Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
E mpathy , Aaron had said. Empathy always worked.
That wasn’t what he’d meant, though. Manipulation . Manipulation always worked.
“Towels!” I could hear Ms. Jennings’s high-pitched screech before I even saw her. Annalise had dragged Aaron to the garden party to grab napkins, and the ladies flocked in. “We need towels!”
“Here, here!” That came from a server, Paige, who’d abandoned her tray of hors d’oeuvres and rushed over with the Alderton-Du Ponte teal towels in her arms.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Mrs. Wits gasped at Aaron. “That shirt is Malstoni!”
“Forget the shirt,” Mrs. Harrington said. “Is your watch okay, dear?”
“Take it off, let’s take a look at it!”
I’d thought Michael was overreacting earlier, but it turned out he wasn’t the only one.
The third woman who’d been standing with Caroline and Annalise at the mouth of the rosebushes snatched a towel from Paige. Fiona Flannagan, Caroline’s age, but not someone Caroline would’ve been hanging out with. She wasn’t the most likeable daughter of Alderton-Du Ponte, but not the most disliked, either. The bearer of that crown belonged to Margot Massey. Fiona was harder to swallow in a different way. Margot had been quiet, cold, and refused to conform to the elite society.
Fiona was just plain insufferable, but at least she didn’t act out.
“What a terrible accident,” Fiona all but cooed as she pressed the towel to Aaron’s chest, trying to blot out the liquid that’d already set. “Is Alderton-Du Ponte cursed for you, Aaron?”
“Oh, of course it isn’t cursed,” Aaron replied with all the smoothness of silk. He didn’t pull away, but rather held still while she not-so-subtly felt him up. “Just eventful, that’s all.”
I could’ve scoffed from where I stood at the side of the chaos. The egotistical jerk had been right. The atmosphere would’ve been starkly different had he just waltzed in at Annalise’s side, but orchestrating himself to be a damsel in distress? It’d been the perfect solution.
All but one person seemed to buy it. I risked a glance at Mrs. Massey, expecting her stony stare—especially given she’d scolded me not even ten minutes ago—but she looked faintly smug.
I watched it all with my now empty tray clutched in front of me like a shield. After I’d returned the fallen flutes to the kitchen sink, I’d slunk my way back to the party, afraid of what awaited me.
Apparently, just women fighting over who got the chance to feel up a young millionaire.
“Who’s the hottie?” Paige asked as she came up to my side, lowering her voice to nothing more than a murmur.
I didn’t even want to speak his name. “Guy from California.”
“ Hot guy from California.”
“ Arrogant guy from California.”
“Annalise, you didn’t say you were coming home,” Mrs. Conan said, and it was clear she was doing her best to seem calm. She kept her voice light, but her fingers, fidgeting with the stem of her plastic champagne flute gave her away. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s great.” Annalise smiled. “Aaron was coming for business, so we thought it’d be the perfect time to surprise you.”
“Business?” Ms. Jennings asked. “Something with Astro Agencies?”
“What’s your role there, again?” Mrs. Gilmartin tapped her lips. “I can’t quite remember.”
“What business does Astro Agencies have here, dear?” Mrs. Wits leaned in, donning a gossiping tone. “After the business deal with the hotel fell through, we thought?—”
Ms. Jennings elbowed her in the side, splattering some of her mimosa from her flute onto the ground. Everyone fell silent. Astro Agencies was the multi-million-dollar travel agency Aaron’s parents owned, the biggest one in the country. Last year, with the assumed wedding of Aaron and Margot Massey looming, everyone had been abuzz with the hopes of even more prestige. Especially the Masseys, knowing that a partnership with a travel agency would put their hotel chain in an amazing position.
Until Margot decide to run off with her secretary and screwed them all over. Good for her.
The three of them—Annalise, Michael, and Aaron—all seemed to take a unified pause. Either they hadn’t gotten their story straight before coming, or they were afraid to dive in. “Aaron’s helping a charity that’s main hub is on the west coast,” Annalise said. “They’re… establishing a branch here. They asked him for his opinion on a few things.”
