1. Grace
Grace
EIGHT MONTHS LATER—AUGUST
They say life is made up of choices. Day in and day out, we make decisions, even unknowingly, that impact the entire trajectory of our lives.
A ripple effect of sorts.
I made bad choices and now I was paying the price.
I stood frozen in The Plaza’s gift shop, taking in how my face was plastered on more than a few papers and magazines on the racks. I was stunned. Surely, people had other things to talk about besides me.
“Baring it all. Grace Harrington goes topless on a millionaire’s yacht.”
“‘Grace’ful Dead. NYC socialite ‘kills’ her sister.”
“Fall from Grace. Party girl hits rock bottom.”
“Pity party at The Plaza. Grace Harrington in hiding.”
“Mommy Dearest. Distraught Jacqueline Harrington gives her statement.”
“Golden no more? Grant Abernathy cuts ties with Grace Harrington.”
Here I was, standing in a gift shop with my sunglasses on and a scarf around my head like a grandmother as a disguise. The biggest disaster that could occur would be if I were recognized. I glanced around and thankfully only saw a few patrons.
I never thought I would be bothered by being the center of attention.
Once upon a time, I relished the spotlight shining on me.
Now, I just wanted to fly under the radar.
I grabbed a few of the magazines with my face on them along with some travel brochures.
I needed to pretend I was somewhere else.
I walked away from the stand and proceeded to pay the cashier for the stack in my hands, ready to get back to my room and out of sight.
The headlines were a reminder that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape my past. I was really trying to change from that girl I had been before things got so out of hand.
I was once New York’s IT girl. Everyone wanted to be me. Now, they all didn’t want to know me.
I walked through the lobby of the hotel, and as my gaze caught on the hustle and bustle going on outside the front windows, I was filled with a sense of belonging mixed with a touch of loneliness.
The city used to be a magical place. It had this chokehold on many, where it seemed like the second you left the island, it was as if you self-destructed.
My life was currently in limbo because being spotted with me had become the worst possible scenario, so most of the people from my old life avoided me like the plague.
Staying home and lying low were foreign concepts for me, which given that I was a former party girl and high-profile socialite made sense.
I mingled with the best of the best. Not a weekend went by that wasn’t filled with parties on yachts, fashion shows, cocktail hours, fundraisers …
the list went on. On the outside, my life looked perfect and glamorous.
But realistically, it was isolating, and I couldn’t shake the feeling like things were supposed to be different.
Maybe I was the one that was supposed to be different?
My attention returned to my surroundings, taking in the ornate details of the chandeliers and artwork along the walls.
The Plaza was an oasis—it felt like a fortress away from the world, yet it was in the heart of Manhattan.
All in all, my suite here was a nice place to stay for a self-imposed exile.
Not to mention that Julia and I loved Eloise as kids.
We would dream about running away to live at The Plaza. We even tried to once.
After the scandal, I couldn’t go back to the brownstone that my father, Simon, had purchased for my twenty-first birthday.
It was too much of a reminder of everything I had and everything I would never have again.
It was on the market but I’d yet to get a decent offer.
A month after Julia’s passing, I checked myself into a “wellness” program.
I didn’t have anywhere else to turn. When I was done with the program, ending up at The Plaza felt like a no-brainer.
As a child, it felt magical, but as an adult, it had become a security blanket.
“Good morning, Miss Harrington,’’ the young bellhop said. As he pressed the button to the elevator for me, his eyes gave me a once-over, landing on the tabloids clutched against my chest. A smirk spread across his face.
The smile I’d plastered on my face in response to his greeting began to fall before I schooled my features.
People like him thought they knew me, but the reality was, all they knew was a convoluted version of me.
Nobody paid attention long enough to get to know me.
They didn’t see my pain, or how taxing it was to have to always be “on.”
Over the past few months, I’d experienced loss, made a shit ton of mistakes, and hurt not only myself but people I loved.
I hid it all, but I was tired of doing it.
The old Grace was not the Grace I wanted to be anymore.
As I stepped into the elevator, I resolved it was time for me to start making better choices.
I was aware it would take a while for people to see me differently, but it couldn’t be that hard to reinvent myself. Could it?
As the elevator climbed the floors, I started to make a mental list of all the things I needed to work on to steer my life in a different direction.
I was unemployed and had zero direction.
Every brand I’d worked for, or still had connections with, had recently dropped me like a bad habit.
I was living in a hotel indefinitely and would eventually need to work out a more permanent living situation.
I had some money saved from my trust and my modeling and sponsorships, but I had to be smart about spending it. I felt very alone.
The more I thought about how things weren’t going my way, the sadder I became.
Wanting to shake myself out of my pity party as soon as I entered my room, I went over to the bar area and poured myself a bourbon.
Maybe I could call a friend. I’d avoided them recently and nobody had heard from me since my “fall from grace,” and I certainly hadn’t heard from anyone.
To all my former associates, to my family, I was a stain on their perfectly manicured lives.
Everybody loved a scandal until you were the one who was scandalous.
Then they ran and whispered behind your back.
One of the only ones who acted like she would stick by me was Cordelia Kensington.
She was currently the face of multiple fashion houses, and she was regularly invited to Paris Fashion Week.
Her family owned a major processed food company and retired to their Bridgehampton house.
We’d known each other since we were twelve, before I got sent to boarding school, having gone to the same prep school.
