Chapter 27
Ingrid
By the time the sun starts sliding down over the green waves of the Atlantic, the house is already buzzing like a hive.
The Foundation Ball is tonight, and my mother has been in full command mode since dawn–shouting directions, rearranging florals, stopping just short of making some poor event planner cry in the driveway.
“You know how she is,” I say to Madison as I climb into the vanity chair. The stylist behind me separates a section of hair, winding it into a curling iron. “This is where she thrives.”
Madison snorts, perched on the velvet chaise across from mine, with her ever present laptop in front of her. “I wonder where you get it.”
I don’t bother answering. The truth is, she’s right.
My mother loves this part–the planning and execution of a big event, setting the stage for a night to remember.
I think it goes back to those real estate days, where designing and prepping a home were part of the job.
And me? I’ve been trained for it since I was old enough to hold a microphone.
The room smells like hairspray and perfume.
Two makeup artists hover with brushes and palettes, waiting their turn.
My gown hangs on the back of the door, glittering under the recessed lights.
The whole thing feels less like getting ready for a fundraiser and more like prepping for the Grammys.
Except this time, it’s not about who wins, it’s about generosity.
I close my eyes as the heat from the iron brushes my neck. I’m almost relaxed when Madison clears her throat.
“So,” she says casually, too casually. “He’s in town.”
My eyes snap open. In the mirror, I catch her watching me. “Who?”
“Jake.”
“Why would I care if Jake’s in town?” It’s a genuine question. The excitement that I used to feel in my chest just at the mention of his name is no longer there.
She shrugs, an escaped tendril of hair grazing her shoulder. “He could be your date.”
The stylist makes a soft, awkward sound and focuses harder on the curl. My stomach knots.
“Why would I want Jake to be my date?” My voice comes out sharp enough to sting.
Madison doesn’t look away. “It’s an option. A safe one. People already know him, they like the story. It’d be good PR.”
PR. The word tastes like poison on my tongue.
I stare at my reflection, my lashes half-done, hair half-curled, and suspicion starts prickling in the back of my skull.
Why was he at the after-party in New York?
He hadn’t been invited, not by me. And the Atlanta concert–he’d gotten backstage without a badge.
Sure, Marv asked if he could come back, but even to get to the private area, somebody had to grease that door.
Somebody like Madison.
“Why do you even know he’s in town? Are you keeping up with him?”
“I keep up with everything,” she snaps. “And everyone. Including all of your exes. It’s my job.”
There’s a territorialness in her tone, one that makes me uncomfortable.
My pulse ticks faster as the pieces start falling into place, ugly and undeniable.
The photos that always seemed to leak. The gossip columns with just enough detail to sting.
The times Jake magically appeared where he shouldn’t have been.
“Your job is to be my assistant, Madison. It’s not to push narratives in the press about my dating life,” I say slowly, testing the shape of the accusation. “Especially with men I’ve deemed aren’t healthy for me.”
Or, I wonder, men who are healthy for me and seem like a threat.
Madison’s expression doesn’t shift, but she closes her laptop with a snap that makes the stylists flinch. “All of this is bigger than love and broken hearts. It’s business, all of it, even if you can’t see it.”
“Maybe you’ve forgotten, Madison, but I’m not just your brand. I’m a person.”
Madison doesn’t flinch. She tilts her head, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Am I the one who forgot that, or are you? Because it’s hard to tell where one stops and the other begins.
You spent years playing games with Jake–writing your little lyrics and teasing audiences, playing hide and seek with the paparazzi.
And now you want me to believe you suddenly don’t want to bring him back in?
Like I haven’t had to clean up after every other breakup you’ve had and spin it into something new? ”
The words land sharp, and I feel them in my chest before I can even form a response.
“Or do you mean every breakup you’ve orchestrated?
” My voice shakes, but doesn’t break. “Because that’s what happened with Jefferson, isn’t it?
You decided it was time for us to end. For me to go back to Jake.
Why? Because what I had with Jefferson was real?
Because for once I was happy and could see a way out of the toxic cycle I was caught in? ”
“You deserved to know the truth,” she says flatly, like she’s explaining a business strategy.
“On your timeline,” I snap back. “For maximum effect.”
The room seems to shrink around us. Stylists pretend to busy themselves, curling irons paused midair, eyes cast anywhere but at us. Madison and I just stare at one another, a different kind of heartache cracking me open from the inside.
It’s not the breakup with Jefferson that ruins me–it’s realizing Madison chose it for me.
The house hums with life. Laughter, glasses clinking, the low swell of a string quartet warming up out back.
The Foundation Ball is always the one night a year when we open our doors, when our home becomes something other than a private place for family.
The lavish gardens are dressed with lanterns, velvet ropes keeping the curious at bay, while moonlight reflects off the water.
It’s flawless. Of course it is. My mother wouldn’t allow anything less.
Everything sparkles under the lights, from the polished marble floors to the towering floral arrangements she’s fussed over for weeks.
It’s the kind of perfection that takes armies of assistants and endless hours of planning.
When I stop at the bottom of the stairs, catching my reflection in the gilded mirror, I almost don’t recognize the girl staring back at me.
