Chapter Twenty
The Partnership
Lincoln
“Wait for me!” I run after Ebony, a mix of desperate fury and fear pumping through my veins.
I catch up to her halfway down Madison Manor’s footpath, barefoot with her heels clutched in one hand.
I pull her into me, hugging her to my chest. “Please, look at me, baby. I tried to tell you about Hillary. You’ve got to believe me. ”
“I know you did,” she says, voice clipped. She shakes her head, as if physically trying to dislodge the thoughts swirling in her mind. “I’m not mad at you . I’m just…angry. Disappointed. Tired of watching everyone move the chess pieces around me, right in front of my face.”
“Baby, I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my heart aching for her.
“Goddammit!” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I knew— knew in my gut— that Cornelia was plotting. Then Julian shows up, like I owe him something. And yes, I guess I wish you’d made me listen about Hillary. I’m so freaking pissed off at her …” Her voice breaks, and she screams her release.
In one fell swoop, she was betrayed by Cornelia, Julian, and Hillary, who was once one of her closest friends, and I know it stings.
With the pad of my thumb, I swipe away the tears spilling from her beautiful hazel eyes. “It’s okay to be mad at her. You’ve got every right. I’m here to listen, vent with you, give you advice—whatever you need.”
As Ebony trembles against me, though, I sense this isn’t just about Hillary and Julian’s affair. It’s the blog pictures and that rage-bait headline, too. The confirmation of all the levers she knew Cornelia was pulling behind the scenes.
“Open your eyes, baby. Look at me.” She’s in my arms, but distance is wedged between us. I can’t stand here, helpless, doing nothing. “What did you say to me when we were in Dawsonville, hmm?”
“Linc, I might just need some space to think—”
“About what?” The words rush out, urgent and drenched with every emotion and insecurity I feel right now.
“Honestly, fuck Julian, and fuck Hillary, too, if she can do that to you and still bring herself around like nothing. And Cornelia sets off a smear campaign, and what? We lose? No, I just got you back.” A humorless laugh huffs out of me.
“This is our alternate timeline. We get to choose this version of us.”
Ebony drops her forehead to my chest, her whole body sagging and weighed down.
Anger and anxiety flare in my gut. “You know what you said to me in Dawsonville, Ebony? You said we can’t let her win, right?
” I swallow back the emotion thickening in my throat, making it hard to breathe.
My lungs constrict. My heart wrenches. Every inch of my skin pulses with the fear of losing Ebony again, as if it’s urging me to say something, anything to convince her we belong together.
That I’m enough. Together, we’re enough.
But I don’t rush her.
I shake my head, still lost in my thoughts, a mix of powerlessness and anxiety swirling in my gut.
The weight of it, the ache—it steals my wind.
Rather than intrude on her moment, and even though I’m losing the battle with temptation, I let her feel everything coursing through her. I let my patience gnaw at me.
“Yeah.” She bites her lip softly. “I said it.”
I breathe.
“Mm-hmm. She could smear your name, you said.” I take a small breath. “But she couldn’t take me away from you again.”
Her lips quiver.
“And what did I say?” I ask. “Please remember, baby.”
A somber smile slowly curves her lips. She rests her warm hand on mine. “That you were mine if I wanted you.”
I lower my gaze to our hands, nodding.
A warm breeze sweeps over us, gently tousling her hair and carrying the scent of fresh grass and magnolias.
“That’s right.” A rush of relief floods through me, and I choose my next words carefully.
“I meant every word. I’ll always want you, Ebony.
As long as I live. I would never lie or hurt you.
And I’m damn sure not letting Cornelia Livingston take you away from me either.
I need you.” My voice thunders, tense and tortured to my own ears.
Her hands slip around my waist, and I lower my forehead to hers, gently resting my fingertips on her face as I hold her gaze, letting the intensity of the moment overwhelm me.
Fire singes the corners of my eyes. “I need you, baby,” I whisper, again with every ounce of desperation coursing through me.
