Chapter 13
If the Golden Compass Lounge was impressive, the Emerald Queen’s formal dining room is positively celestial.
Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, splintering the light into rainbows across the white tablecloths.
The china is so fine you can practically see through it, and there are more forks on the table than I’ve used in the past month.
The captain’s table sits on a slightly elevated platform in the center of the room, ensuring that everyone can witness the spectacle of important people eating scrumptious food with excessive cutlery.
It’s positioned directly beneath the grandest chandelier, as if to suggest that the occupants themselves emit a special kind of light.
Cameras surround us like mechanical predators with their lenses gleaming hungrily. Boomer stalks around them, periodically barking instructions to his crew with the urgency of a man directing emergency surgery rather than a reality show about wealthy women arguing over dinner.
The seating arrangement appears to have been designed by someone with a PhD in conflict generation.
I’m wedged between Ransom—looking criminally handsome in his formal security uniform—and Dirk Rothschild, who insists on being addressed as Victor Darkmore even when cameras aren’t rolling.
Across from me sits Beth Williams, who seems uncharacteristically tense in her pale blue gown that matches her eyes so perfectly it’s almost suspicious.
Val Cruz-Henderson has somehow secured the seat with the best camera angles, wearing a red dress so tight it might technically qualify as external organ compression.
I’m fearing for her ribcage, too. Her diamond earrings catch the light with every toss of her caramel-highlighted hair, making her look like she’s constantly being photographed with a flash.
And how I’d love to get my hands on a pair like that.
Harper Bailey sits at the far end with her designer glasses reflecting the candlelight as she observes everyone with the clinical detachment of a scientist watching bacteria multiply in a petri dish.
Her black gown is architectural in its precision, probably tailored to within a millimeter of its life.
And yet, ironically, it’s her I have the most in common with since we’re both lovers of fine art.
In fact, I can’t wait to speak to her for that reason alone.
The soap husbands fill the remaining seats, each one taking up more space than physics should allow, with their egos expanding to fill any available vacuum—not a theory, more like a scientific fact.
They’re all in tuxedos that look identical to my untrained eye, though I’m sure they’d be horrified to hear me say so.
At a nearby table, Bess and Nettie have positioned themselves for optimal viewing, like front-row spectators at a gladiatorial match.
Bess is elegant in emerald, while Nettie has opted for a sequined ensemble that’s basically its own light source.
They offer up an enthusiastic wave when they catch my eye, and I give a little wave back.
Tinsley hovers near Boomer, adjusting her neckline downward every time he glances in her direction.
The girls are really out and about tonight.
Her formal uniform has been mysteriously altered to include a plunging neckline not seen in any official cruise line handbook. And I’m the one who’s suspended?
Elodie flits around the room like a social butterfly on stimulants, somehow managing to touch the arm of every male present within the first five minutes, and her laughter carries across the dining room like champagne being poured into crystal.
She’s clearly working the room—or more accurately, assembling her rotation.
“And... action!” Boomer calls out, and instantly everyone’s posture straightens—including mine.
The first course arrives with synchronized precision as the waitstaff lifts silver domes simultaneously to reveal what I can only describe as artistic suggestions of food.
“The appetizer this evening,” announces the head server with the gravity usually reserved for royal proclamations, “is Norwegian king crab with cucumber espuma, citrus caviar, and micro-herbs.”
“Harvested at dawn by blind monks,” I add.
Okay, so I may have embellished that last part, but the presentation suggests it’s not far off.
I’m not sure what’s going on with the food this evening, but I have a feeling the production team asked the galley to glam up the offerings.
And by glam up, I mean scale down. A lot.
“I’ll just have a salad,” Val announces before the server can offer the main course options. “Dressing on the side. No croutons, no cheese, nothing that has ever been within fifty feet of a carbohydrate.”
“The same,” Harper says without looking up from her phone, where she appears to be scanning through auction catalogs even during filming.
“Me, too,” Beth adds, lifting a finger.
One by one, each trophy wife orders “just a salad,” as if consuming actual food on camera might void their contracts. Their husbands, meanwhile, order every luxurious item available while discussing their fictional TV empires between bites of buttered dinner rolls.
