19. Blythe
— ? —
Blythe
The tent was enormous. White silk draped from impossible heights, crystal chandeliers casting warm light over the very best of Newport. String quartet in one corner, champagne towers in another, and everywhere I looked, eyes watching to see what would happen next.
Tonight was the night I ended Stan Chadwick.
I had the video on my phone. I had the speech in my head. I had a table full of allies and a husband who’d spent two months helping me dismantle everything my ex-husband had ever built.
All I had to do was stand up and deliver the killing blow.
“Blythe!”
I turned, and Delphine Fairchild was cutting through the crowd toward me, her dark hair swept up, her dress a waterfall of midnight blue. She’d flown in from Paris that afternoon with Heath and their three-year-old, Sophie, specifically for this event.
“Del.” I let her pull me into a hug. “You made it.”
“Of course I made it. Did you think I’d miss the main event?
” She pulled back, her eyes sparkling. “Heath’s parking Sophie with the nanny.
He’ll be here in a minute.” She looked around the tent, taking in the crowd.
“God, I’ve missed Newport drama. Paris is wonderful, but the backstabbing is so much more elegant here. ”
Blair appeared at my other side, glass of champagne in hand. “She’s been vibrating with excitement since we picked her up from the airport.”
“I have not been vibrating.” Delphine accepted a glass from a passing waiter. “I’ve been appropriately anticipatory.”
“You made Will drive faster so we wouldn’t miss anything.”
“Will always drives too slow. It’s a character flaw.”
Heath arrived then, Sophie drowsy on his hip, her small fist clutching his lapel. He nodded at me, his expression warm.
“Blythe. Good to see you.”
“You too, Heath. Thank you for coming.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He shifted Sophie to his other arm. “Del’s been talking about nothing else for weeks.”
“I have excellent priorities.” Delphine kissed her daughter’s forehead. “Go put her down, darling. The fun’s about to start.”
Heath disappeared toward the back of the tent, and we made our way to our table. It was positioned perfectly, center of the room, visible from every angle. Reid was already there with Will, the two of them engaged in what looked like a surprisingly animated conversation about something technical.
Reid looked up when I approached. His eyes went soft.
“You okay?”
“I’m perfect.” I sat down beside him, and his hand found mine under the table. “Ready?”
“Whenever you are.”
We arranged ourselves deliberately: three women at one table, their husbands forming a protective wall in front of them. Delphine on my left, Blair on my right. Reid, Heath, and Will facing outward, watching the room.
The whole tent was watching us.
I could feel it, the weight of every gaze in the tent, the whispered conversations, the frantic speculation about what was about to happen. Everyone knew something was coming. The question was what.
Then the main entrance parted, and Stan walked in.
He was wearing a tuxedo that cost more than most people’s cars. Birdie was on his arm, radiant in white, their baby in her arms. Behind them came Sandrine, regal in champagne silk, her chin lifted like a queen surveying her kingdom.
It was the most beautiful entrance Newport had seen all summer.
And it landed in absolute silence.
No one moved. No one clapped. No one rushed forward to offer congratulations. They just watched, the way you watch a chandelier come loose from a ceiling.
Stan’s smile faltered. Birdie’s eyes darted around the room, looking for friendly faces and finding none. Sandrine’s expression went rigid.
They’d expected a triumphant return. What they got was a wall of turned backs and averted eyes.
Two months of careful work. Two months of whispered conversations and moved accounts and strategic defections. And tonight, finally, the room had made its choice.
They made their way to their table, one of the less desirable ones, near the kitchen entrance, and sat down in isolation.
I smiled.
“Blythe.”
My mother’s name for me, pitched to carry across a crowd. I looked up, and there was Priscilla, emerging from the crowd like a shark scenting blood.
She was dressed impeccably, as always. Pearls at her throat, hair perfectly styled, smile perfectly calibrated. She crossed to our table and laid her hand on my arm like we were the best of friends.
“Darling, you look wonderful.” Her voice was warm, carrying just far enough to be heard by the tables around us. “It’s so good to see you. I’ve been meaning to call-”
I removed her hand from my arm.
“No.”
I said it at conversational volume. Not loud, not dramatic. Just clear enough for every table around us to hear.
Priscilla froze.
“I’m sorry?” Her smile was still in place, but her eyes had gone hard.