Tenderly, I kiss her lips, taking my time, sinking into the familiar warmth and wetness of her mouth, connecting us in a way words never could.
She exhales, and it feels like coming home as she drags her tongue over my lips, teasing and tasting.
I deepen the kiss, loving the way her eyes glaze over with lust, and the tiny, insatiable moans that seep out of her.
Her needy hands set free on my body are like fire, igniting my skin through the thin fabric of my shirt, welding the tiny, cracked pieces of my heart.
My entire body vibrates to our rhythm.
“My question for you, baby, before you get me too excited out here”—I chuckle, sinking into the lightness—“is what are we going to do about it, huh?” I whisper against her soft mouth. “Are we just going to continue allowing this vindictive woman write our narrative, painting us as villains?”
“Or…?” she asks, the first flickers of hope radiating from her hazel irises.
“Okay, hear me out.” I tilt my head, my eyebrows raised. “We let her go low, and instead of us going lower—”
“We take it to hell?” Ebony giggles.
Tipping my head to either side, I say, “Trust me, after her weak-ass son tried to come at me sideways back there, I’m more than tempted. He quickly found out, but that’s beside the point. No, what I’m saying is—we get Chronicle …” I cock my head slightly, willing her to catch my drift.
A real, unguarded smile spreads across Ebony’s face, the kind that makes my heart full. It’s a “let’s make them play” sort of smile that reaches right into my chest and squeezes.
Yes!
This is what I love so much about this woman. Our connection isn’t just deep because of our roots. It’s more. She can look at me, and immediately it’s clear we’re communicating on another plane. We bring out the best in each other.
It’s the slight dip of her chin, and the widened eyes, as she subliminally absorbs my entire plan.
“You know what she did wrong, don’t you?” I straighten, my shoulders back, my throat bared, absolutely no bull.
Ebony nods, slowly, as if she’s attuned to my every whim. “Yup. It seems she started with the wrong partner…”
A laugh, straight from the gut, tumbles out of me, loosening the tension further.
I take a deep breath, staring at Ebony, overwhelmed by how much I love her. “Exactly. You always start with the right partner. That’s what I’m doing.”
So, no, we’re definitely not taking the high road either, trying to beat Cornelia at her own game. If there’s one thing we know about calling a spade a spade, it’s not a trick-taking recreational activity. It’s absolutely not a game. We’re taking books and names.
Because that’s what we do.
As we give the metaphorical deck a long, overcomplicated shuffle, we take inventory of our hand—Julian’s multiple documented infidelities, including Hillary and Nora, that we know of, Ebony’s Divorcétante Chronicles platform, and both of our businesses.
Most importantly, our “big joker,” the president of the National Association of Spades Activities.
Then we make a careful cut and deal the cards. We’re playing big joker, little joker, ace. All cards on the table first wins. Sandbagging and trash talking allowed.
Our bid is based on a single goal—force Cornelia to play her cards.
After I scoop my barefoot sweetheart into my arms, I walk away from Madison Manor toward my truck.
Setting her on the hood, I gently place her heels on her small feet, fastening the straps one at a time.
Then Ebony takes out her phone, swipes away the endless stream of notifications, and, like she’s summoning strength from some unknown depth, positions me against the door of the car and stands in front of me.
With her back pressed to my chest, phone aimed selfie-mode at us, the PopShot app counts down the live.
“Hey, divas… By now, I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures, blogs, articles. The endless comments attempting to smear my name. Our names…”
She breaks off, looking past the mounting viewer count, the tiny bursts of animated hearts and flowers, and the tapestry of thousands of comments climbing the page.
But I’m reading and loving their support for this woman who needs to know the world isn’t against her or us.
I’m seated.
Told y’all she wouldn’t leave us hanging. She’s standing ten toes down.
Oh, shoot, he is foinnnnnnnn. My man, my man, my man.
I would pause, peace, power all day…
“And I’m here to tell you that she got one thing right. Love. I’m in love with this man.”
