12. Corn Dog Couture
Corn Dog Couture
W hy not? It’s just a stupid concert!” are the first words I hear when I open the door to Beatrice and Charlotte’s penthouse in the afternoon.
Sounds like Charlotte didn’t get those extra points. It also sounds like her life isn’t fine as it is.
“If it’s so stupid, then you don’t need to go.”
“Jesus—I swear I’m not going to eat anything. Or drink. I’ll just go and listen to the band?—”
“Why put yourself through temptation, Charlotte? You’re a model. Focus on that. You’ll have time for concerts when you’re old and your body is worthless.”
My mouth falls open, an icy wave rolling down my spine. Did she really just say that?
“You dragged me out here,” Charlotte spits. “You’re using me like you always do. I think at the very least, I deserve to?—”
With a clipped voice, Beatrice cuts her off. “Where is your ambition, Charlotte? Is ‘having fun’ all you care about?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I’m not the daughter you wanted, just a shittier version of her.”
Lips pinching, I listen without making a sound.
“If you’re so unhappy, then why don’t you leave?”
Silence.
I wait, and after a shrill “I hate you,” I hear Charlotte stomp closer.
When she turns the corner, her teary eyes meet mine.
They widen for a moment before she shouts, “ Ugh! Do you always have to be around?” Then she whirls toward the hallway off to the right and storms into her room, slamming the door so hard the walls shake.
Beatrice steps into view, composed as ever, her icy gaze locking onto mine like a sniper’s crosshairs. “You’re here.”
I clear my throat, adjusting the strap of my bag. “I...the fish needs time to?—”
“Come,” she says, turning and heading for the kitchen. “I need to talk to you.”
Must be my lucky day.
I hesitate, lingering in the doorway for a second before following. She’s already sitting at the island, sifting through a stack of papers.
“Gin and tonic.”
Does she want me to make her one?
She turns her head slightly, then gestures toward the bar cart. “ Make me a gin and tonic. And whatever you’re drinking.”
Oh, boy. That probably means this will be a long conversation.
I drop my bag onto the counter and make my way over to the bar cart, glancing at the collection of expensive liquors. I make quick work of fixing us both drinks, then slide one of them across the counter.
She takes it without looking up. “I’ll be gone this weekend,” she says, her tone crisp and business-like. “I know you’re off, but I was wondering if you could prep some meals for Charlotte today. She’s completely clueless in the kitchen. And everywhere else.”
A muscle in my jaw twitches. I can barely move past the insult, but didn’t Charlotte say she has a show this weekend? I figured that her agent—her mom —would go with her.
When she raises a brow in question, I rush out, “Uh, yeah. Of course.”
She pulls a sheet of paper from her stack and pushes it toward me. “Here’s what I have in mind.”
I scan the list. Grilled chicken breasts, steamed broccoli, brown rice. Dry, plain, joyless. “Uh-huh. All right.”
“Keep the portions light. Avoid beans—bloating. No salt, minimal oil. Stick to lemon and herbs. And whatever you do, no butter.”
I grip the edge of the paper a little too hard, my knuckles turning white. Jesus. This isn’t meal-prepping. This is fucking abuse.
If Charlotte wanted to eat like this, that’d be one thing. But I’ve seen how she lights up when something actually tastes good. The way she devoured that pizza.
And I’ve seen how her own mother talks to her.
“Everything clear?” Beatrice asks, her eyes scanning my face.
“Yes.” I glance at her drink, almost completely gone. “Another one?”
Beatrice points at my glass—still untouched. “Don’t make me feel self-conscious.”
I lift the tumbler and bring it to my lips. The gin burns its way down, crisp and bitter, but I barely taste it. I have no interest in drinking with this woman, but if there’s even a remote chance I can do something for Charlotte, I need to stay on her good side.
She swirls the ice in her glass, watching the liquid slosh against the sides before speaking again. “Your boss...Ian, I think? He said you have a kid.”
“He did?”
“I requested service every day of the week, but he said you needed two days off to spend with your child, and I didn’t want two different people. Of course, at the time, I thought Amelie would be my chef.”
Ian never even brought it up with me, but I guess it just goes to show what a great boss he is.
“I could see if someone else?—”
“So do you have a kid?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“I hope for your sake that it’s a boy.”
I blink. “A daughter, actually. She’s six.”
Beatrice scoffs, her gaze dropping to the bottom of her glass as if there’s an answer to something in the remnants of her drink. “I was happy at first, you know? When we found out it was going to be a girl. Girls are easier, I thought.”
