Chapter 5
Five
ZOE / VICTORIA
“Ladies.” Charlotte rose, her perfect posture somehow even more rigid. “Thank you all for attending the foundation’s summer luncheon.”
I dabbed at my wine-stained blouse—definitely ruined—as the remaining socialites made their graceful exits, leaving only the inner circle: Charlotte, Diana, Margaret, and my wine-soaked self.
“Sarah?” I caught our waitress’ attention. “Could I get the bill for the extra orders?” At Charlotte’s questioning look, I added, “For the rib eyes and everything else that wasn’t on the set menu.”
“Of course, Mrs. Everett. I’ll add it to your house account.”
“Actually…” I pulled out Victoria’s sleek black credit card. “I’ll take care of it now.”
When Sarah returned with the bill, I added tips that made her eyes widen. Her professional mask slipped for just a moment, revealing genuine shock.
“Mrs. Everett, this is… this is too generous?—”
“Consider it hazard pay for aerial wine attacks.” I smiled, adding an extra amount for Marcus. “Speaking of which, could you make sure Marcus gets his share? Tell him it’s for his sister.”
Sarah’s eyes went suspiciously bright. “I… yes, of course. Thank you.”
Marcus, clearing tables nearby, caught my eye. The grateful smile he gave me was worth every digit on that tip line.
In the car, I finally let myself slump against the leather seats. “Peter, if I fall asleep before we reach the spa, just keep driving in circles until I wake up.”
From her seat beside me, Sam tried to hide her smile behind her tablet as Peter chuckled. “Of course, Mrs. Everett. Though perhaps the spa would be more comfortable than circles around Manhattan?”
“Point taken.” I closed my eyes. “Who knew being nice could be more exhausting than a double shift during finals week?”
The moment we entered the spa, I knew something was up. The staff, perfect in their crisp uniforms, all seemed to be stealing glances at me while pretending not to. Phones were hastily tucked away. Whispers followed us down the hallway.
But I was too exhausted to care. The promise of hot stones and aromatherapy beckoned.
“Your usual treatment room is ready, Mrs. Everett,” the spa director murmured, leading us to a peaceful space with soft music and the scent of lavender in the air.
An hour later, I was face down on the most comfortable massage table in existence, soft hands working out knots I didn’t even know I had. The therapist used some fancy French lotion, but damn if it didn’t feel amazing.
Through my blissed-out haze, I noticed more whispers and not-so-subtle phone checking among the staff. But between the massage melting my stress away and the gentle music, I couldn’t bring myself to care.
Instead, my thoughts drifted to dinner. After years of dreaming over cooking shows and fancy food blogs, I had an entire mental menu of dishes I’d always wanted to try.
Maybe that Wagyu beef that had caused such a stir at lunch?
Or real lobster, not the imitation stuff I used to splurge on for special occasions?
“Sam?” I mumbled into the face rest.
“Yes?” She looked up from her corner.
“Remind me to ask Gregory about dinner. Something fancy. And maybe we can sleep in tomorrow? Unless there’s some ungodly early social obligation?”
“Your schedule is clear until noon,” Sam confirmed, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “And nothing pressing in the afternoon.”
“Perfect.” I let myself drift again as the massage therapist worked magic on my shoulders.
A full free day tomorrow. Maybe I could finally meet my beloved Sophia—the actual heroine of my favorite romance novel—in the flesh.
God, how many nights had I spent curled up with The CEO’s Bargain, cheering her on while cursing Victoria’s schemes?
And now here I was, wearing the villain’s face. Talk about your plot twists.
I wondered if she was really as sweet as the book described. Did her emerald eyes actually sparkle when she smiled? Was she truly that adorably clumsy, or had the author taken some creative liberties with the whole coffee-spilling meet-cute?
Technically, I shouldn’t even know about the coffee incident yet—it was supposed to happen next week according to the book’s timeline.
But hey, if I was going to be stuck in this five-star fever dream, I might as well meet my fictional crush.
Even if I had to do it wearing the face of her future nemesis.
The gentle tap-tap of Sam’s tablet was better than a lullaby. Who knew being a socialite would be harder than handling drunk bachelor parties during happy hour? At least drunk college kids were honest about their drama—they didn’t hide it behind passive-aggressive lunch orders.
That’s when I heard Sam’s sharp intake of breath.
“Oh.”
I didn’t like the sound of that oh. In my experience, oh was never good.
Oh was what customers said right before telling you they’d ordered the salmon, not the steak.