“Ooh, a charity!” That was Mrs. Holland, who tucked her hands underneath her chin. “Which one?”
Another pause from the trio, this time accompanied by an uneasy glance they all exchanged.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I was to be seen and not heard. If Aaron hadn’t done what he had, I might’ve kept myself still. “Rhythms of Hope,” I answered for them.
It wasn’t just the trio that were silent then, but the entire garden party. Mrs. Conan’s features hardened, realizing they were in the midst of an enemy. Ms. Jennings pressed a hand to her lips, shielding a smirk. Caroline watched Fiona with a laser-focused gaze, while Paige, at my side, let out a short, surprised snort.
“Rhythms of Hope,” Mrs. Conan echoed, as if she didn’t recognize the name of her new archnemesis. “You work for them?”
“I don’t really work for them,” Aaron said, putting all the charming schmooze he could muster into looking at her. “I’m here on a favor, really. I hear you’re improving a music hall?”
“We are not .” The look on her face soured. “That space is going to be a sauna—not a dull music hall.”
Annalise tried to do damage control. “Mom?—”
“I’m sorry to waste your time flying all the way out here, Mr. Astor, but it seems you made the trip unnecessarily.”
Mrs. Conan had no authority to say such things, of course. She was on the country club’s board of directors, sure, but the board now fell privy to the wishes and demands of the charity and its board. If Rhythms of Hope wanted to remodel the Du Ponte Music Hall, they would.
Aaron had to know this, of course, but he tipped his head, knowing when to back down. “Even so, it’s nice to be back here again on a bit more… casual business.” He looked down at Fiona and gave her a warm grin.
Fiona looked like her knees were about to give out.
“Mr. Astor,” a new voice cut in, and while the voice was luxurious, it made me freeze. Crap . Mrs. Pine. “Allow me to deeply apologize for the egregious mistake. Please let us to get you a replacement.”
The event coordinator turned and shot me a glacial glare. Fix this or else .
The last thing I wanted to do right now was to speak to him again, but an order was an order, and to disobey Mrs. Pine meant death. I stepped forward. “Please follow me, and I can get you?—”
“This is a cashmere and Egyptian cotton blend Malstoni,” he said factually. “This place has those lying around?”
If you wanted an exact replacement, you shouldn’t have dumped my tray.
Fiona still patted at his pectoral—an area that hadn’t been soaked by the flutes. “You should offer to pay for it,” she said while staring at me. “Out of your salary.”
“Or Aaron should watch where he’s going.” Annalise stood sandwiched between her mother and Caroline. Caroline had her arm looped through Annalise’s, and I tried to peer past her expression, but I couldn’t tell if she was shocked at Annalise’s appearance or if she already knew. “Lovey is the best server on staff—the only way she’d make a mistake is if he ran into her first.”
At least I could count on someone to defend my honor.
Aaron pressed a hand over Fiona’s, ceasing her rubbing. “No, it is my fault.” His gaze cut to mine. “I should’ve been more careful.”
Careful not to purposefully upend my entire tray, sure.
The ladies seemed to draw closer to him, as if his willingness to throw himself under the bus for a staff member was a magnet. But that “bus” was as light and pointless as his wool and cotton blend shirt. In the end, it didn’t matter. It was one thing for a guy like him to make mistakes, but for a girl like me, it was something else entirely.
“Lovisa, go fetch a fresh shirt, now.” This time, Mrs. Pine didn’t bother to soften her voice.
“We’ll go with,” Caroline cut in, giving sympathetic eyes to Aaron. “So he can change. That shirt has got to be sticky.”
Aaron eased Fiona’s hand from him. “I’ll be right back, my dear.”
And to that, she nodded like a star-struck idiot.
“Not so fast.” Dr. Conan stepped up to the circle of women, offering his open arms to his daughter. “We haven’t seen you in months, Anna. Leave them to run the errand and give your father a hug.”
