Chapter 1
Chapter One
Whitney
Polite Society
One year, one month later
Terrell “the Artiste,” as his millions of PopShot followers call him (or so I’m told, since social media isn’t my ministry), leans back in his chair at our white-clothed table, like we’re not just out here, willy-nilly, braving the wild and wealthy of Ellswood’s country club scene.
“I definitely want to work with someone with real…” He trails off, over-glossed lips pursed to the side. “What’s the word I’m looking for?” He snaps his fingers when it clicks, squinting as he locks eyes with me. “Industry connections. Yes.”
No.
A laugh lodges in my throat.
Am I being pranked? Connections? Is he for real with this “art,” this meeting? In those paint-speckled overalls and that royal-blue beret, like he’s cosplaying a creative?
A familiar fire erupts in my belly as I glance from the glitter sparkles and acrylic paint globs caked over what I’m almost certain is more than one of my artist’s works, shellacked onto that unfinished canvas, back to him.
“Your work is clearly…” A bunch of choice words stall in my throat. I take a sip of my spritzer. “…influential.”
He cracks up, doing the most, tossing glances over his shoulder—I’m guessing in case anyone “connected” enough heard and recognizes him.
“Honey, you are too.”
For a beat, I sit here while he aims and angles, snapping photo after photo, making sure the country-club ambiance shines in every frame.
Meanwhile, I’m taking it all in—the atmosphere, the people, him—trying to remember why I agreed to this in the first place.
It all feels staged. Premeditated. The piano playing softly.
The clink of cutlery against fine china, layered over carefully curated ladies-who-lunch conversations.
White-gloved servers in crisp uniforms. That low, silvery murmur of old money and even older class-coded judgment.
These people, this place, aren’t my vibe.
Unearthing new talent, it’s part of my business, yes. But do I want this kind of clout-over-craft business just because he’s got a built-in audience?
“But at the same time, like I said…” Terrell circles back, spearing a forkful of exorbitantly priced beef carpaccio. On my tab. “It’ll be worth the wait. You can see the potential.”
Not the potential.
“Mmm, yeah,” I say, stifling a laugh as he adjusts his beret. Out here wasting my time on potential. Sir. Point me in the right direction, because is it even in the room with us?
I have questions. Too many. None worth asking, though, considering the happy-hour crowd is already loading in, and I’d love to exit before they do.
“Well,” I say, finishing the last dregs of my spritzer and dabbing the corners of my mouth, “this was—”
“Everything,” Terrell gushes, completely misreading the moment. Hand to heart, he sighs. “Listen, you’ve got Corinne Tucker’s exhibition coming up in February. Everyone’s saying it’s going to be amazing…”
I nod, ready to thank him for keeping up with my gallery.
Until his gaze sharpens, flicking between his painting and me.
Oh no.
“It’s basically finished,” he says. “Just a few tweaks—”
I’m already on my feet, rummaging around the bottom of my purse for my wallet. Because this man really sat through this entire, exhaustive meeting, angling for a spot on a private, invite-only exhibition guestlist.
“Terrell. Mr. Artiste,” I say, laughing as I drop a handful of bills onto the table. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon…”
I don’t bother finishing my thought.
But as I weave through tables, making my way to the exit, I hear, “Whitney Anika Graves?”
Why can’t I just sneak out without making a scene?
I whip around, prepared for the worst from the Artiste. Instead, I find Chance Lawson, Priscilla’s brother, Carter’s best friend, broad-chested and beaming at me. He’s still a good twenty yards away, coming in from the golf course.
“Wow.” I blink repeatedly, mouth open as I glance back at the table where Terrell is talking to his propped-up phone, probably live-streaming about me to his gazillion followers. “Really, my whole government name, big head?”
Chance lets out a howl of a laugh. “Had to get your attention somehow.” He takes easy, confident strides like the walkway is his runway. “Looked like you were on the run…”
I nod, wordlessly confirming that yes, I was trying to make my great escape from the wilds of this country club.
When Chance reaches me, he’s all smiles as he takes out his left AirPod and pulls me up into a full-body hug, swinging and squeezing the life out of me. As he sets me back on my feet, though, he glances over my shoulder with this goofy grin plastered all over that pretty-boy face.
