Chapter Three
CHAPTER
Three
In my previous life, I didn’t spend a lot of time in libraries.
Public libraries, at least—the amount of gold shining in a place like the Morgan Library had made it a great place for photos that brought out the flecks of gold in my brown eyes, especially when it was after hours and I could dim the lighting as much as I wanted.
But public libraries, full of free books and clunky desktop computers and…
the public? No. If I wanted a book or a computer, I just bought it.
If I wanted to become conversational in ASL or access a career network, I’d hire a tutor or DM one of my millions of followers who could help.
So when Vienna had first suggested the New York Public Library as a location for the gala, I’d been exceedingly skeptical.
“I toured the local branch after my parents made a big donation on my behalf,” I said, deciding not to mention that it had been after I’d broken in at night on a party dare to steal the porniest book I could find (who knew the library would have security when the books were all free anyway?).
“The carpet was brown and looked like it smelled like mushrooms, and the ceiling was drop and paneled, and the books were just regular books, not even pretty gold-foiled special editions that would look good with gala attire.”
“I was thinking the main branch,” Vienna said, and…
oh, that made more sense. I hadn’t been to a gala there in ages, probably since prepuberty, which was why it hadn’t been top of mind—the kind of organizations that held galas in spaces like libraries didn’t tend to want Pomona Afton on the invite list. “Not only is it a beautiful space, but I think holding it there would be good publicity for you. All payments to use the space go toward the library itself, and pretty much all of your scholarship recipients use the library, so it’s almost like you’re making a double donation. ”
Pomona Afton, doubly generous. I liked the sound of that.
And I loved the way the New York Public Library looked right now, its tall white pillars aglow in the dusk.
The famous pair of lions, Patience and Fortitude, guarded the entrance.
People raised phones and cameras in the air as I posed against the backdrop emblazoned with THE POMONA AFTON FOUNDATION.
The people taking pictures shouted intelligent questions about my organization’s mission and what advice I would give to students looking to apply for one of my scholarships and what fillings I’d selected for my signature pink donuts this evening.
JUST KIDDING. “Pom, now that you and Vienna are friends again, can you tell us about your fight?” “Pom, now that Opal’s been sentenced to life in prison, do you think any of your other friends might be murderers too?” “Pom, there’s a rumor going around that you’re pregnant, can you confirm?”
Why were the rumors always that I was pregnant and not that I was, say, perfectly happy being a cat parent for now?
But I couldn’t yell or even calmly contradict them without them starting rumors that I was on that new drug that made your skin incredibly dewy and your eyelashes long and lush in exchange for wild mood swings.
So I just smiled and posed and stuck to my canned lines about how delighted I was to be kicking off my very first nonprofit with all of my nonmurderer family and friends, and then I was whisked inside to the main hall.
My heels clacked on gray-veined marble, which also shone up the walls and alllll the way above me in the cavernous domed ceiling.
Elegant staircases soared upward to a veranda overlooking the main space, which was scattered with round white tables and glittering with candles refracted through the light of champagne flutes.
“It looks incredible,” I said, turning to Vienna, but she was already striding in the other direction. To do what? The gala hadn’t even officially started yet. Barely anyone was even here.
I turned back when someone clapped me on the shoulder so hard that a less adept heel-wearer might have toppled.
“Pomona Afton,” someone roared in my ear, someone who—I wrinkled my nose—had already consumed enough whiskey to the point where I was glad there weren’t any open flames at mouth level.
“You look absolutely gorgeous in that dress.”
I managed to plaster on a smile by the time we made eye contact, but only because I had the extra few seconds it took him to raise his eyes up from my boobs. “Good evening, Mr. Phlume,” I said. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
He puffed up his chest, which I had on good authority was already puffed up via inserts to make his slim frame a little more imposing.
Other than the slimness it seemed no personal trainer or customized diet could conquer, he was average-looking in every way: dishwater-brown hair; ordinary features; a scruffy beard he probably thought made him look a little more interesting but that just looked unkempt.
