Chapter Twenty-Two #3
The audience is already a chaotic mess with applause.
“She’s going to faint!” Whitney tosses off her blanket, waving her Foolishness sheet in the air.
As if determined to regain control before she completely loses her mind, Cornelia twists dramatically on the over-the-top faux-fur sofa, pressing an unsteady hand to her chest. “Who put you up to this? Please tell me you can do better than using disreputable sources. It’s clearly fake news.”
She claps, awkwardly at first, trying to summon enthusiasm from the audience before sitting up straighter, eyes laser-focused on the co-hosts.
“All of it, fake,” she says.
“And she’s doubling down.” Ebony’s tone is infused with disbelief.
Cornelia’s full pink lips curl into a thin, placating smile. Then she shifts her gaze to the audience, her expression begging for sympathy. You’re going to sit there and allow them to harass me like this? it says. I’m an esteemed guest…
A collective laugh echoes through the studio, and none of us feel the least bit sorry. So, the poor, diabolical grudge holder is in the hot seat. And?
Give up.
“No one is buying the victim routine,” I call out to the screen.
“So, you’re denying it?” Yvette asks.
Cornelia nods. “Wholeheartedly.”
Azalea’s face hardens, her eyes narrowed with that challenging bet , we’ll see how long the lie stands look. Then she turns to the audience.
“Oh, friends …” She grins, practically bursting at the seams. “We’ve got a special treat for you today. Joining us remotely from their Ellswood home, we have Cornelia’s high school crush and nemesis.”
Cornelia face flushes, her eyes wide with panic. “This is ridiculous.”
“Though they’re not here with us in the studio, we’re excited to bring them into your living rooms via the magic of technology. Please give a warm welcome to Theodore and Carlotta Bridges!”
As my parents appear on half the screen, Cornelia presses her fingertips to her lips, utterly blindsided.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this today.” Yvette smirks.
A restless, low murmur stirs through the studio.
Then Mom looks into the camera and says, “The Ellswood name should be protected at all costs.”
“This is a joke!” Cornelia scoffs, fire blazing in her murky brown eyes. “You stole him from me, Carlotta, and you know it!”
The instant the words leave her mouth, Ebony gasps. “You see? Look at Azalea. It’s that you heard it here first look.”
At least honesty’s got merit.
And still, Cornelia keeps unraveling, accusing me of trying to repeat history, stealing Ebony from her son before she pushes to her feet, and then, in a flurry of fire and fury, she hauls off and slaps Yvette, sending her flying back onto the sofa.
“Oh, shoot!” I press a fist to my mouth.
A collective wave of gasps washes over the world.
“I can’t believe she just did that.” Ebony blinks slowly, obviously as shocked as I am.
“Don’t you dare bring me onto this show, attempting to sully my good name.
” Cornelia’s fuming, her eyes darting this way and that, seemingly very aware of the security guards that we’re seeing glimpses of on the sides of the screen, waiting for her.
No doubt the host will press charges. “And since she thinks she’s so far beyond the Livingstons when her life—her business — has gone up in flames, ask Ebony Grace, your so-called divorcétante , why hasn’t she changed her last name? ”
“Oop!” Whitney cringes on Ebony’s behalf.
But, as an ad cuts into the truly frightening close-up of Cornelia Livingston daring either of these women to try her and quickly find out, I give her question real consideration.
It’s been more than a year.
Why hasn’t Ebony changed her name?
Honestly, it could be for any number of reasons.
She could’ve kept it for business reasons, bills, or maybe it’s just too much of a hassle.
She was still open to dating again—she could’ve been taking extra time to avoid the redundant step of changing it back to her maiden name only to fall in love and have to do it twice. I don’t know. How would I know?
But I can’t ignore it.
Whether it’s some prehistoric, territorial caveman stuff or not, there’s a part of me that hates another man’s name on the woman I love.
Which, truly, is just some chauvinistic bullshit.
The woman has barely decided to entertain more with me. Who am I to make demands about her surname because I, selfishly, don’t like it? This isn’t some old-fashioned social norms about labels and claiming ownership. She has agency.
But even putting aside feminism, why should I give a damn if she changes her name or not?
Ebony removes her hand from mine, gliding her fingers around my waist, snuggling into me with a soft moan, calling my bluff.
“Tired?” I kiss the crown of her head, rubbing soothing circles over her back.
She buries her face in my chest. “Would it be rude if we told everyone they don’t have to go home but they’ve got to get the hell out of here because I want to fuck you right now?”
“Is that so?” I ask, instantly aroused. Except my head hasn’t caught up with my hard-on. I’m still stuck on “we.”
Again, it’s bull…
Somewhere deep down, though, I just keeping thinking how honored I’d be for her to adopt a piece of my heritage. How much I want Ebony and I to be a family and share a future together.
Undeniably, I want everything with her.
“What if we give them another half an hour, then I suddenly feel inspired to give a speech about exactly how much I love you?”
“Oh, you’ve got yourself a deal,” she purrs, letting her needy hands loose underneath the hem of my shirt, her fingertips blazing a trail of fire over my bare skin. “And I’ll just get started on the PDA…”
We’ve been through a lot, faced down Cornelia’s whole plan to tear us apart. Now, looking at where we are, the lengths we’re willing to go to in order to be alone, it’s clear how amazing we are together.
I see it, plain as day.
So even though I don’t want to rush Ebony into anything prematurely, I can’t sit still, either. Somehow, despite everything she already endured in her last relationship, I’ve got to figure out how to prove to her that this time, it’s worth giving this version of us—and maybe even marriage—a shot.