Chapter 2
BABS
The champagne tastes flat, despite being crisp, golden, and chilled to the perfect temperature. The flute in my hand is a delicate crystal engraved with the event’s initials: Y.E.S. – Youth Empowerment Society. The kind of name designed to look good on a banner but vague enough to be forgettable.
A fashion show for at-risk youth, a noble cause, or an elegant execution. Another afternoon of expensive performative goodness.
We’re seated at white linen-covered round tables in a pristine garden in Beacon Hill, boxed in by manicured hedges, symmetrical topiaries, and staff that move like ghosts.
Barely seen and certainly not heard. Pale pink roses spill out of antique vases.
A string quartet plays something forgettable in the background.
There’s an open bar, a silent auction, and a thousand smiles that never reach anyone’s eyes.
I sit at the head of table four, surrounded by women whose pearls are real and whose plastic surgery is fake.
Their marriages are arranged for appearances, if not in paperwork.
Their eyes flicker charming, curated, and so deeply bored.
Here to be seen, to be charitable, and to get in the society pages of the newspaper.
I cross one leg over the other.
The slit in my Valentino garden gown opens just enough to hint at the silk beneath. My heels are Louboutin. My earrings are vintage Cartier. My expression is unreadable.
I take another sip of the champagne, let it settle on my tongue, then swallow with a soft sigh. Around me, the show begins.
Models begin their slow glide down the makeshift runway. Youth from the program, paired with professional stylists, walk to applause that sounds just a few decibels too polite. They’re beautiful, nervous, radiant with that particular kind of hope you can’t buy.
I envy them.
My eyes drift, not to the models but to the attendees.
I observe them like thespians in a play.
Everyone has a part to play, some bigger than others.
Smiles are painted on with the same precision as their lipstick.
The couples sit hand-in-hand who haven’t touched each other with genuine desire in years.
Who here is actually happy?
Do all married couples cheat? Do men always want to trade in their loyal wives for a younger version with perkier breasts, bimbo brains, and fewer memories of their past indiscretions?
Three tables down, I see Meredith Caldwell leaning into her husband’s side like she’s still the same debutante he married at twenty-two. She laughs at something he says. He pats her thigh. A few years ago, that would’ve impressed me. Now I know the truth.
He’s been sleeping with his law clerk. Even putting her through law school. His wife has been in love with her tennis coach for the last four years.
Still, they make a stunning pair, picture perfect. A postcard of an enviable life that everyone desires, except for them. Neither is willing to concede in meditation, so they remain miserably married, with secret side flings.
My gaze flits left.
Gregory Windsor, arms folded, eyes downcast. His wife is chatting with a group of women. He’s pretending not to notice the way her fingers keep drifting to her wedding ring, where she twists it round and round as if loosening a leash.
The man hasn’t smiled once.
Not since the media caught wind of his indiscretion with a very junior associate.
Underaged, according to the rumor mill. He was never charged.
She didn’t leave, but it cost him dearly.
She went on a girls' shopping trip to Europe and then escaped to oversee sudden renovations at their country house when the story broke.
When everything died down, she renegotiated her postnuptial agreement and threw a gala.
It’s a game I find myself playing more often than not at these events. It is necessary to be here to maintain the family name after facing my own scandals. It’s all a charade.
At least I know better. The truth is, I don’t believe in happiness. Not anymore. I believe in appearances, stability, and composure. A curated and controlled existence. And I’ve perfected the performance.
I had to after the scandal with Dominic’s father. The initial reaction to our implosion painted me as the villain. Yet now, after parading young girls to the same events as mine and the sleazy characters he’s defended in the media, he’s the evil one.
I’m the victim.
A narrative I’m more than happy to maintain if it grants me unattainable reservations at the best restaurants and personal invitations to Boston’s elite parties, some of which he’s permanently blocked from.
But today, something aches in me. A rawness I can’t sip away with champagne or fashion shows.
Maybe it’s because my son didn’t care about his father’s tacky entrance at the last charity event we attended.
Perhaps it’s because it’s been 421 days since my daughter, Violette, last spoke to me.
Or maybe it’s the boy who ran after me when I broke down, unable to bear the scene and spectacle of my ex and his paraded young escapade.
Hollister Morgan Harrington III.
A friend of Dominic’s for as long as I can remember. If ever the appeal of a younger man were to penetrate my self-control, it would be one as charming as he. He caught up with me in the hallway and guided me to a private hall when I broke down.
The tears were already flowing when I pushed through the doors of the ballroom.
He offered me his initial embroidered handkerchief.
Used his body to shield a passing patron to protect my privacy.
Offer me his apologies on behalf of the two other men.
My son for being so blasé about my emotions, and my ex for having none.
“I need a moment.”
I dabbed at my eyes, careful not to harm my makeup. Knowing the redness in my eyes would be hard to conceal.
He didn’t offer his arm. Didn’t wait for agreement. Just turned and walked, confident, quiet, like he already knew I’d follow.
I did.
Down a narrow corridor, past roped-off galleries and staff-only signs, until he stopped in front of an unmarked door. He slipped something from his pocket, a sleek black key card, and unlocked it. The door opened into a room I had only heard of.
The men’s private smoking lounge.
Dark paneled walls. Cognac-colored leather armchairs arranged around a low marble hearth. Heavy curtains drawn tight. A cut-crystal decanter on a silver tray. The scent of cigars and aged wood lingered in the air, warm and masculine.
I had never been in here uninvited. Never without a chaperone. It wasn’t allowed. He held the door. I hesitated, for one breath, two, then stepped inside.
