10. Consequences #2
“It tastes like nail polish remover,” she’d groaned, and Riley laughed so hard she nearly fell off the bed.
And the quieter moments. Before life got complicated.
Before divorce and distance and everything else tore us apart.
Philippa sitting behind me, patiently braiding my hair because I couldn’t get it to behave—her fingers gentle, her voice soft as she told me stories about what life would be like when we were grown.
I swallow, glancing down at the empty page in front of me.
Maybe that’s what I need to say. Not about the version of Philippa everyone else sees—but the one who chased wombats, braided my hair, and snuck vodka even though she swore she’d never do anything unladylike.
The real Philippa. My sister.
And just like that, the words—and the tears—pour out. By the time I’m done, it feels…healing.
Maybe—for once—I can stop being a whiny bitch and just enjoy this for what it is: a celebration of something that means so much to her.
Successful in my task, I take my time readying myself for the evening, choosing a black silk dress that Philippa and I picked out together. I style my hair in neat, ironed curls; a jewel barrette fastened to one side.
There’s a soft knock at the door. Probably Riley.
“Come in,” I call, leaning toward the mirror to swipe a final gloss over my lips.
The door creaks open, and when I glance behind my shoulder—my father is standing there.
Mortimer Montgomery, in all his perfectly pressed, uptight glory. His blue eyes glinting.
“Elena,” he says, stepping inside like he’s not entirely sure he’s welcome.
I straighten, smoothing my hands down the front of my dress.
“Father.”
He hovers by the entrance for a moment before closing the door behind him, glancing around the room as though he’s inspecting it. I brace for some comment about the accommodations—but he keeps it to himself, surprisingly.
“I wanted to speak to you before all the…festivities begin.” His voice is quieter than usual, and when I meet his gaze, there’s something almost…soft?
I raise a brow but keep my face neutral. “Alright.”
He clears his throat, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. “I wanted to say—I’m proud of you, Elena. I know I don’t say it enough.”
This is unexpected.
“I’ve been following everything—the album, the tour. I’m glad to see it’s going well.”
He gives a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Although it would’ve been nice to get an invitation to the show.”
Guilt rises in my throat, sharp and unwelcome.
He’d never supported my music before—so why now?
“I wasn’t really sure it was your scene,” I say with a shrug.
Something flickers behind his eyes—hurt, maybe. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. You can never tell with Mortimer. He’s not exactly an open book.
He’s my father only in blood. In truth, I know little about him beyond his empire and his affairs.
“Maybe next time,” I offer, half-heartedly.
“I hope so,” he says softly, fiddling with his cufflinks—his usual tell when he’s nervous or treading lightly. “So, what’s this I hear about you and Cooper Witney?”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the tabloids.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. He comes from a good family.”
Good family, meaning old money—and someone with his stamp of approval.
“Yeah, well, too bad he’s a sleaze.”
“What do you mean? The Witneys have always been a respectable family.”
“This isn’t the 1800s. Cooper’s just another entitled rich douchebag with more money than sense—and zero respect for women.”
Mortimer’s expression tightens. “Did he hurt you?”
His reaction takes me by surprise.
“No.”
“Good,” he says simply, though his jaw flexes.
He hesitates then, as if he’s working up to something.
“And…I’m sorry. About what happened with the actor.”
There it is.
“Are you?”
He nods once but doesn’t elaborate. Or maybe he doesn’t want us to end up in a fight.
“I appreciate that.” I sigh, forcing a weak smile, even though every part of me wants to throw it in his face. Why would he be sorry when he wanted us to break up? He got what he wanted.
But I know this is just another one of his carefully timed gestures—a way to smooth things over for Philippa’s sake.
Though a small, traitorous part of me curses myself. Because even now, I can’t ignore how much I’ve wanted to hear those words.
“I know I haven’t always been…the father you needed,” he adds softly, almost like an afterthought.
I look away for a second, blink fast, then find my polite smile again. “We’re all doing our best, right?” I say in the voice I save for answering uncomfortable questions in interviews.
He nods satisfied.
As he turns to leave, he pauses at the door, glancing back. “You look beautiful, Elena.”
“Thank you.”
I’m not sure what stings more—finally hearing the words I’ve wanted for so long, or realizing they might be empty.
Maybe they’ll never mean what I need them to.
When the door clicks shut behind him, I let out a long breath. The gloss on my lips still perfect, even if my thoughts are a mess.
Best behavior.
I make my way down to the Glass Ballroom, and it’s already buzzing—the soft hum of conversation, the clink of champagne flutes, the glow of candlelight catching the gold-leaf walls.
