Chapter 16
PIP
“Now,” Antoine says, unfolding his napkin as we settle into the elegant Saks Fifth Avenue dining room, “tell me about the real Pip.”
I sit in silence as a waiter lays my napkin across my lap.
“Not much to say that you don’t already know.” I fiddle with my sleeve, still not accustomed to how these new clothes feel against my skin. “I’m just a girl from the Lower East Side.”
“Ah, but LES girls don’t usually rescue drunk billionaires.”
“You’d be surprised,” I say with a wink.
We both laugh.
“Honestly, there’s nothing special about me,” I say quietly, dropping my gaze to the floral centerpiece. “I was just trying to do the right thing. And saving Snickers from himself seemed like the right thing to do.”
Our first course arrives—a delicate salmon salad with miniature lettuce, so artfully arranged it looks more like an exhibit than a meal.
“Now,” Antoine says, adjusting his silverware, “tell me about your family.”
“The real deal or what Clare fabricated for me in the media pack?”
“Either,” he says with an easy shrug. “Whichever you prefer.”
The word family sits between us like a landmine. I take a sip of water, letting the coolness steady me. “It’s just me and my Aunt Vivian.”
Antoine tilts his head slightly. “And your parents?”
I stab a lettuce leaf. “My father...” I hesitate, considering how to phrase it. “Let’s just say he was better at leaving than staying.”
Antoine says nothing, just waits. The weight of his silence nudges me to continue.
“My mother’s in New Mexico. Or maybe it’s Nevada by now. She sends postcards sometimes.”
He studies me from across the table, his expression unreadable.
“She’s never really been a mother. She left me with my aunt when I was six to see the world. It’s been just the two of us all these years. She’s an artist—pottery, oil paintings, you name it. My goal is to get Aunt Vivian her own gallery.”
Antoine leans back slightly. “And then?”
“I’d manage the business side, connect with the right buyers. And if I could pull it off, I’d love to set up a vintage shop inside. My online store does okay, but having a physical space is the dream.”
“How did you get into vintage?”
I laugh softly. “You won’t believe it, but it all started when I was seven.
I was at a friend’s house—an old brownstone in Brooklyn.
She had an attic, and we found this massive wooden trunk that belonged to her great-great-grandmother.
When we opened it, there was this dress inside from the 1940s. Black satin, perfect condition.”
I pause, feeling the memory come alive.
“And?”
“And then the dress—” I hesitate, lowering my voice. “The dress did something.”
His eyes sharpen with interest. “What did it do?”
“A woman floated out of it,” I whisper. “A beautiful woman, like an old Hollywood actress.”
Antoine’s eyebrows lift slightly.
“My friend didn’t believe me,” I continue.
“She thought I was making it up. But then, when we went downstairs, I saw a framed photo sitting on the piano. It was her—the ghost. Same dress, same face. My friend laughed it off, said I must have seen the picture first and imagined the rest. But I know what I saw.”
Antoine sips his water, watching me carefully. “So, you’re psychic to boot…”
I shrug. “I don’t know about that. I never saw any ghosts again. But something about that moment stuck with me. Not just the ghost bit. But the feeling that history had reached out and touched me.”
I take another bite of salad. “That’s the event that kicked off my obsession with vintage fashion. By junior high, I was collecting dresses from thrift stores, estate sales, anywhere I could. I even wore vintage to school. Kids laughed at first, but eventually, they got used to it.”
Antoine chuckles. “And now? What do you love about vintage clothing?”
“Everything,” I say without hesitation. “The quality. The workmanship. The fact that every piece has a history. In contrast, modern fashion just seems…soulless. Most of it is cheaply made. Disposable.”
Antoine signals for the main course. “And the clothes I chose for you today?”
“No offense, but they’re not my style. I see them as a means to an end for the next few days.”
His lips curve slightly. “These new outfits don’t erase who you are.” His gaze holds mine. “They simply give you the power to decide when to reveal your superpowers.”
“Hey,” I say, tipping my head and forcing a brighter tone. “Is this lunch or therapy? I’ve told you everything you could possibly want to know about me. Now, it’s your turn. Tell me about Snickers. How long have you known him? Known his family?”
He exhales a quiet laugh, playing along with my subject change. “Honestly? I hadn’t known Snickers well at all until Clare commissioned me to rebuild his wardrobe after his brother’s passing. But I’ve dressed his grandfather, his father, and his brother Preston. Interesting men.”
I pick at the last bits of my salad. “Were Preston and Snickers close?”
“Hard to tell. Preston rarely mentioned him,” Antoine says, reaching for his water. “Of course, being older, Preston was already a teen when Snickers’ mother passed.”
I sit straighter, surprised. “When? How?”
“I believe sometime after his tenth birthday. They were very close—he adored her. As for how Mrs. Woodward died, I don’t know. The Woodward family avoids discussing personal subjects.”
I nod, absorbing this new puzzle piece. Snickers’ mother dying when he was a child—it explains so much.
“He doesn’t look it, but Snickers is nearly forty,” I muse. “Has he ever been married? Any serious girlfriends?”
Antoine lifts a brow. “Oh, he’s had girlfriends. You’ve seen the tabloid stories, I’m sure. Plenty of dalliances. But never a serious relationship—not since Kellie.”
I pause. “Who’s Kellie?”
Yet something about the name sounds familiar. I remember the framed picture I saw before leaving Snickers’ apartment that morning.
Antoine hesitates, like he’s debating whether to continue. Finally, he speaks. “Preston told me the story nearly a decade ago. Snickers was completely in love with her. Wanted to marry her—the whole shebang. But then…”
I lean in slightly. “But then what? She dumped him?”
“No.” Antoine’s gaze flickers down momentarily as if recalling something horrific. “They were outside a club. Fighting about something. Kellie insisted on walking home alone. Less than a minute later, she was dead.”
A chill skates down my spine. “What happened?”
“She was hit by a drunk driver.” Antoine exhales, folding his napkin neatly beside his plate. “Snickers saw the whole thing. He felt it was entirely his fault. Preston said he never forgave himself.”
I stare at him, taking in this new fragment of Snickers’ past. No wonder he carries himself the way he does—like someone who’s learned not to get too close. The way he keeps people at a distance, the vivid, but rare moments when his gaze darkens with something unspoken. It all makes sense now.
“That’s terrible,” I murmur.
Our second course of risotto arrives, set before us on delicate china. The earthy truffle aroma is rich, but neither of us reaches for our utensils.
In just an hour, I’ve learned more about Snickers than I ever imagined. And yet, somehow, I feel I’ve barely scratched the surface.