Oh was what my old manager said before announcing surprise double shifts.
And now here was Sam’s oh, probably heralding some fresh social disaster.
“Do I want to know?” I asked, not lifting my head from the face rest.
“The lunch incident… it’s gone viral.” Sam’s voice had that careful tone people use when telling you your car’s been towed. “Someone posted the video twenty minutes ago. It’s already trending.”
“Define trending.” Though really, did I want to know?
Sam turned her tablet around. There I was, in all my wine-soaked glory, handling Manhattan’s most entitled catfight with the calm of someone who’d broken up one too many bar brawls. The video showed me literally sending socialites to separate corners like misbehaving kindergarteners at last call.
“Well.” I sighed, watching myself channel five years of service industry experience into managing trust fund tantrums. “At least my form was good. Though maybe next time I’ll duck.”
“Your mother’s office is calling.” Sam winced as notifications started flooding in. “And… there are memes.”
“Memes?” I dropped my head back down as the therapist found a particularly tense spot. “Please tell me they at least made me look good while committing social suicide. Though honestly, between you and me? Victoria’s reputation could probably use a little humanizing.”
She turned her tablet around again. Someone had captioned the moment I sent Harper and Fiona to separate chairs with “When Your Bartender Becomes a Billionaire’s Wife.” Another showed me dabbing wine off my face with “Keep Calm and Bounce Like a Boss.”
My phone started buzzing. Repeatedly. With the enthusiasm of a slot machine hitting jackpot.
“That’ll be your mother,” Sam confirmed. “And your father’s lawyer. And… several morning shows requesting interviews. Page Six wants an exclusive.”
I groaned into the face rest. “Any chance we can blame it all on the moon phase? Mercury in retrograde? A temporary possession by the ghost of Emily Post?” The therapist’s hands paused for a moment—probably trying not to laugh—before continuing their magic.
“No? Well, how about temporary insanity brought on by tragic portion sizes?”
“The younger crowd seems to love it,” Sam offered, still scrolling. “You’re being called surprisingly relatable and queen of handling rich people drama.” A pause. “Though your mother might not see that as a compliment.”
“Fantastic. I’ve gone from social pariah to social media sensation.” I closed my eyes as another knot melted away.
“Should I start drafting responses?”
“Let’s see… Mrs. Everett regrets that her attempt to prevent the waste of perfectly good wine has caused such a stir.
In the future, she recommends saving the Bordeaux for drinking, not accessorizing.
” I snorted at my own joke. “No, probably better to let this one ride out. Besides, I have more important things to think about.” Like meeting my favorite romance heroine tomorrow.
Sam’s tablet pinged again. “Your father’s calling now.”
“Tell him I’m in the middle of a treatment.” I settled deeper into the massage table. “Right now, I’m choosing to focus on the fact that someone is literally being paid to turn my muscles into butter. The rest of Manhattan’s social meltdown can wait.”
The last thing I heard before drifting into what had to be the most expensive nap ever was Sam’s quiet “Yes, Mrs. Everett” and the persistent buzz of what I assumed was upper society having a collective aneurysm.
Well, at least I’d given them something to talk about besides their tragic portion sizes.
I woke up an hour later feeling like I’d melted into a puddle of contentment.
Must be Sunday—my one blessed day off to tackle my weekly to-do list. Let’s see: pay the electric bill before they send another warning, sort through those CVS coupons before they expire, do that mountain of laundry that’s threatening to become sentient, meal prep something that isn’t instant noodles, check if I can stretch my grocery budget by price-matching at three different stores, call my internet provider about that mysterious fee they added, clean the bathroom with whatever’s left of that dollar store cleaner, try to fix that dripping faucet that’s driving up my water bill, cancel that free trial before they charge me, schedule that dental cleaning I’ve been putting off because of the co-pay, and maybe, just maybe, treat myself to a coffee if I can get everything done before the afternoon rush and?—
My eyes snapped open. Wait. Something felt off. The air smelled too… expensive? Like fancy lavender, not my usual knockoff. And since when was my bed this comfortable?
I blinked, taking in my surroundings. Soft lighting. Cream-colored walls. Gentle music floating through hidden speakers. This definitely wasn’t my cramped studio apartment with its perpetually squeaky ceiling fan and the neighbor’s wind chimes that somehow always sounded passive-aggressive.
Everything came flooding back. The spa. The massage. The lunch drama. Victoria Everett’s life.