Chapter 4 #3
Two things happened at once. Fiona threw her wine, and Harper ducked with surprisingly good reflexes for someone who probably hadn’t eaten a carb in five years. And I, still playing peacekeeper like an idiot, got a face full of what probably cost more than a week’s worth of tips at La Bella Notte.
The gasps around the room could have powered a small wind farm.
Through wine-stained lashes, I saw phones everywhere, all pointed at what should have been Victoria Everett’s nuclear meltdown.
At the back of the room, I caught a glimpse of Sam trying to push through the wall of designer dresses and raised phones, her usually composed face twisted with concern.
But the crowd of socialites, eager for their front-row seats to Victoria Everett’s public humiliation, was too thick for her to break through.
Right. Because Victoria Everett probably hadn’t been hit with anything stronger than imported mineral water in her life. But they weren’t dealing with Victoria anymore. They were dealing with a woman who’d broken up more fights than these girls had broken nail appointments.
I calmly wiped my eyes and straightened to my full height. “Right!” My voice cut through the shocked silence with the authority of someone who’d handled St. Patrick’s Day bar crawls. “Both of you, sit down. Now!”
Fiona and Harper froze, clearly not used to being addressed like misbehaving freshmen at last call.
“But she—” Harper started.
“Sit!” I pointed to separate chairs, using my don’t test me, I’ve worked triple shifts voice. To my satisfaction—and apparently everyone’s shock—they sat.
“Now,” I continued, pulling a server’s trick and dabbing the wine with my white napkin, “let’s talk about what’s really happening here. Bradley Thompson?”
Victoria’s memories flooded in: Bradley at the country club last month, wearing salmon-colored shorts and calling himself an “entrepreneur” while living off his trust fund.
The guy who’d shown up to the Vanderbilt charity gala in boat shoes and tried to convince the board members that his online following made him an “influencer investor”—right before passing out in the coat check.
“The guy who still plays beer pong at his mom’s pool house and thinks investing means following meme stocks?” I arched an eyebrow, channeling every disappointed manager I’d ever worked under. “Really?”
Several younger socialites snorted with laughter. The rest of the room stayed silent, probably trying to process Victoria Everett handling a wine facial with the calm of a seasoned bartender.
“How did you—” Harper started.
“Know all this?” I crossed my arms, wine still dripping from my chin.
“Ladies, I’ve worked enough happy hours to spot a man-child from a mile away.
The type who calls himself a self-made success while his mom still does his laundry, makes his dentist appointments, and pays off his bar tabs.
” I brushed away a drop of wine from my collarbone.
“Trust me, I’ve served better prospects during happy hour—at least they knew how to work a washing machine and didn’t need mommy’s credit card to pay their bill. ”
Both women stared at me like I’d just suggested they shop at outlet malls. Around us, phones were still recording, probably capturing the first time in history someone had managed to make Manhattan’s most entitled socialites actually sit down and listen.
“But he’s—” Fiona tried.
“Not worth the wine you just wasted,” I cut her off. “Trust me, I’ve kicked better guys out of bars at two a.m.” I glanced at my ruined silk blouse. “Though next time you want to throw drinks at each other, maybe go for something cheaper? I hear that’s more Bradley’s style anyway.”
Security finally arrived, looking utterly confused about what to do with a situation that had apparently resolved itself. Charlotte took charge, directing them to escort Harper out while shooting me looks that suggested she was questioning everything she knew about Victoria Everett.
“Did Victoria just…” Margaret whispered.
“Handle that like a professional bouncer?” Diana finished faintly.
“While dragging Bradley Thompson in front of everyone,” Charlotte added, sounding like she needed several mimosas and possibly a reality check.
I pretended not to hear them, focused on getting the worst of the wine out of my silk blouse.
Sam had finally managed to reach me, her tablet forgotten as she fussed over my ruined outfit with barely concealed relief that I hadn’t actually murdered anyone with my bare hands.
The sudden realization that all those phones had been recording made my stomach flip.
Well, at least I had that spa appointment to look forward to.
And hey—red wine was supposed to be good for the skin, right?
Though probably not when applied at high velocity.
Sam was going to have a field day with this one. And Jason… well, I could only imagine what he’d think when he saw his perfectly poised wife handling a wine-throwing incident with the efficiency of a veteran waitress.
At least I hadn’t dropped any f-bombs. That was progress, right?