Softly, I kiss the crown of her head.
“And yes, it’s been over ten years that we’ve been friends. But in my heart, I believe I might’ve chosen him for myself if not for a few women, whose guidance and opinions I valued, telling me otherwise.
“When I said ‘she got one thing right,’ I was talking about one woman in particular who’ll do anything in her power to see me flounder. Her influence is indeed powerful.”
The comments take a sharp left turn.
Say less. We already know it’s Cornelia Livingston.
Has that woman ever considered shutting tfu?
I haven’t believed anything she’s said.
We CLOCKED it ?
Exposed
PopShot, do your thing.
“Make no mistake, I wasn’t the faithless one in my marriage.
Period. Those pictures you’re seeing? They’re from the past couple months, since the end of June, when I’ve dared to find love— accept love—in my life from a man who has given it so freely without condition.
So, yes, I’m in love with Lincoln Bridges. ”
Ebony lets out a sigh of relief that quickly turns into a giggle.
“Trust me, y’all, when I tell you saying those words to you is an act of resistance. Lord knows she wants to ruin both of us. She’d love nothing more than to see us and our businesses snuffed out for our ever daring not to listen to her.
“She was hoping this smear campaign would do the trick. But last I checked, our businesses are our own, and my divorce has been final for over a year, which means I’m a single woman, free to love whomever I choose. And I choose Lincoln Bridges.”
Cornelia Livingston turns out to be a master manipulator just like her son. I’m so glad that this woman has the smarts to protect herself.
That family is a joke.
Love wins!
This woman is unbelievable!! I’m glad you’ve found love.
She’s the type to remind you that you don’t belong if you don’t bow down.
Lawyer up. Then let that man love you hard and fast, right in her face.
I’m over the Livingston hype. Vile, lying individuals.
What’s her deal???
“But that’s not all.”
Ebony’s smile is almost sinister, and I love it.
“There’s a good reason behind this campaign, though. She’s got ulterior motives, secrets she wants to keep buried…”
The comments fly by so fast they’re almost a blur.
“Which I’ll be posting about soon. So, I hope you’ll join me, because I’m bringing receipts.
“But for now, I’m going to leave you with two diabolical crumbs. Check the photo credits, and a Luxe Lady wasn’t the only woman who wrecked my home.”
Ebony lifts an eyebrow then winks.
“Pause, peace, power. Love, your divorcétante!”
Heat singes my skin as she tucks her phone away and twists in my arms and kisses me.
“Not going to lie. That felt really good.”
“Yeah?” I smile, brushing soft pecks over her lips.
She nods, deepening the kiss right out here in broad daylight for God and Ellswood to see. “Now, take me on a long lunch.”
Over the next few weeks, we move on autopilot, gathering the necessary research, establishing the house rules. Our first course of action is a purposely vague post, stating to stay tuned for my side on her Divorcétante Chronicles page, meant to keep the buzz alive and build more anticipation.
We keep our heads low, talking to no one outside of our families, confirmed friends, and the crew. There are no calls, no texts, no emails—and no podcast, televised, phone, blog, vlog, or stitched online interviews.
Not yet.
By day, we work diligently, finalizing the restoration at Madison Manor and setting the stage for the Winston-Livingston wedding events (Hailey and Donovan have officially banned Cornelia from the premises).
By night, we sneak kisses under the grand ballroom’s chandelier.
Or we’re at Ebony’s condo or my house, making love, watching horror movies—she’s got to practice her scream-queen techniques—listening to music, cooking elaborate meals, and playing Spades.
We’re biding our time, waiting for Cornelia to make her move.
Then I run into an old buddy from the city council, who, via the grapevine, heard from a friend of a friend from the mayor’s office that Cornelia was seen down at the county clerk’s office.
That’s when Ebony and I decide to do some digging, fact checking.
And suddenly, we aren’t just waiting anymore.
We’re ready to watch her renege.