The space is beautiful, of course. Everything in Philippa’s world always is.
Tall windows frame the dusky sky. Clusters of white and deep burgundy flowers fill the room with a heavy, sweet scent. A string quartet plays a cover of “Young and Beautiful” by Lana Del Rey in the corner as servers glide through the crowd with silver trays of drinks.
I take a glass of bubbly from the nearest tray—liquid courage to steady my nerves.
I take my time, scanning the crowd, pretending I’m not searching for Broderick.
And when I do?
God, he looks good.
Leaning against the bar, drink in hand, dark suit tailored within an inch of its life.
Our eyes meet for the briefest second—a flicker of heat, sharp and familiar—before we both look away, pretending we haven’t noticed each other.
A part of me wants to go to him, but I plant my heels into the ground. Resisting the way my body pulls toward him.
Andrew and Philippa stand at the center of it all—he in a classic tux with an emerald-green bowtie, matching her gown. She’s radiant in deep-emerald. Her eyes land on me quickly, throwing me a small polite smile.
Although, every time my eyes meet Broderick’s, I get butterflies.
For most of the night, we keep our distance.
He sticks close to Andrew, playing Best Man.
I float between family I haven’t seen in years and strangers, all of them wanting to talk about my sister, or my album, the tour—thankfully, no one brings up Alex, though I can tell a few girls from Philippa’s circle are dying to ask for the dirty details of our public uncoupling.
My Aunt Rebecca—by marriage, thank God—corners me, insisting her nephew would be an ideal match.
That’s the problem with families on the Four Hundred list: they’ve spent generations recycling each other’s bloodlines.
The Astors, the Vanderbilts, the Montgomerys and even the Witneys.
A pedigree so tight it borders on inbred.
The mere thought of dating one of them makes my stomach pitch.
Thankfully, she’s distracted by the arrival of a tray of caviar hors d’oeuvres, and I seize the chance to slip away.
Outside, the chill nips at my bare arms, but the air feels like freedom. The sun is sinking low, gilding Ravenswood in a dying light that feels comforting.
After some time, the patio door creaks open.
“There you are,” Broderick says, his presence shrinking the space instantly.
“Here I am.” A shiver slips through me.
“Everything okay?” he asks, stepping closer.
“Yeah. Just needed to get away—it felt a little like I was being auctioned off by the hens of high society.”
He chuckles. “What, the Vanderbilt heir doesn’t tickle your fancy?”
“I’ve already got someone else to tickle that,” I say, rubbing my arms as goosebumps rise. The sun sinks behind the tree-line, the chill cutting sharper. I sip my champagne, letting the warmth slide down my throat, before setting the glass down on the nearby table.
“You cold, sweetheart?”
I shake it off, rocking on my heels. “I’m fine.”
He starts to shrug off his jacket, but I catch his lapels. “Broderick, it’s okay.”
Sharing clothes feels too intimate—too much like the time Alex shared his with me. The ache in my chest warns me not to cross that line. This is supposed to be casual.
“Okay,” he echoes, though his finger trails slowly up my arm, toying with the strap of my silk dress. “This reminds me of that negligee you wore in the Hamptons.”
His touch jolts me to the memory of grilled cheese and the kiss we almost shared.
“Stored that one away in the wank bank?”
“Absolutely. Top three rotation.” His mouth dips to my ear. “Boston’s still number one.”
“Broderick, this is a respectable place. Behave yourself.” I laugh, slapping his chest lightly.
He catches my wrist, kissing the inside before drawing me into his arms. His warmth sinks into me instantly, wrapping me in his jacket despite my protests.
I settle against him, hating how nice it feels—and hating even more that I don’t want to let go.
“Thank you,” I whisper against his chest. His heartbeat hammers loud and steady beneath my cheek.
“Do you ever think about that weekend?”
The weekend that changed everything. When he laid his feelings bare, and I bolted—straight into Alex’s arms. Following my foolish heart straight into heartbreak.
“Sometimes,” I admit, staring up at him through my lashes.
The truth slipping from my lips making me feel lighter and heavier all at once.
His green eyes are darker out here, almost a hunter-green, and for a moment I’m lost in them.
“Do you know how gorgeous you are?” I murmur, my hand sliding up his chest, cupping the warm line of his neck.
His dimples flash with a sheepish smile, and my heart thuds against my ribs. God, how I wish things had been different. Could I have been happy with Broderick? Or would he have decided—like Alex—that I wasn’t worth the effort?