Chapter Nineteen
Sucker Punch
Ebony
The next morning, as much as I’d love to stay in bed with Linc and pretend it’s still the weekend, it’s Monday, and the cruelty of adulting calls.
Plus, there’s no way I’m walking into Madison Manor holding hands with him and grinning like I’ve spent the last two days getting properly laid.
Even if it’s true, I’m not doing it in hiking boots and a swimsuit, with my hair looking like a bird’s nest after a windstorm.
“I can wait,” Linc says from the driver’s seat. “I don’t mind.”
I lean across the console, brushing my lips softly over his, lingering.
“Thank you. But I’m fine. I won’t be long.
” I hope. Lord knows, I need to do more than shower, considering the state of this hair.
I spare him the manual-labor details of washing, conditioning, blow-drying, and flat-ironing.
“Get that chandelier back and installed before the universe releases the Kraken on us.”
After he drives off, I rush to my door and unlock it only to discover my mother has shoved an envelope with my name—embossed, letter-pressed, and practically screaming pre-DC ( Divorcétante Chronicles ) Ebony—underneath.
“Ugh, Mother!” I groan, tossing it on the kitchen island. “How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not going?”
I stand here, tucking my nose under the collar of Linc’s T-shirt that I slept in, inhaling his scent. I’m in complete disbelief that this weekend wasn’t a dream. Ah, love.
And it’s not just about the love itself. It’s the fact that I’m in love with a man with whom I share a deep connection rooted in compassion, values, and ridiculously amazing sex. He’s so tender with me. So sweet. So… fine .
Plus, it doesn’t hurt that we’ve got a common enemy.
Again, I glance at the cotillion invitation, but this time, adrenaline and annoyance flare in my gut as I think about how long I’ve let Mom and Cornelia pull those strings.
“Nope. Not anymore.” I grab it off the counter and slide my finger underneath the flap to slice it open.
And sure enough, inside with the invitation is the RSVP card.
Rummaging through my junk drawer, I fish out a pen and practically carve a huge X on the “declines with regret” line.
“Unfortunately— for you —I’ll be unable to attend because I’ll be too busy having marathon sex with the man who is cute and can take care of me.
Are you happy, Mother ?” I yell into the open air of my townhouse.
Extremely satisfied with myself, I march off to the bathroom.
Half an hour later, I’ve showered, my hair is wrapped in a towel, my Calming Water Sounds playlist is humming through my phone, and I’ve been standing in front of my closet for the last ten minutes.
My business mode is loading, my game face on, and I’m really concentrating on what to wear that says, I’m not the one, Cornelia Eunice Livingston, so keep it pushing.
Or maybe something that says, Professional on the outside. On the inside, not so much.
After pulling out my red elbow-sleeve sheath dress, I pair it with my leather red-sole ankle-strap stiletto sandals, which isn’t exactly a great choice for an active construction site, but they make my legs look fabulous.
And maybe they’ll inspire Linc to sneak away into one of the suites with me for a few minutes.
“Oh my Lord!” An exhausted sigh plumes out of me. “Jesus, why am I so horny? Get a hold of yourself!”
I drag in a deep breath, willing my libido to calm its happy little self down so I can get focused.
The thing is, work-wise, I’ve got a ton to do.
All week I’ve got wedding consultations for new clients.
For Hailey and Donovan’s, the vendors need to be reconfirmed, RSVPs reviewed, and the ceremony programs inspected before our final planning meeting.
There’s no time to be ducking and diving around Madison Manor for quickies, no matter how sexy it would be.
After tossing the dress and heels on the bed, I hurry and blow-dry my hair. But as my flat iron heats up, I can’t stop my mind from reeling.
It’s a bit difficult to think about being productive today when my mind is torn between the joy of being in love with a man who makes me feel…everything, and the anxiety of my ex-mother-in-law—and current employer—actively trying to sabotage us.
Before I can second-guess it, I turn off the calming sounds of water rushing and swipe over to phone.
After two rings, Savannah picks up.
“Hi, it’s Ebony. Have you got a few minutes?”
Surprisingly, that’s all it takes to bring her up to speed on my Cornelia theory and how things have progressed with Linc despite it.
As I flat-iron my hair, bumping the ends into curls, I tell her I’m going to thank Leslie for his services and hold off on dating to give things with Linc a real shot— and let the divas say they told me so later —but that I need advice on how to proceed with Cornelia.
