Chapter 41
The cottage was quiet.
Ziggy was out. After the ambush, he’d walked Frankie to the golf cart, offered a ride to the manor, kissed her cheek, adjusted her wig, and sashayed toward the bonfire. “If you murder anyone, darling, wear something flattering for the mugshot.”
For now, it was just Frankie, the silence, and a loop of everything she should have said to Marcus.
Her phone buzzed. Not Marcus.
Ms. Birdie.
Perfect. Emotional sabotage followed by unsolicited wisdom. She let it ring. And ring. Her therapist’s voice nudged: When you’re too raw to be alone with your thoughts, call someone you trust.
Did Ms. Birdie qualify?
Only one way to find out. Frankie stabbed Accept. “If you’re calling to say you knew who Mr. Uptight was this whole time, I swear—”
“I called because I saw the interview. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“And I take peace,” Ms. Birdie added, “knowing you finally know who Mr. Uptight is.”
Betrayal rose like bile. So she had known. “How could you not tell me?”
“Because if I had, every choice you made would have orbited him,” Ms. Birdie said. “This was always meant to be about you.”
Frankie’s jaw tightened. “What part of about me includes being lied to and maneuvered?”
“Not lied to. Guardrails,” Ms. Birdie said, unruffled. “What’s best for you is discovering what you actually want, not what you think you’re supposed to want.”
Want! Frankie had an answer. One she’d contemplated since she was eight.
What she wanted was to be untouchable, terrifyingly successful, and so fabulous that her father regretted the day he left, which meant returning to Naked Runway and to the version of herself who didn’t feel anything she couldn’t monetize.
Except, for the first time, she wasn’t sure that was still true.
And if it wasn’t…then what?
She shook off the thought. Of course she wanted her old life back. The magazine. The city. The power. Things you could count on.
“If this is your sneaky way of backing out after promising I could return once I finished Mr. Uptight’s little checklist, prepare for a fight. I don’t go down easy.”
So why did the idea of leaving Gi Gi’s Crossing twist her stomach?
“Darling, I never go back on a promise,” Ms. Birdie said. “Your job awaits. But as your friend, I would be remiss if I didn’t suggest you step back and look at the bigger picture. Maybe add a few new brushstrokes to the new and improved Frankie Peterson.”
Friend. Since when did Ms. Birdie put herself in that category? “You think I’m improved?”
“I am told by a very reliable source that you smile more these days.”
“Ziggy, obviously. That snitch.”
And yet she couldn’t even be mad. Ziggy was Ziggy because he told everyone everything. And she liked that about him. She had never had a friend she could gossip with. Next time she saw him, they would discuss the concept of secrets among friends. Then again, he had rescued her from Melanie.
“It is not important what I think,” Ms. Birdie said. “What matters is what you think. Do you like the changes you’ve made?”
Frankie didn’t like that her heart hurt because of a man. She couldn’t believe she had lowered her guard long enough for Marcus to stomp on it the way her father had stomped on her mother’s.
But…
She had made friends in Gi Gi’s Crossing. That wasn’t awful. And smiling felt like a dopamine hit. Like popping a gummy without the snack cravings.
None of that excused Marcus’s nonsense.
Although she could almost see why he became Mr. Uptight. He had been protecting someone he cared about.
Fine. Maybe there was a tinge of excuse for Marcus’s antics. Fine adjacent. Especially since, if Lola ever told the truth, Marcus would realize the stiletto had been thrown to protect her.
But the privacy excuse? Absolute nonsense.
She could still hear Marcus’s voice, gravel rough and infuriatingly flat. “I didn’t tell you because I like my privacy.”
As if that counted.
She could understand going to bat for a friend.
She could not understand sleeping with her while keeping his life zipped like a garment bag, then ditching her at the first hint of a camera.
“If you’re suggesting I give up everything I’ve worked for to stay in a small town, forget it. I’m not falling for that romcom trap.”
“Heavens, no. I would never suggest that.”
“Then you don’t think I could be happy with a guy like him?”
A beat. “What makes you think he is staying in Gi Gi’s Crossing?”
“Well, isn’t he?”
Another pause. “That is not a question I can answer.”
“All that thinking for that lame-ass response?”
Ms. Birdie sighed. “Maybe I am wise enough to know some questions do not come with answers. Only decisions.”