“How could I miss a gala honoring yours truly?”
I couldn’t help but bristle a little bit at that. Excuse me, but this gala was honoring me truly.
And the kids.
I forced that smile to go brighter, brighter, brighter than the sun. For the kids. Because helping those kids meant making him happy. “You are absolutely the guest of honor,” I said. “I hope you’ve got your grand speech ready.”
I had mic-cutting power and would use it if he started talking about how he’d grown up working hard and earning everything he had and that was all my scholarship kids had to do too.
Conrad Phlume had made all his money the old-fashioned way: by inheriting it.
His father was descended from some oil baron or something and bought up a bunch of real estate in the city back when it was cheap, then started letting his son manage his holdings before passing them down altogether.
Getting lectured to work hard by someone who’d never worked hard in their life was extremely annoying. Or so Gabe has told me.
That family wealth had been enough to keep the invitations coming, despite his increasingly boorish personality.
Apparently he’d always been annoying, but had taken a hard turn into intolerable a few years ago after falling down some conspiratorial Facebook rabbit hole.
Giving me a building at a big, splashy, widely publicized event was his way of buying his ticket back in, because everybody else would start hoping he’d give them a building too.
I wondered how many buildings Opal would have to buy someone to be invited to their gala.
Probably one, because, being real, my crowd had short memories and really loved money, even if they liked to pretend that they were above it.
In a way, even though we never talked about money, all we talked about was money.
Pardon me. Sometimes, since rising like a resplendent phoenix from the ashes of my before-life, I liked to wax philosophic.
Probably something about growing more mature.
Anyway, I’d kept Conrad Phlume’s involvement on the down-low in preparation for the grand announcement tonight, and also because I didn’t want people to no-show so that they wouldn’t have to hang out with him.
Maybe I shouldn’t have kept it secret, though—my parents had been ahead of the curve and had never invited him to any of their galas, despite his wealth.
Same with my grandmother, which was maybe the one thing she and my mother had ever agreed on.
If they knew he was coming, maybe they wouldn’t show.
Honestly, it served them right. Maybe I should even seat them near Conrad. He’d think it was an absolute honor to be seated with the parents of the gala-thrower. That would teach them to RSVP.
Quite cheered, I gave Conrad what was now a genuine smile.
I’d totally missed what he’d been blathering on about, so hopefully I wasn’t smiling about something horrible, like the time I’d pretended I knew French at a party with the Belgian ambassador’s son so that he’d think I was cool and cultured and later found out I’d been nodding and smiling along to his story about his family’s collection of artifacts they’d stolen from various colonized countries in an assortment of horrible, blood-soaked ways.
Though, as it turned out, an undercover Interpol officer had been at the party in hopes of finding some of those artifacts, and the son’s attempt to impress me had ended with several of those artifacts getting returned.
Really, that whole saga should have ended with INTERPOL giving me an award and maybe a really cool piece of art (not stolen).
“Lovely,” I told Conrad. Mental note: tell that story to more people tonight to demonstrate how cultured and altruistic and clever I am.
(Mental footnote: leave out the part where I had no idea what I was hearing.) “Please, have a drink. The champagne is very good, but they’re slinging a signature cocktail in my honor too.
” The Pomona Afton: a little sweet, a little spicy, and deceptively strong.
Also, pink. “And let me know if there’s anything else that you need.
” I stepped away before he could actually tell me anything else that he needed.
I kind of wanted a The Pomona Afton, but had to keep my mind sharp tonight.
Also, I had to greet the people who were filtering in.
I shook hands, smiled wide, gave plummy, practiced laughs to old, tired jokes, and said “no comment” to every nosy person who asked about Opal.
I also dodged waiters, who were starting to circle the room with trays of tuna tartare on sesame crackers and tiny avocado toasts topped with roe.
Old Pom wouldn’t have acknowledged them except to shoot annoyed glances their way if they stepped into her path; New Pom made sure to smile if they caught her eye.