“No,” I repeated. “You’re not sitting with us. You’re not talking to me. And you’re not pretending, in front of all these people, that you didn’t hand me divorce papers and a marriage contract in the same hour, in my own kitchen.”
The blood drained from her face.
“Blythe-”
“Go find somewhere else to be, Mother.” I turned back to my sparkling water. “I’m sure someone here will take pity on you.”
She stood there for a long moment, frozen in the middle of the tent. Then she turned and walked away, her spine rigid, her hands shaking.
She had nowhere to sit. No one made room for her at their table. She ended up hovering near the bar, alone, while the whole room pretended not to notice.
“That,” Delphine murmured, “was beautiful.”
“That was necessary.” I took a sip of sparkling water. “Now for the main event.”
The program started. Speeches about charity and community and the wonderful work being done. I barely heard any of it. I was watching Stan’s table, watching him fidget and drink and whisper furiously to Birdie.
Then Delphine was at the podium.
“Thank you all for being here tonight,” she said, three years in France giving the words a particular polish.
“Before we continue, I’d like to invite someone very special to say a few words.
She’s been a friend for many years, and she’s recently taken on a new role that I think we should all acknowledge.
” She smiled. “Blythe Navarro, would you please join me?”
I looked at Reid. He nodded.
I stood up.
The walk to the podium felt endless. A tent full of faces watching me. All of them waiting to see what I would do.
I took the microphone from Delphine. She squeezed my hand and stepped back.
“Thank you, Del.” I looked out at the crowd. “And thank you to everyone for being here tonight.”
Deep breath.
“I’d like to take a moment to thank the board of Chadwick Shipping.” I found their faces in the crowd, seven men scattered across three tables, all of them suddenly very still. “You’ve all been so kind to me over the past year. So patient. So willing to listen.”
They nodded. Uncertain, but nodding.
“And I’d like to thank you for following me into my new chapter.” I smiled. “My new marriage. My new company.”
More nods. More uncertainty.
Stan was watching me now, his face twisted with confusion.
“I know some of you have been wondering about the changes at Chadwick Shipping lately.” I let my gaze drift to Stan’s table. “The departures. The restructuring. The… adjustments to leadership.”
Stan stood up. “What are you doing?”
“I’m thanking your board, Stan.” I kept my voice pleasant. “For their letters of resignation.”
The room went silent.
“All of them,” I continued. “Every member of the board. They’ll be handing in their two weeks’ notice first thing Monday morning.” I paused. “Well. They’ve already told me, of course. I just wanted you to hear it from me.”
Stan’s face went red. “That’s not - they can’t - those are my people-”
“Were your people.” I shrugged. “It turns out nobody much likes it when you show them the company’s books. Especially when the books are terrible. And especially when the debts have nothing to do with the business and everything to do with Stan’s gambling and catastrophic judgment.”
“You’re lying.” His voice was rising. “You’re a lying, scheming-”
“Stan.” I held up my phone. “Let’s not do this here.”
“You think you can come in here and destroy everything I’ve built? You think you can take my company, my reputation, my-”
Birdie was on her feet now, the baby fussing in her arms. “You’re pathetic,” she spat at me. “You’ve always been pathetic. This is just jealousy because I have everything you couldn’t-”
I sighed.
“A cheater will always be a cheater, Birdie.”
I pressed play on my phone.
The projector lit up behind me. The tent went dark. And suddenly, there on the screen, was Stan Chadwick.
Walking down a dock. His arm around a woman who was definitely not my sister. Climbing onto his yacht. Another woman. Another. Date stamps clear on every frame.
The video was forty seconds long. Forty seconds of montage, Stan and models and women in bikinis, laughing, touching, boarding the Anchorage II while his wife was presumably waiting at home.
“Even while you were giving birth,” I said over the images, “he was busy.” I turned to face him. “If I’m remembering right, that night there were three of them. Weren’t there, Stan?”
His face was purple. Birdie was staring at the screen, her mouth open, the baby crying in her arms.
“You’re a human being,” I said, “and your family and my family are no better. You all get exactly what you deserve.”
I turned off the video. The lights came back up.
“Good night.”
I handed the microphone back to Delphine and walked toward my table.
Reid started clapping.
One person. Then two. Then the whole tent, applause building like a wave until it was deafening. People were standing. People were cheering.
I sat down. Reid’s hand found mine.