“And for you, madam?” the server asks, turning to me.
“I’ll have the lobster, please,” I reply without hesitation. “With all the sides. And you could take my dessert order now, too, if you want. I like to plan ahead.”
Ransom’s lips twitch with suppressed amusement as the trophy wives stare at me like I’ve just announced plans to wear white to their funerals.
“A woman after my own heart,” Wes comments from the head of the table, where he’s been trying to maintain his sanity while Boomer keeps interrupting for better angles.
“Cut!” Boomer shouts. “Trophy wives, remember to look disdainful when Trixie talks about dessert. Val, you were perfect—that eye roll deserves an Emmy. Let’s reset and go again.”
While the cameras reposition, Marlie materializes behind Victor’s chair, her ghostly form shimmering slightly under the chandeliers. Her maroon ’80s power suit and massive shoulder pads look weirdly appropriate in the formal setting.
“His toupee is slipping on the left side,” she informs me while pointing to her ex-husband’s head. “It always does when he’s nervous. Check his forehead—he’s had more Botox since I last saw him. He probably can’t feel anything above his eyebrows.”
As much as I want to bubble with laughter, I struggle to maintain a neutral expression while focusing intently on rearranging my napkin.
“And Val’s diamonds are cubic zirconia,” Marlie continues, circling the table like a shark. “The real ones are in a safe deposit box. She wears fakes to charity events. Less risk if someone nefarious tries to make a move. It’s smart, actually.”
Once upon a time, when I was a trophy wife and country club events were nigh, I did the very same thing.
“And... action!” Boomer shouts again.
“Ladies,” Wes says on cue, raising his water glass. “Perhaps we could take a moment to remember Madison. I’m sure she would have loved being here tonight.”
“Yes,” Val agrees, her voice dripping with artificial sweetener. “Madison always did love being the center of attention.”
“But first,” Val says, raising her glass even higher, “let’s toast the remarkable daytime villains among us, who have somehow survived everything that writers have thrown at them.
” She turns a dazzling smile toward the men.
“To Bridge Blackthorne, who survived three comas, two poisonings, and being buried alive by his evil stepmother.”
“To Victor Darkmore,” Beth chimes in, “who miraculously recovered from amnesia, being pushed off a yacht, and that unfortunate incident with the experimental brain transfer machine.”
“To Dr. Luca Carrington Jr.,” Harper adds dryly, “who outlived that rare tropical disease, being trapped in a collapsing mine shaft, and marrying his own clone without realizing it.”
That clone storyline was gold!
“And to Santino DiAngelo,” Val concludes, “who came back from the dead so many times the Grim Reaper put him on a loyalty program.”
Funny, I’m starting to feel like I’m on one, too.
The men preen under the attention, adjusting bow ties and cufflinks with just enough modesty as they, too, raise their glasses.
Val’s gaze slides toward Ransom, her eyes lingering a beat too long.
“And to the new additions to our little family. Especially our handsome security officer. Tell me, Ransom, do you always look so lethally official, or do you ever let your guard down?” Her tone makes it clear she’s not talking about professional vigilance, and I can’t help but frown at the woman.
Suddenly, flipping a table is back on the docket.
“I’ve been wondering what’s under that uniform,” Beth adds with surprising boldness as a flush creeps up her neck.
And here I thought she was my friend.
Even Harper’s clinical gaze turns appreciative. “You know, statistically speaking, men like that aren’t supposed to end up in security—more like a modeling agency.”
“Hands off, ladies!” Nettie shouts from the neighboring table, and I sigh with relief because of it.
I’ve been remarkably tolerant up to this point, but a roomful of women collectively appreciating my husband on camera feels like an unnecessary complication in my life.
Nettie stands. “I’ve already called dibs for when Trixie’s done with him! ”
My mouth falls open as I look her way.
Bess laughs. “And I’ve been practicing my woman overboard scream just to see him perform a water rescue.” She winks my way, and I frown despite the fact.
That whole woman overboard thing has happened before. Although I can’t blame any of those women. Ransom Baxter is a specimen with his shirt on, but once he strips it off, we’re talking museum-quality sculpting that should require admission tickets.