“They’re not?”
“Maybe until puberty. You better brace for that. Men, parties, mood swings.” She exhales heavily. “Boys are easier.”
I take another sip, letting the gin heat my throat.
“I had another daughter before Charlotte.”
That gets my attention, and my fingers tighten around the glass.
“I lost her.”
There’s no hesitation, no trembling in her voice, no moment of silence to prepare for the weight of it. Just a flat, matter-of-fact statement, like she’s talking about losing a set of keys and not a living, breathing child.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur.
She doesn’t acknowledge me, just looks away. “But she was...easier. A hard worker, that’s for sure. Ambitious, focused. She knew what she wanted and went for it. Didn’t let anything distract her.”
Maybe that’s where this controlling behavior comes from. Maybe after losing her first daughter, Beatrice became so afraid of losing another that she wrapped Charlotte in an iron grip, trying to mold her into something she could control.
“I thought Charlotte would be my do-over, you know?” Her lips twitch. “But she’s nothing like her. Nothing .”
Anger flickers in my chest, sharp and instinctual. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was disgusted. But it can’t be that, can it? She’s a mother, for Christ’s sake. A mother who has already lost a child. That kind of pain is not something I can even begin to imagine.
“She was the perfect mix of me and my first husband.” A faraway look settles in her eyes. “She took the best from both of us. His stubbornness, his talent. My strength and beauty. She looked just like me.” Her voice wavers slightly, and I realize that her eyes are moist.
For the first time, I see something raw in her.
Grief .
And yet, I can’t ignore the bitter aftertaste of her words. She’s punishing Charlotte for not being the daughter she lost. For not being like her mother.
But Charlotte is her own person, and a pretty incredible one at that. She might not be the carbon copy Beatrice wanted, but she’s still her daughter.
I swallow, then ask the question that’s buzzing underneath my skin. “What about Charlotte?”
Beatrice sniffs. She tilts her glass back and downs the rest of her drink in a single motion. “She’s just like her father—my second husband. A lazy but gorgeous man who wanted nothing to do with her.” She sets the glass down with a quiet clink and stands. “So here I am. Raising his daughter.”
“ Your daughter,” I say before I can control myself.
She looks at me, and every single emotion I’ve seen play out on her face is replaced by cool indifference. “Yes. My daughter. My beautiful but lazy daughter, who disappoints me at the same rate her father did.”
I force myself to stay still, to not react. If I open my mouth again, I won’t be able to control what comes out.
“I’ve given up everything for her. For ten years, we haven’t had a home. Just moved from hotels to apartments. City to city. Country to country. All to give her the chance I never had.” She turns to the corridor, a sneer on her lips. “And how does she repay me?”
“You’ve had to sacrifice a lot,” I agree. She nods, clearly pleased with my approval. “Both of you,” I add then.
With her little spark dimmed, she looks away.
“Are you sure that’s still what she wants? Charlotte?” I ask before taking another sip. I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to engage—that I should act like a wall she bounces her thoughts against, but I can’t let this opportunity slip.
“Why wouldn’t it be? She’s living every woman’s dream.”
Dreams don’t usually come with cages.
Beatrice rises from her seat and starts gathering her stack of papers. “I’ll make sure to clear with your boss the extra payment for the weekend meals.”
“That’s not nece?—”
“I won’t be here for dinner, so you don’t need to cook for me.”
She turns, her heels clicking against the polished floor, her back rigid. There likely won’t be another moment like this—where she’s got her guard down, where she’s somewhat vulnerable.
I need to say something.
“For what it’s worth,” I blurt, losing half of my confidence when her sharp brown eyes pin me on the spot, “I think Charlotte is pretty impressive.”
Her sigh is exasperated. “You’ve known her for five minutes . How many words did you exchange—twenty? I just heard ten of them, and they didn’t sound impressive.”
I think of our nights on TOP. Of her eating pizza at my place, flirting with me, sucking the ring off my finger. Of her laughter, unrestrained and wild, when she lets her guard down.
“I can tell she has your strength. And she’s beautiful, that’s for sure. But she’s smart too. And she might not have the same drive you had at her age, but everyone’s different, right? She’s still young. She has plenty of time to figure out her future.”
Beatrice doesn’t say a word.
I know I’m fired. So I might as well finish my thought.
“You’ve lost a daughter,” I continue, mouth dry. “And I can’t...I can’t imagine the constant pain you’re in. Nobody can. But there is one daughter you haven’t lost. One who’s still here. And she needs you.”