I, too, look perfect. The hair is perfect.
The gown is perfect. The smile–the signature red lipstick, plastered on, practiced–perfect too.
But inside, I feel hollowed out. My chest aches with the effort of holding it all together, and the only thing I want in this moment is to crawl back into my bed upstairs, bury myself beneath the covers, and pretend none of it exists.
I want to call Jefferson. I want to hear his voice steady me. But I can’t. Not after everything. Not when Madison’s fingerprints are still smeared all over the wreckage of what we were.
I want answers too–about how much of the last few years was real, how much was orchestrated, manipulated, staged for cameras and headlines. About whether I’ve been living my life, or simply living the story Madison chose for me.
But none of those wants matter tonight.
Tonight isn’t about me. It’s about the Foundation, about the girls and families we support, about the charities that will benefit from every dollar pledged and every photo splashed across glossy magazines tomorrow morning.
It’s about my mother, who has poured herself into this cause with relentless energy.
So I inhale, let the air fill my lungs, and fix that smile in place until it feels like part of me. The show must go on.
“That dress,” I hear over and over, from every guest I stop to smile at. “Absolutely gorgeous. Who is the designer?”
I supply them with the answer, gushing over Bridgette.
She’ll be on every blog by midnight. The hallways are filled with actors wearing expensive watches and surgically smoothed faces.
Athletes in custom fit tuxedos that accentuate the bulk of their shoulders.
Socialites dripping in borrowed diamonds, laughing too loudly, their perfume clouding the air.
Everyone has the same statement when they see me: that dress.
And it is something to talk about. Not like me, not what I’ve worn in the past–the soft silks, the frothy skirts that made me look delicate, approachable, a doll to be posed for photographs.
This one is slinky, liquid silver that clings like it was poured onto me.
The fabric catches the light and throws it back like sparks. It looks like metal. Like armor.
Armor I didn’t even realize how desperately I’d need tonight, until I was standing here, holding myself together under a hundred hungry gazes. While I’d been vacillating between heartbreak and anger, word was spreading about my love life. And now I know why.
The smile starts to ache, so I duck away, sliding past a velvet rope into one of the side gardens. It’s roped off to the guests, but the party noise still trickles in, muffled by hedges and fountains. I draw in a deep breath of warm Miami air, willing my lungs to unclench.
That’s when the faint curl of cigarette smoke drifts toward me.
My father.
He’s leaning against the stone balustrade, one hand in his pocket, the other loosely cradling his cigarette. The glow at the end flares as he takes a drag, his eyes finding me in the shadows. He smiles the way only he can–wry, knowing, amused that he caught me slipping away.
“Hey, Daddy.”
“Hiding out?” he asks, smoke curling from his mouth in a slow exhale. His voice is softer than the world inside the ballroom, stripped of all the pretense. If my mother knew that he was hiding, and smoking, she’d throw a fit.
“Just needed a minute,” I admit.
He nods in quiet understanding. My father’s always been more comfortable in the wings than in the spotlight. He studies me now, his gaze moving past the dress, past the diamonds, past the perfect hair. Past the armor I’ve strapped on just to get through the night.
And I can tell–he sees me. The real me.
“What happened?” he asks.
“That obvious, huh?”
“Probably not to all those people in there, but to me? Yeah.” He frowns. “You’re hurting. Talk to me.”
“I don’t even know where to begin.” Madison? Jefferson? Jake? The last five years? It’s all a blur of manipulation and half-truths, leaving me gaslit, twisted up, and completely out of control.
“Start wherever you want.” He pulls another cigarette from his pack, balancing it between his fingers. “But I’ll warn you–we’ve got maybe half a cigarette before your mother sends out a search party.”
I laugh, a quick, startled sound. He’s always had a way of breaking tension without even trying. So I tell him. A condensed version, quick and messy, spilling out before I can stop myself. He listens without interrupting, just takes a long drag when I finish.
“Out of all that,” he says finally, smoke curling into the night, “what makes you the most upset?”
“Losing Jefferson.” The words slip out before I can filter myself.
“Then focus on that.”
“I’m not sure if it’s that easy.”
“Nothing worth fighting for is easy, Ingrid. You know that better than anyone.”
He’s right, of course. I’ve fought to be seen and to be taken seriously in this industry for years. I’ve fought to be represented, to have ownership. But this is different, isn’t it?
“I’m the one that didn’t allow him to explain himself.” I swallow, throat tight. “I’ve been ignoring him all week. Full-on ghosting. Except now, he hasn’t called in twenty-four hours, so… he probably took the hint. I may have completely screwed this up.”
My father looks at me, steady and certain in a way I’m not. “That’s the thing about love, Ing. If it’s real, it’ll keep finding you. You just have to be ready to receive it.”
“I don’t know if that’s true.”
“With the actors and musicians, maybe not, but a man who chases pucks for a living? Who wants to win more than anything else? I wouldn’t give up on him yet.”
He stubs out the cigarette and hides it under a planter to come back for later, then crooks his arm for me to link with his. I slip mine through, grateful for the quiet solidarity. Maybe I’ve lost my grip on love, maybe I don’t know who to believe anymore–but at least tonight, I know I’m not alone.