She shot me a look, still holding Caroline’s arm, but I quickly turned. Yes, leave Lovey to run the errand . I was on the clock, anyway. I didn’t check behind me to see if Aaron followed before I set off, quickening my pace.
And, ever so slightly, I could hear the click of his Hefman it’d been easier for me to let her mindlessly dream while I’d focused on my own. And now, when I would’ve given anything to hear the answer, she was no longer around to ask.
With a sigh, I laid my head on the top of the couch cushion, staring up at the water-stained ceiling that almost held the pattern of an eyeball. A staring contest with it was ridiculous, but here I was, watching a mark on the popcorned surface as if it would blink first.
I had limited options. Go around from lender to lender and see if any of them would take a chance on me. Take a risk stumbling across the wrong loan shark. Ask Mr. Roberts again about the Christmas bonus. Maybe sell a kidney.
Ask Grant.
My stomach recoiled in response.
When I found out Grant had been cheating last fall, I’d blocked him on every single platform. Six months ago, I hadn’t even entertained the idea of holding onto him for the sake of the house. He was rich; he could’ve bought it for me. But my desperation to fulfill my mother’s dream hadn’t outweighed my self-respect.
And here I was, six months later, considering throwing that self-respect in the garbage.
But, please. Surely my ex had forgotten all about Alderton-Du Ponte’s Cinderella he’d abandoned once the clock struck twelve.
The next logical thought would be to go to Caroline, his sister. Honestly, it would’ve made more sense to go to Caroline, since she was my best friend, but I cringed at the idea. Being indebted to her for that much money felt wrong, with big exclamation points. I couldn’t pinpoint the why , but I knew it was off the table.
As the pressure built within me, cracking me like a piece of glass holding too much weight, I found myself reaching for my phone. The selfish need was too much to ignore, and I needed it this once—just once, and then I wouldn’t do it again. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d caved, but the thoughts were just too loud in my head, too much, and I couldn’t think .
I loaded up YouTube, typed in Massenet’s “Méditation” from Tha?s , and clicked the first cover that came up.
The piece was originally made for violin, but its cello arrangement was nothing short of hypnotizing. Calming. It was almost always performed with a piano accompaniment, but for this cover, it was solely the cello’s beautiful baritone. I closed my eyes, and, on instinct, my brows scrunched as the sweep of the cello filled the air. For that greedy moment, I allowed myself to pretend the world fell away as the notes wrapped around me, and I basked in the momentary lack of being .
I knew if I looked at the screen, I’d find a thirteen-year-old girl executing the interpretation with a bit too much emotion seeping through, her inhales and exhales not quite blending perfectly in time with the measures, but there was no mistaking the passion in each sweep of her bow. Her love for playing was clear with each resonating note.
I knew, because it was a recording of me. Lovely Little Virtuoso . My YouTube page immortalized my life as a childhood cellist, sitting in the corner of the internet and waiting for me to grow nostalgic.
Waiting for me to grow desperate, like moments such as this one.
This is what jumping would’ve been like , a traitorous thought whispered.
The rich vibrato trembled in my fingertips, swelling in intensity before decreasing to a soft note in another, leaving me suspended in the rollercoaster.
The last cover I’d ever uploaded was one week before Mom passed, but I refused to watch it. I knew what it was, though. The same piece I’d told Aaron was my favorite to play. Elgar’s Concerto.
It was the last time I’d performed, too. After I’d packed the instrument away that day, I never picked it up again.
The last time I’d felt whole.
“Méditation’s” five-and-a-half-minute piece began its descent, the final notes deepening, swelling—filling every corner of my apartment, every inch of my lungs. I held my breath, the music itself taking over for me. Each note lingered like an echo until the bow whispered across the ending string. The YouTube video ended, leaving behind only the hush of my own heartbeat and the weight of the renewed silence.
The breath I drew in was gasping. What do I do? I thought, hoping that if Mom was out there, she’d hear me. Tell me what to do .
But no answer found me where I sat on the floor, amongst dreams I couldn’t seem to reach, neither hers nor mine.
I didn’t move for a long, long time.