trust issues.”
“That’s fair.” Savannah smiles, scribbling something down before meeting my eyes again. “But I also think it’s important to remember that a lot of people are on your side. They’ve commended you for daring to leave a relationship that didn’t work. For daring to be vulnerable and start over.”
“Yeah,” I say, solemnly.
“That takes courage, Ebony.”
“And thick skin,” I add, thinking about the weight of it all.
The shame. The fear. The constant stream of vile comments—“You’re giving up,” “You drove him to cheat,” “You refused to give him an heir”—as if he’s some sort of prince instead of just another entitled Ellswood man, adored and revered by the title-seeking, money-hungry women who’ve put him on a pedestal.
Savannah folds her arms across her chest, her gaze sharpening with precision. “Tell me more about that. How does thick skin translate for you?”
I huff out a small, salty laugh. “Do you know how humiliating and wrong it feels to be married for almost ten years and then have to get checked for sexually transmitted diseases? To relive his betrayal every time I scroll through social media? The stares, the gossip, the quiet whispering in public?” My breath catches.
“I’m mortified. I’ve built iron walls around my heart. ”
Savannah’s expression softens, but she doesn’t let up. “Those are two-way walls, though, Ebony. They keep your heart in, but they also keep love out.”
A light bulb flicks on in my head.
She deepens her stare, asking without saying it, Do you want to live a lonely, unromantic life relegated to planning others’ happily-ever-afters, but never getting your own?
A groan slips out of me, one of those frustrated, whiny ones that I know isn’t going to make me feel better but somehow does anyway.
I sink back into the sofa, staring up at the gold-speckled ceiling. “Couldn’t I just build a hidden door? With, like, a secret button or something, and only give out the password on a need-to-know basis?”