Frankie hated philosophical crap.
“One last piece of advice. Be sure you are willing to live with the consequences of your actions. Some deeds cannot be overcome.”
“What does that even mean? And do not tell me to figure it out.”
“Your father did something you consider unforgivable. A day may come when you forgive him, not for his sake but for your own. That does not rebuild the bridge he burned. Some bridges stay burned. When that happens, you walk separate paths and make peace from a distance.”
Frankie exhaled. “So I should let this go? Pretend Marcus was only protecting his privacy and his friend and move on like it does not matter? No revenge?”
“I am saying you must decide what matters more. Punishing him or preserving a bridge you may want to cross again someday.”
Frankie’s nostrils flared. She thought about the advice, thought about him, and shook her head.
No. She did not want that bridge.
But what if she obliterated it? Would she regret it?
She hated the uncertainty. Hated that Ms. Birdie was making her think instead of react.
“Right. I’ll consider the state of all bridges while plotting my revenge.”
“I’ll let Isabella know you’re returning. She’ll be thrilled to have you back at the helm of the print side.”
“Of course she will,” Frankie muttered, already calculating how to mend fences with Isabella without an actual apology.
“And Frankie…try not to burn the bridge while standing on it.”
The line clicked off.
Frankie stared at the phone, groaned, tugged off Blanche, and tossed the wig onto the table.
Her purse wasn’t there.
The Birkin. Brand-new. Limited edition. Not there.
She scanned the room. Nothing.
Pulse up. Had she left it at the manor? With Marcus?
Hell.
If she went back, he would think it was a ploy. Let him keep it—
No. Not an option. The bag was on loan from Naked Runway’s closet. They all were. She had to retrieve it.
She drafted the text in her head. Porch drop-off. No contact.
Clean. Professional. Emotionless.
The kind of message sent by someone too busy plotting revenge to run an errand.
Satisfied, she flopped onto the couch. How to Make Friends (Even If You’re a Bit of an Asshole) sat on the coffee table like it owned the room.
She snatched it up. “Your fault I’m likable. And capable of liking back.”
She flipped until a chapter waved a red flag: How to Know When It’s Time to Cut a Potential Friend Loose: The Lost Cause.
“Cut,” she snorted. If anyone was doing the cutting, it was her.
She stood.
Screw texting. She would march over, retrieve her purse, and spend the night crafting a revenge plan so exquisite Ms. Birdie would send a thank-you note.
She yanked open the door and stopped.
There, tucked into the cushion of the porch rocking chair, sat her Birkin.
A drop and run.
Message received.
Marcus D Grant had made his final move. No text. No knock. Just a quiet delivery and the sound of a pair of metaphorical scissors cutting her loose.
She snatched the bag and stomped inside.
“Silent treatment,” she muttered. “That’s cute if he thinks it means he got the last word.”
She poured a glass of wine. Maybe two. Then she spotted this month’s Gi Gi’s Crossing Senior Citizen Gazette, still folded on the coffee table.
She had given it to Ziggy earlier in the week with instructions to check the new feature tucked into the bottom corner of the back page and to be prepared to discuss it over drinks. They had never gotten around to it.
NEW THIS WEEK: Knit & Tied
A seniors-only online personals service for those who prefer their intimacy with a little intrigue. Discretion encouraged.
Frankie stared at the ad while her brain conjured something deliciously awful.
Revenge, check. With flair, check. Long shelf life, check. Bridge burned, question mark.
This would not just sting. It would clog his voicemail, crank the rumor mill, and make potential clients Google him twice.
She took another sip of wine and opened her laptop.
Pulling up the online senior-citizen dating application, she began typing.
Username: MaximilianTheHammer
Looking For: Mature companionship with a healthy respect for rope etiquette and orthopedic support.
Ad Copy: Temporary resident seeks open-minded senior companion for emotionally grounded conversation and light disciplinary play. Must enjoy quiet nights, hard truths, and the occasional safe word. Bonus Points: if you wear orthopedic shoes.
Phone Contact Preferred: 867-5309. Ask for Hammer. Or leave a voicemail.
She hit submit, took a satisfied sip. “Revenge comes in stages.”
Text to Ziggy.
Frankie: I need a long water hose and a ride to Manhattan tomorrow morning.
Ziggy: Boots or loafers?
Frankie: Boots. Mud is murder on suede.