“So, it’s like that, huh?” He drags a hand over his tapered, dark beard. “Still out here busting balls and taking names, I see. Everywhere you go, leaving a trail of hearts behind you, huh?”
I shrug, flashing him a guilty little smile. “Something like that.”
“Oh, damn.” He stumbles back, super dramatic, pressing his fist to his.
“Boy, what do you want?” I ask, glancing at the time on my phone. It’s almost four o’clock. “Is there a reason you stopped me from leaving?” The happy-hour rush is starting to pour in, and that’s my cue to go.
Chance tilts his head, and again, he looks past my shoulder, eyebrows drawing together. At first, I think he’s listening, hearing something in his right AirPod. But then he throws me for a whole loop.
“Do you know Easton, personally?” he asks, seemingly out of nowhere, until he jerks his chin over my head.
My pulse skips.
Slowly, I turn and my eyes draw straight to the man I once sculpted out of thin air.
Dark brown eyes, rigid posture, an expression so far away it’s hard to believe he’s here in the flesh, and a mouth outlined and filled with perfectly symmetrical precision—I know already from staring at his photo longer than I’ll ever admit to anyone because it would sound crazier than I feel right now.
Like we’ve got history, all over again, my body hums, skin buzzing.
My belly coils tight like it’s trying physically to reel me closer, where we can, what?
Pick up where I put my entire foot in my mouth, fooling around with the universe?
Jesus, I really joked about the universe fixing a married man’s “trouble in paradise,” and then his wife died.
Yeah, I need six feet, at all times.
“No, I don’t know him.” I quickly turn back to Chance, who… doesn’t believe a word. “Just of him.”
“Well, it damn sure seems like Easton wants to know you,” he says with a smarmy grin, and instantly, I know I’ve got to nip whatever his raised eyebrows are suggesting in the bud.
“Uh, I don’t know that man from Adam,” I say, desperately thinking about exit strategies that don’t include being face to face with a man who I’ve never actually met… outside my fantasies.
The funniest part? Since that night in the Fairchild courtyard celebrating New Year’s Eve with my divas, since that devastating notification dropped about Sherry’s passing, Warner Easton and I now live and work in the same city, but I’ve gone out of my way not to cross paths with him.
But I’ve seen the scathing headlines.
BILLIONAIRE CEO FACES PERSONAL TRAGEDY AFTER LUXE LADY’S FATAL CRASH
A NATION MOURNS HAIRDRYER-HURLING LUXE LADY AS COLDHEARTED BILLIONAIRE WIDOWER VANISHES FROM SPOTLIGHT
TECH BILLIONAIRE’S WIFE KILLED IN ELLSWOOD HILLS COLLISION
INSIDE THE FALLOUT: WHAT’S NEXT FOR ECHELON TECHNOLOGIES AFTER FOUNDER AND LUXE HUSBAND’S PERSONAL LOSS
BILLIONAIRE BACK TO BUSINESS: TECH TYCOON SPOTTED JUST WEEKS AFTER WIFE’S FATAL CRASH—NO TEARS, JUST TIES
Different spins, same storm.
Reality TV royalty meets Ellswood Valley stoicism.
Beauty and the brain.
Love and loss.
The media can’t get enough. I’ve seen the Luxe Ladies of Ellswood reruns.
Sherry Easton front and center ahead of the new season.
But every mention of Warner in the news and magazines paints him the same.
Coldhearted and soulless. Sources saying he never leaves his office.
Insiders claiming, “It’s like she never existed.
” Critics calling him a money machine. Tone-deaf.
Robotic. Incapable of grief because he had a private memorial and refused to make public statements.
Every image of him dry-eyed, composed. No visible signs of a man mourning the woman he vowed to love till death.
How do you just walk away like she didn’t matter?
“First off, no.” I turn back to Chance again, laughing a little too loud. “That man needs therapy, not a date. Trust me, I wouldn’t touch him with a twenty-foot pole.”
“It’s ten.”