He closed it behind us and flicked on the lamp by the bar. Amber light spilled across the space, softening the edges of everything, even me. He moved to the sideboard, fingers brushing over cut crystal decanters filled with various alcohols like he was choosing a weapon.
Selected two tumblers and poured the whiskey. Neat. No hesitation.
“Looks like you could use this.”
He handed me one glass, then waved me over to a set of leather chairs facing the fireplace.
“I suppose so.”
The first sip burns. I relish it. He lifted his glass, watching me over the rim as he drank. The silence stretched between us, long and velvet-thick. The weight of the day peeled off my shoulders in slow, invisible layers.
“You’ve done this before,” I murmured, fingers curling around the glass.
He smirked, slow and knowing.
“What, comfort a devastated woman in a forbidden room?”
I arched a brow.
“I was going to say pour a perfect whiskey.”
He leaned back, one polished dress shoe hooked over the opposite knee, the picture of studied ease.
“I grew up around men who think liquor can fix anything. It's the one language I speak fluently.”
“And what does this mean, then? That I’m broken and you’re fluent in grief?”
His gaze held mine. Steady. Sure.
“No. It means I can tell the difference between someone who’s unraveling and someone who’s been holding the whole damn thing together for too long.”
My breath caught. I looked down at the amber swirl in my glass, then away. Anywhere but at him. The fire wasn’t lit, but the room felt warm. My skin felt too tight for the bones beneath it. My composure stretched thin and gleamed like it might shatter with one wrong word.
“I shouldn’t be here.”
“Maybe not.”
“It’s inappropriate.”
“Probably.”
“And it means nothing.”
“Does it?”
I looked up. His eyes were darker now. Not with anger, but with something quieter. Something deeper. Understanding. The kind of darkness that says, “I see you anyway.” It unsettled me. I took another sip, and he downed his. I set the tumbler on the table and let the silence wrap around us.
“I'm sorry you had to see that.”
“I'm not.”
His gaze didn’t waver, unflinching while staring at me. Trying to figure out if he could take whatever I had left to give.
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed, Ms. Barrett.”
“Babs, please. Hearing you say Ms. Barrett makes me feel old.”
“You’re definitely not old, Babs.”
I pressed the handkerchief harder against my eyes, willing the sting to fade with his generous words. My lips trembled with the effort to hold everything in.
“It’s humiliating.”
I didn’t intend for my voice to come out in a whisper.
“No, it’s not. What he did was humiliating. What you’re doing is human.”
A soft exhale slipped from my mouth, part disbelief, part relief. The clock across the room chimed, late in the night, as the muffled sounds of the gala continued.
“He was supposed to love me.”
His jaw tensed, just a flicker, but enough to register. “I think he only loved what you made him look like.”
“What did I make him look like?”
His leg dropped to the plush carpet, and he leaned forward. Not too close. But close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. We shared the same air. Intimate and youthful.
“Valuable. Worth his weight in gold because you were beside him. But now, he’s rot in polished shoes.”
That made me laugh, a jagged, broken sound that cracked through the heavy quiet. I covered my mouth, surprised. He smiled, small and real. It tugged something loose in my chest. He didn’t ask me to stop crying. Didn’t reach for me. Didn’t try to fix it. He just stayed. Solid. Unmoving. Present.
“You’re nothing like your friends, Babs. You’re the only good in this place.”
“Oh?”
I glanced at him through the fringe of my lashes. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, the collar askew. His jaw was faintly shadowed with stubble, like he’d had more important things to do than shave. He looked too young to belong in this world, and yet somehow too right to be anywhere else.
“I couldn’t let you fall apart in front of people who don’t deserve to see you like that.”
“You think I fell apart?”
“I think you cracked.”
His voice dropped, gentled, and a bit seductive.
“And I think it made you more beautiful, Barbara.”
I inhaled too sharply, the sound of my real name catching in my throat. No one called me that. Not my friends, not my ex-husband, not even my son. Hearing it now, spoken with reverence, with heat, made me feel seen in a way that stripped me bare.
My jaw clenched, my mind went blank, unable to form a response. This man is my son’s age. My son’s best friend was making a pass at me. Even in the thick fog of humiliation and heartache from the night’s events, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingering there. Maybe hoping something would come out of it, words to push him away or a whisper that would draw him closer. Neither occurred to me.
I sat in stunned silence, the weight of the moment pressing down on my chest, making it impossible to breathe, let alone speak. Then he stood, slow and controlled.
His glass was abandoned. He moved past me, and I held my breath, unsure what would happen next. As he passed, his fingertips grazed the side of my neck. A barely-there caress that seared straight through me, down to the place that still remembered what it felt like to be wanted. To be desired.
“I’m here if you need someone to talk to. Someone who understands.”
He paused by the door, his voice low and gentle.
“Goodnight, Babs.”
I turned to look at him, but he was already gone. The door clicked softly behind him. He looked at me like he saw me. Like he wanted to. And God help me, I wanted to be seen.
His imprint still heats my skin when I blink away the memories of that encounter.
The fashion show is wrapping up around me.
The chairs are scraping as attendees move to the trunk show to buy the goods modeled around us today.
I grab my clutch, intending to follow the crowd, when I pause, reach inside my purse, and retrieve my phone.
The number I saved is the one I got when I called Dominic and asked for it.
I glance down, tap out a simple text message.
Thank you.
My heart beats faster. The unexpected pull of hope blooms in a dead garden. I drink the remains of my champagne. It still tastes flat, but I feel different now. Not better or worse. Just more real.
In my world, that’s the most dangerous feeling of all.