20. Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
Ava
The Tucker family mansion is bigger than the Summersets’ royal palace, and it’s my mother’s most consistent flex.
A little fact she finds a way to drip into any conversation with someone of the upper class on or off the island.
Although that nugget is closely followed by the revelation that one of her daughters has married into the royal family, has royal children.
The Tuckers are now royalty—the only element of social status she’s never been able to buy, delivered to her by my sister, Maren.
Not that Maren wanted to gift that particular societal jewel to my mother.
She just couldn’t help who she happened to fall in love with.
Of course, my mother never mentions that Maren doesn’t speak to her anymore, that she’s never spent much time with her royal grandchildren.
That her meddling in the lives of her teenage and adult children cost her almost all those relationships.
I wonder, sometimes, how many people on the island have figured out the divide.
They’d never risk Celia Tucker’s wrath by asking.
My mother hoards people’s secrets—her own little currency.
Dalton Worthington is, perhaps, her most high-profile example of how thoroughly she can fuck someone over.
His fall from grace is hot gossip on the whisper network.
No one knows who he assaulted—the records are sealed—but theories abound, most of which are about my sister, Sawyer.
His lengthy stint in jail and his complete removal from high society are enough to make everyone in Bellerive think twice about angering Celia Tucker.
The royals and my husband are likely the only people devious or resourceful enough to survive her mechanisms.
Truthfully, I’ve never been afraid of my mother, but ever since Dalton, I’ve wondered if I should be.
He deserved to be punished, but she went for the metaphorical jugular.
Which might be fine if her interference had appeared to be protective, but her brag to me had been that she stripped his power, made him understand he’d never had any, not that she evened the score for Sawyer. Her favorite role is puppet master.
Across the room, my mother raises her champagne glass in a toast after giving her welcome speech in the grand ballroom. Beside me, Raul raises his glass and downs the whole thing before signaling the nearest waiter for another. I halfheartedly raise mine before taking a small sip.
The wine auction, a yearly benefit for the private school we all attended as kids, is due to start in twenty minutes. By then, Raul might be so drunk I’ll have to peel him off the floor.
Not that I can blame him, really. Our marriage is in shambles, even more than it was before, and The Nile’s union that he never wanted is on strike, taking every opportunity to fuck up his day-to-day operations.
The scab workers he flew in to replace the union are being harassed at all hours.
The other night, our house was sprayed with what Datu told me later was pig’s blood.
It took days of manual labor by a specialized hazardous waste company to wash and scrub the house clean.
The union workers aren’t just mad; they’re almost out of control.
Raul drops his empty glass onto a waitstaff’s tray before swiping a full one, and I take a small sip of the drink I’ve been nursing since we arrived. If we both get drunk, we’ll end up in a fight, and the way we’ve been around each other lately, I’d be afraid of what we’d say.
The auctioneer takes his place on the podium in the ballroom, and he’s giving his preamble about how to bid, what to do if you’re successful, and how the wine will be distributed later when a set of side doors that are normally locked at these events flies open.
Protesters in Halloween costumes storm in. Placards, airhorns, and other noisy instruments flood around the wealthy patrons. There must be at least fifty people in various states of dress, but every one of them has on a mask.
Datu and his partner are at our sides immediately as the protesters stomp around and through the crowd near the front, chanting various slogans about fair wages, legal work practices, and removing scab workers from Bellerive.
“The stench of desperation,” Raul says, sipping his drink and seeming completely unbothered by what’s happening at the front of the room.
One of them dressed like the grim reaper grabs the mic from the auctioneer.
“Raul Santos,” the voice that’s clearly been disguised bellows into the mic. “We will not stop until you negotiate fairly. This is your last warning.”
“My last warning?” Raul shouts back, his tone full of mockery.
“I would not antagonize them, sir,” Datu says from beside me.
“That’s right,” the person at the front says, “your last one.”
“Or what?” Raul continues, ignoring Datu’s advice. “You’ve got nothing, and if you keep up this charade of a strike, you’ll really have nothing.”
“We have served our notice,” the person on the mic says, “and what comes next is of your own making.” The grim reaper steps down and leads the protesters back out the same door they stormed in from. Their noisy chaos echoes around the high ceilings.