We dominated the party scene for years before my reputation was tarnished.
I pressed her name in my phone and prayed that she would answer. Hotel rooms were lovely, but they were also isolating, so it would be nice to have one person to talk to.
“Hello,” she answered in her typical nasally voice. She hadn’t sounded the same ever since she’d gotten her third nose job. According to her, the allergies she suffered were unbearable.
“Hi, girl, I’m back!” I held my breath, fighting the urge to bite my nails.
“Grace? Is that you?” Cordelia asked, sounding puzzled.
That bitch must have deleted my number. “Yes, Cordelia, it’s me.” I huffed, getting annoyed, and stared at the candy on the mini bar. Maybe I could eat my feelings.
“How are you? Oh my God. Does your mother know you’re finally taking calls? You know Jacqueline was so worried before she left for her retreat. We ran into each other getting injections. You know that tiny Med Spa on 51st? Anyway, she and I got to talking. It’s been too long, hun.”
“Wanna grab a drink? We can meet downstairs at the Champagne Bar?” I almost sounded desperate, as I swirled the drink in my hand. Drinking alone wasn’t my vibe, not anymore.
“G, I can’t risk anyone seeing me or worse—photographing me—with you. You know how it is. Both of us shouldn’t suffer for your mistakes. Sorry, honey. If you want, I can come to your suite. We can order room service and harass the cute bellmen, just like old times.” She laughed.
I groaned and walked over to the couch, collapsing onto it. Who knew making plans with “friends” needed to be this strategic?!
“You know what, Cordelia, actually I’m pretty tired. I’ll call you later in the week and maybe we can set something up. Privately, of course!”
My oldest friend was not the pillar of support I’d hoped she’d be. Then again, nobody was. After all, I’d been wallowing since losing Julia.
“See, you understand! Great, Grace, talk soon.” Cordelia hung up and I looked around the empty hotel room.
“Fuck,” I muttered to the bare walls. I couldn’t believe this was my life. I set the glass on the end table and rose from the couch, trying to resist the urge to throw my phone at the wall. There would be time for that later.
In an attempt to adjust my attitude, I changed into my pajamas.
I had a trunkload of clothes and other belongings sent over to the hotel when I moved in a few months ago.
I really didn’t want to have to go back to my place if I could manage, so I hired people to pack whatever essentials I needed from my house.
The rest of my crap could wait until I was ready to sift through it.
I tousled my hair after undoing my messy bun, my signature unruly blonde hair falling around my shoulders.
I was a natural brunette, but my toxic mother would berate me for not having blonde hair like her or my sister so I dyed it in sixth grade so I would be “more desirable.” What a crock of shit.
Now I was too lazy to dye it back. Maybe I’ll grow it out.
Just as I turned on the television, my phone buzzed on the nightstand and I pulled it out to answer without looking at the caller ID. “Hello,” I muttered into the phone, expecting it to be Cordelia with a crappy apology.
“Grace,” the voice on the other end said, annoyance evident in their tone. Or was it the feeling that this was an inconvenience that I was sensing?
“Mother, to what do I owe this call?” I groaned, looking around for the remote to mute the reality show playing in the background.
The last I’d heard from her, she had told me she was going to be “unreachable” since she was joining some spiritual retreat in the desert, where the attendees did ayahuasca and cried about their past traumas.
It’d sounded like my version of hell, but to each their own.
Only God knew why she was calling me. To berate me, no doubt.
“Grace, I’ll have you know I broke away from our trauma ritual to call you.
Technically, we aren’t even allowed to use the phone, but when I told them I was calling you , they understood.
Everyone knows about you, honey. You should have seen the looks they gave me.
They were worried about you … for you. I’ve told you time and time again, you need to book an interview and start making things right.
The longer you wait, the less forgiving people are going to be,” Jacqueline scolded.
I could visualize the resigned look on her face.
Jacqueline Harrington was a character. Money and status were all that mattered to her.
She would then drown herself in wellness rituals to forget what an empty shell her life was.
She wanted so desperately to have me lined up on some “apology tour” as if I needed to explain myself to anyone.
Meanwhile, Jacqueline never let me explain my version of events to her.
I took a deep breath and remembered my mantra, repeating it in my head to calm myself down. She’s not going to change. The only thing you can control is yourself.
“Mom, I’ve told you time and time again, no interviews. I can’t. I can’t talk about any of it. I won’t,” I answered, closing my eyes and shaking my head even though she couldn’t see me. Even when she was in front of me, I didn’t think she ever saw me.
Whoever I was.
Jacqueline inhaled deeply, and I could already tell that she was going to say what a disappointment I’d become. “Grace, I’m so disappointed. Everything we worked so hard for will be for nothing.”
I couldn’t hear this again. Everything was already a reminder of my failures.
“Oh, Mom, I’m getting another call,” I lied, sighing while flipping my hair over my shoulder. “Enjoy your rituals.”
“Okay, honey. I have to get back for our birth chart reading anyway. Goodbye, Grace.” The line went dead, and I stared at the wall for several minutes. What the hell was I doing? In New York. In my life.
Julia was right. This world was toxic. I was toxic. I was lost in it all. I was becoming my mother.
I had fallen too far. I wasn’t going to pretend climbing out would be easy, but I was done sitting in the wreckage. I had to try to get out or else I was going to be buried.
Sometimes, the hardest part of falling is not the crash, but actually getting back up.