Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Simon, we need a moment before we exit, please,” my mother calls out to the driver.
“Of course, Mrs. Morgan-Lane. I will stand at the door for your signal.” The driver is far too gracious toward my mother, and I take a deep breath to keep my features neutral. It’s too early in the evening to lose my cool with my mother already.
I just want this evening to be over.
I’m sure Sampson does as well. It’s the day after Christmas, and he’s driving us around while my mother calls him the wrong name. He has been their primary driver for at least five years, and she can’t be bothered with getting his name correct.
But I am not my mother. “Thank you, Sampson. And I promise, we will try to be as brief as possible this evening so you can get home to Michelle.” He gives me a soft smile in the rearview mirror before he steps out into the winter chill of New York in December.
My mother tuts. “Honestly, Harlow, I don’t understand why you insist on being so chatty with the help.”
“Oh, like getting their names correct?” I mutter, despite my attempts to not give her any fuel for the inevitable holiday fight we are overdue for.
Some families have fun holiday traditions that bring them closer together as a family, but the Lanes’ traditions include wearing uncomfortable clothes, going to the right events to be seen with the right people, and faking the joy of the season.
Even gift giving is done in front of others, never just the three of us at home, simply spending time together.
I don’t want to spend the holidays like this. I don’t even want to spend them with my family at this point in my life, but they’re all I have.
“What was that? I’m quite sure I misunderstood you.
” Astor Rose Morgan-Lane snaps her compact closed after touching up her already perfect professionally applied makeup.
She’s a beautiful woman—and her plastic surgery team ensures she always will be—but her eyes lack the warmth and softness that a mother should have when speaking to another person, let alone their only child.
“Let’s get on with it, Astor,” my father drawls as he continues to scan whatever social media app has his attention this evening.
Mother nods at him, and I realize I’ve been set up and trapped by these two.
I sit up a little straighter as it dawns on me that my parents have a plan for whatever this little chat is, and I may need to plan an escape route.
“Harlow. This evening is important to your father and I, and you are a reflection of us, despite your misgivings about us and all that we have done to support you and your endeavors over the years. Your father and I would like to see some actual effort this evening, and maybe even finding something you could bid on to financially support the … the…” If she could move her face, she would look confused, but again, those plastic surgeons earn their keep with my mother.
“The Greater New York City Area Coalition for Better Leaders for Tomorrow,” Father supplies, and I fail to hold back the squeak of laughter that escapes.
“Did they run out of room on their naming application or were they just hoping for a ridiculous name?” I giggle as my mother glares at me—as best she can without the ability to move most of her facial features.
“I helped come up with that name, Harlow. The Lane family is one of the premier sponsors.”
I nod and already know the answer before I ask. “And what is the mission of this organization that is so near and dear to your heart?”
Mother is speechless.
She has no clue what they do, but I bet she knows every person that is expected to be here tonight.
And not just that, but Mother likely knows everything down to who is cheating on their spouse, who is quietly going on a vacation to come back with a new face, and whose children are being set up for advantageous marriages.
“It doesn’t matter. They do wonderful and important work.
But I want to see some actual support from you, Harlow.
It looks bad enough you barely come back to attend our events, so please step it up tonight.
And if you are worried about the financial aspect, your father will cover whatever bid you place.
” I look to my father, and he is nodding along, before she adds, “And, if it isn’t too much to ask, there are a few gentlemen I’d like to personally introduce you to tonight. ”
There it is. The real reason for this pep talk.
She brushes a piece of hair off my face in a shockingly kind gesture, but my walls are not coming down that easily. “Although I do wish you would have let my stylist dress you, or at the very least done your makeup. You have so much potential.”
“I have no interest in meeting anyone with a romantic notion tonight, Mother, but thank you for the near compliment.”
“I didn’t give you a compliment.”
“I know.” I turn and reach to the window, tapping twice with my knuckles in my mother’s signature fashion. The windows are tinted so dark that Sampson won’t be able to tell the difference between my mother’s knock for an entrance and my knock for a rapid escape.
We walk through the step and repeat for the press, and cocktail hour is well underway by the time we arrive. After all, Astor Morgan-Lane knows how to make an entrance.
Despite the lovely start to the evening, I find myself engaging in a few meaningful conversations with a couple of doctors that are involved with the charity, which actually does an impressive amount of good in the area, even if my mother is unaware of where any of her financial support is going.
I behave exactly as my parents expect and even bid on a few items they also bid on.
I don’t care if I win them; I just wanted my mother to see that I was listed as a bidder, so when she wins, she can double her joy in beating me at something.
Although I wouldn’t hate a week in the south of France at a private villa—so long as I don’t have to invite my parents.
Maybe I should go there next Christmas on my own.
My gown feels slightly tight as I raise my gaze and sweep the room.
I’m suddenly aware of the space behind me as a prickle crawls up my neck.
My eyes briefly land on a security camera in the corner, the small red light blinking steadily.
It’s better than the flashes from the media, I suppose.
It’s also not a stretch to feel like I’m being watched.
This isn’t a foreign concept—assessing and judging are social currencies at these types of events.
And the queen is holding court as my gaze lands on my mother visiting with Bunny Lockwood, nodding in my direction.
The host indicates dinner is about to be served, and we find our table assignment.
If I had an appetite, it fled the moment I saw where my mother had assigned me to sit.
On one side is Stuart Lockwood, a walking cliché of a spoiled trust-fund baby that my mother has tried throwing me at multiple times over the year.
The other side is occupied by Stephen Marsh, a billionaire that likes to go through wives faster than my mother goes through hair stylists.
I’m not against age-gap romances—my kindle would prove that fact—but the man has to be near eighty years old, and I was in ballet with one of his granddaughters as a child.
Almost forty years is too much of an age gap to me; that’s more like an entire generational gap.
I’m much more comfortable with the idea of someone say …
just shy of ten and a half years older than me with gray-blue eyes, tousled chestnut brown hair, and a dimple that pops in his right cheek when he grins.
My mother clears her throat, bringing my thoughts back to the present.
The location of my seat tonight is not by chance.
It has Astor written all over it. I look to my mother who is grinning as she encourages me with a nod to take my seat.
I can’t help but look around the room as I dutifully sit, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention as though eyes are on me beyond the table.
Dinner passes as I allow both gentlemen to fill the silence with talking about themselves, and then strangely competing to see who can impress me more. My mother preened at how they were trying to one-up each other, but I found the entire display exhausting.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention, the silent auction has closed for the evening, and the winning bids have been confirmed. We will be displaying the winning names on the monitors at this time. Thank you again for your generous support of the GNYCA CBLT this evening.” How is no one else laughing at that horrible acronym?
“Please enjoy the wonderful dessert course and conclusion of our evening together. Happy holidays.”
My mother’s gasp pulls me from my thoughts.
“What’s wrong?” I start scanning the room for threats, but when I look back at her, she is glaring—openly—at me.
She leans closer to me from across the table. “How could you outbid us for that package? You know I wanted to stay at that villa, Harlow.” My mother is angrily whispering at me, but I am just confused, because I didn’t.
I didn’t outbid my mother on anything. I scanned the QR codes and only bid on things that I knew my parents would outbid me on, and I only placed a single bid on a handful of items.
“I think there’s been a mistake, Mother. I didn’t outbid you.” My voice drops off as I look at the results on the screen.
I think I’m going to be ill.
I did not bid $21, 111 on that villa package!
The bids tonight were all increments of one hundred dollars. That shouldn’t even be possible.
“Mother, honestly, there has to be a mistake. I bid five thousand right after you bid forty-five hundred, and I knew you would bid again.”