Chapter 18 Abbie #2
"The cynicism is a load-bearing wall. If I remove it, the whole structure collapses."
"Dramatic. I love it." Her phone buzzes again. She glances at it, frowns slightly. "Roberto says there are people outside."
"More delivery drivers?"
"No. He says they have cameras."
My stomach clenches. "Paparazzi?"
"Probably. The interview went live this morning. Someone must have tipped them that this is your office."
"Great. Perfect. Exactly what I needed."
I look down from the window. Four cameras point toward our door.
"Ignore them," Wren says. "We'll use the back entrance until they get bored."
"They won't get bored. Not with—" I gesture vaguely at the flowers surrounding us. "All of this feeding the story."
"Then we'll wait them out. It's not like we have anywhere to be."
I have a presentation deck to finish for Wednesday. I open it.
"I'm going to finish the Meridian deck," I announce, settling back into my chair. "Forward any delivery calls to my voicemail. And don't let anyone up here who doesn't have an appointment."
"Aye aye, captain." Wren salutes with her coffee mug. "I'll hold down the fort while you pretend to be productive."
"I'm not pretending. I'm actually going to work."
"Sure you are."
I stare at the presentation file for five minutes without absorbing a word.
I'm halfway through slide nine when the door opens and my sister walks in.
Delaney pushes a stroller through the door, hair and makeup perfect. Behind her, like a shadow made of Chanel No. 5 and disappointment, is our mother.
"Surprise," Delaney says, but her smile doesn't reach her eyes.
Wren stands immediately. "Sorry, the office isn't open for visitors—"
"It's fine," I hear myself say, though it's very much not fine. "They're family."
The word tastes like ash in my mouth.
"The photographers outside were very accommodating," my mother says, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve. "They seemed quite interested in our arrival."
"I bet they did."
Her son sleeps in the stroller. I can’t tell who he looks like.
I point toward the stairs. "You brought cameras. Let's not waste them."
I lead them outside. Delaney lifts her son while Roberto helps Wren bring the stroller down, and I wait on the sidewalk until my sister settles him back inside. The cameras rise.
"We're here to discuss your husband's son," my mother announces, like she's reading from a prepared statement.
"Gray doesn't have a son."
"The rumors—"
"Are lies. Which you'd know if you'd read the Vanity Fair interview that published this morning, but I'm guessing you don't read anything that doesn't confirm what you've already decided to believe."
My mother's jaw tightens. Delaney looks away, adjusting the stroller's blanket with unnecessary precision.
"Abbie." Constance's voice takes on that particular tone, like I'm too stupid to understand. "I know you want to believe the best of him. You always have. But the evidence—"
"What evidence? Tabloid speculation? Anonymous sources? Which specific piece of evidence are you referring to, Mother, because I'd love to see it."
"There are photographs—"
"Of him standing near a woman. That's not evidence of a child. That's not evidence of anything except the existence of cameras."
"The timing of this interview is suspicious. He's clearly trying to get ahead of a story."
"Or he's telling the truth."
Constance laughs, a short, sharp sound that makes my skin crawl. "You're not this naive, Abigail. You can't be. A man like Grayson Valentine, with his resources, his appetites—"
"What appetites?" I plant my feet. "What specifically are you accusing him of? Say it plainly. Say the words."
She doesn't. She just looks at me with that familiar expression, pity and condescension wrapped in maternal concern.
"We're trying to help you," Delaney says quietly. "Before this gets worse."
"Worse how? Worse for who?" I round on her. "You're the one who brought paparazzi to my workplace. You're the one making this a scene."
"I didn't bring them—"
"They were tipped off. Someone told them you'd be here."
Delaney has the grace to look uncomfortable. My mother doesn't.
"Perhaps some public pressure would help you see reason," Constance says. "You've always been stubborn about the wrong things."
"The wrong things." I laugh, and it sounds unhinged even to my own ears. "You mean my marriage. My choices. Anything I've ever done that you didn't personally approve."
"I mean your refusal to protect yourself. To demand better."
"From who? From Gray?" I gesture at the flowers waiting beside the door. "This is what demanding better looks like. Him trying. Him showing up. Him saying publicly, on the record, that he made mistakes and he's trying to fix them."
"Flowers," my mother scoffs. "A romantic gesture and a pretty interview. That's all it takes?"
"No. It's not all it takes. But it's a start, which is more than you've ever given me."
Her expression shifts. "Excuse me?"
"You raised me to be furniture," I say, and the words feel like they've been waiting my whole life to be spoken.
"To sit quietly in the corner and look presentable and never ask for anything that might inconvenience anyone.
And you're furious, absolutely furious, that I got up.
That I walked away from the chair you picked out for me and built something of my own. "
"That's not—"
"It's exactly what happened. You wanted me married well and managed well and you got Gray Valentine, who was supposed to be the ultimate prize.
Except he wasn't manageable, and neither was I, and when things got hard you didn't offer support.
You offered criticism. You told me I should have tried harder, been more accommodating, looked the other way like a good wife is supposed to. "
"I told you to protect your interests—"
"You told me to stay in a marriage that was making me miserable.
You told me my feelings were less important than appearances.
And now that I've finally found my footing, now that I'm building something real without your help or your approval, you show up with cameras outside and accusations you can't back up and call it helping. "
Silence. Delaney shifts uncomfortably. The baby stirs in the stroller, makes a soft sound, settles back down.