“What’s the worst she could do?” Savannah asks, and I don’t really know how to put in words that I don’t actually have any proof that sabotage is in fact Cornelia’s motive.
Yes, she’s responsible for hiring Bridges Heritage Conservation and Ebony Grace Events. And she did cancel my insurance, leaving me to scramble for wedding props. But what else has she really done?
Linc is the best at what he does, and Hailey chose me.
I tilt my head, stretching my neck as I try to stay centered.
“The thing is…I don’t know,” I say, slightly defeated.
Did I make all of this up? Is it all an elaborate, unfounded theory? Is this all some weird, extreme stress reaction about Julian and Nora? What am I so paranoid about?
I set the flat iron down and stare at my reflection—without the makeup, the jewels, expensive clothes, and long hair running down my back.
“I don’t know.” It comes out barely above a whisper. “And now I’m starting to wonder if I’m overreacting, and what that means?” Am I just afraid of being happy with Linc?
“Okay, you’re right.” Savannah’s tone softens.
“We don’t know what she’s capable of, or that she’d want to hurt you or Lincoln…
” Pressure builds in her pause. “But we also don’t know that you’re wrong.
God gave us instincts, gut feelings, for a reason.
I’m not going to be the one to tell you not to trust them. ”
I’ll admit that I’m fully vindicated that she doesn’t dismiss me completely. No, actually, quite the opposite.
“Let’s talk about some tools to keep handy, starting with setting boundaries and prioritizing joy,” she starts before outlining ways to protect my peace.
I’m to limit all interactions with Cornelia to email, and only when necessary—for professional reasons—hold in-person meetings with others around.
“You don’t owe her anything and shouldn’t give her power to define your worth or impact your happiness. ”
“With Linc, you mean?”
“ Especially with him,” she says. “Ebony, you’re a single woman, and while Cornelia and Julian were once part of your life—and we always wish them the best—they don’t get to say when or whom you get to love.
If Lincoln Bridges is making you happy”—her smile vibrates in her voice—“and I suspect he is, judging by the fact that you’re even considering any of this.
I want you to love on him and let him do the same without putting limits on it. ”
I could cry, I’m so happy.
And suddenly, I’m glad I decided to do my makeup last, because tears singe the corners of my eyes. I smile, blinking them back, eager to wrap up this call and get to him.
“Thank you, Savannah.” Emotion thickens my voice as I open my makeup drawer and pull out my primer.
“You’re absolutely welcome, honey.” She blows out a long breath.
“And remember to keep living authentically and truthfully, even if your theory turns out to be right. Don’t get caught up in people’s toxic stories or let their narratives overshadow yours.
Stay tight with your family and your divatantes.
Even your Divorcétante followers can help protect your reputation, integrity, and professionalism. ”
“You’re right. Ahh, you’re so right.” I smile, feeling lighter.
The sound of paper rustling in the background grows closer. “And if things go sideways, there’s always legal action. But we’re not there yet, so enjoy every minute of this man who’s helped you believe in love again.”
And that’s exactly what I plan to do.
After finishing my makeup, I slip into my dress and send Linc a quick text with a picture of our initials carved into our tree. I tell him I love him and will see him soon.
Then I’m out the door.
The drive to Madison Manor is smooth, with the morning rush long gone.
The sun seems like it’s shining brighter, the sky a perfect, clear blue.
And then I find a parking space right away, too.
Suddenly, it feels like talking to Savannah was exactly what I needed to slow down and enjoy every minute of loving Lincoln Bridges.
Maybe one day, it’ll be us dancing under the grand ballroom’s magical crystal chandelier.
When I walk into Madison Manor, though, I don’t hear the busy chatter of voices or loud power tools humming. No hammers tapping. Not even the soft whoosh of sweeping and painting. No, it’s dead silent.
My heart jackhammers against my ribs.
Slowly, I step inside, standing still, ears straining to hear anything. This scream queen will definitely not call out, “Is anyone there?”
“Yeah, well, I don’t see how that’s any of your business, so you can see yourself out.”
Oh, shit.
Linc.
I inch farther inside through the foyer into the reception hall, my ears perked toward his voice in the study. But who’s he talking to?
A thunderous laugh rips through the hall, stealing the air from my chest.
“How many women do you think are lined up at my fucking door because they want to be the next Mrs. Julian Livingston III?” Oh, screw you , Julian. “Do you actually think Ebony would’ve given you a second glance if I hadn’t fucked up—”