“Pathetic. Truly pathetic. When are they going to realize that unionized or not, they’ve got no power?” Raul says with a scoff. “No power or influence over anyone on this island.” He takes another drink from the tray of the nearest waiter while Datu and the other guy scan the crowd.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a familiar stride through one of the huge oceanfront windows. “I need some air,” I murmur.
“We don’t know that they’ve gone yet,” Datu says. “That was clearly a threat—”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, and I really believe that. None of those people hate me. They hate my husband, who’s never been one of my favorite people and is even less so now.
“Ms. Tucker,” Datu says, exasperated.
“Let her,” Raul says.
I head for the door that leads out to the large patio that overlooks the ocean, and I set my drink on a high table as I leave.
The protest was more annoying than anything.
Like Raul, I don’t see any of the workers as being dangerous.
If I knew of a way to win Raul over, I’d feed it to Jenny to give to her husband.
Help the workers that way. But Raul can’t be won.
As soon as I step out the doors, I breathe a sigh of relief. Being in there was starting to feel claustrophobic.
“What is your compulsion for heading toward danger?” a familiar voice says from nearby, his tone irritated.
“I was heading toward you.” I turn to face him, and the orange cocktail dress I’m wearing brushes against my thighs.
“They’re getting bolder, more desperate,” Stephen says, gesturing toward the side entrance. “You shouldn’t be out here without security.”
“It’s a good thing you’re my security then, isn’t it?”
“Technically, I’m not.”
“Because you don’t want to be?”
He shakes his head and scans the area around us, still on higher alert than normal.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask.
“For putting yourself in danger? Yes. Always.”
“No, is that why you’re not part of our security this time? You’re mad at me?”
“Your husband requested that I not be involved this time.”
“But you’re here?”
He breathes out a deep sigh and meets my gaze, but he doesn’t confirm what I already suspect. He’s here because I’m here, because there was a chance I could be in danger.
“Have you been following us this whole time? Out of sight but here?” If that’s true, it bothers me that I haven’t noticed, that the extra sense I always attribute to having Stephen nearby hasn’t gone off.
“What did you tell Raul?” he asks, and I know he means about us from his tone.
“He probably thinks he’s protecting our marriage by keeping you away.”
“Because…?”
“He’s not dumb, Stephen. We’ve been married for six years. He knows what’s normal behavior for me and what’s not.”
He breaks eye contact under the guise of scanning the perimeter again, and I hate that he so easily slips back into work mode as though nothing I say has any significance.
“Have you felt safe enough with your security detail this time?” he asks.
“What if I say no? What then?”
“Don’t play games.”
“It’s been fine,” I say, my voice tight, and I can’t help stepping into his orbit, using proximity to get some kind of reaction.
“If you feel unsafe,” he says, glancing down at me, “text me, and I’ll look after it.”
I’m near enough now to witness the imperceptible ways he’s aware of me too. His eyes are softened, and his shoulders have rolled forward as though prepared to shield me or embrace me. The want flaring inside me is almost unbearable. If only I could turn back time.
“Stephen,” I whisper, a plea for I don’t even know what.
There’s this ache since he returned that I can’t satisfy.
Or maybe it was always there, but I got so used to suppressing it, ignoring it, refusing to recognize it that all those boxed-up feelings are spilling everywhere.
Making a mess of my life. Whether he’s near or not, I long to be closer. He’s constantly invading my thoughts.
“Isn’t this cozy?” Raul grits out, his voice an octave deeper, more menacing than I’ve ever heard it. He can be cruel when he’s had too much to drink, but goose bumps rise on my arms at how furious a simple question can sound.
On instinct, I step away from Stephen, which probably makes me look guilty. And I am guilty. “It’s not—”
“What I think?” Raul says, stalking toward us.
“No? More lies, Ava? It’s one thing to whore around where I can’t see, but right in front of my nose?
Eye fuck him for all our friends and colleagues to see?
” He grabs my arm in a tight squeeze, and I stumble, surprised.
“Do you have so little respect for all I’ve given you? ”
“Raul!” Tears and pain mingle in that one word.
“You need to remove your hand from Ms. Tucker,” Stephen growls.