“Exactly,” I say, letting him prove my point. “If I doubled it, you know he’s not for me. Do you know what the news outlets are calling him? Coldhearted. Soulless. Reclusive—”
“Wow, a widower who refuses to be on a Luxe Lady podcast so they can publicly bash him for selling his home. It’s almost like he’s grieving the loss of his wife…” Chance cuts me another hard side-eye. “It’s barely been a year.”
Until it’s two, then three, then thirty-six.
“Do you want to hear the worst take I read?” I nod, drawing back to give him a warning once-over. “Get this, they said, and I quote, ‘he kept his end of the vow. Death parted them.’”
My mouth falls open.
But Chance just harrumphs. “Brutal.”
“Yes, and now?” Kneading the back of my neck, I turn just enough to get another glimpse of Warner, who, thankfully, isn’t looking at me. “Supposedly, he’s moved on, coldly, cleanly, without a trace. Just poof!” I snap my fingers. “Gone.”
The unimpressed look in Chance’s eye is giving I’m not trying to hear all this fake news.
“Listen…” I shrug, fully understanding how it sounds. “I was right there with you. I thought, Damn, that’s some cruel clickbait dressed up as journalism, right? Because who gets to decide how someone else grieves? How they live their lives?”
He taps his temple, as if now I’m using my brain.
And logically, I agree.
“But now?” I raise my eyebrows. “Standing a few dozen feet from this stone-faced man, dressed to the nines at three in the afternoon, tucked in the back of a candlelit corner of Ellswood’s country club.
Two entrees in front of him, just smiling, wielding his money to command the staff like a CEO on a power trip.
Pretending he’s ignoring the stares he absolutely can’t miss. ”
“By which you mean yours included?”
“Of course,” I say. “But I can’t lie. I’m starting to wonder if the headlines had a point about him.”
Chance shoves his hands in his pockets. “Damn, give that man a break. He’s coping with food and throwing himself into his work. So what? Have you seen what the Echelon Technologies stock price is going for?”
“No, and—”
“That’s just how some folks handle grief,” he says, like he’s suddenly the expert on healing.
“Look, I use Mod3D. And that’s just his flagship app.
I’m not even in the real estate and structural surveying space, but the way his company has evolved from high-performance computing into a dominant force in real estate technology with that RealSpace Engine… ”
He blows out a long breath.
“Are you done tooting that man’s horn?” My tone takes on an impatient lilt even though I’m low-key impressed too.
“I’m just saying…” Chance flashes me that annoying, lopsided grin that feels loaded. “And since when did you start subscribing to gossip? I’m surprised you even follow the local news. I know you’re not on the socials and blogs. Probably skipping podcasts, too.”
“Correct. And I won’t be explaining further.” I chuckle.
“My point is you, of all folks, should agree. These judgmental people need to let that man live his life.” He lifts an eyebrow. “And, you know, it’s his personal business if he decides he wants to move on romantically or whatnot, with a beautiful Black bachelorette—”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” I’m shaking my head, breathless with laughter. “Again, objectively handsome man, but no.”
In my periphery, the hostess passes the table beside us, ushering a small group of label queens double-fisting the day’s shopping bounty through the restaurant.
It feels like my cue to wrap up this little exchange, as great as it’s been.
“Listen, me and grand society do not mix,” I say.
“Unless it’s at your gallery, apparently,” Chance says, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows.
“I heard about your Founders & Benefactors Ascension Award nod. And your upcoming exhibition… Private. Invitation-only. All your favorite high-society folks on the guestlist.” He holds out his hands, dipping his chin lower with that silly grin, then flicks his eyes toward a certain reserved table in the back. “What’s one more?”
I throw my head back, groaning and giggling. “Lord, that man is not, nor will he be, on my list just so you can talk his ear off about stocks and apps and whatnot.” I’m still gasping for breath. “Sir, are you done with me? Some of us have work to do.”
Chance licks his lips, grinning. “Sure you don’t want to look at him a third time?” he says, his crinkling eyes steady on me. “I’m only asking because he’s looking at you.”
I say nothing, even though that silence says everything.
A small, slow squeak spills out of me. I only vaguely register the faint sound of my weakness because my focus is on openly staring at him. At this man who, despite my every effort to dodge him, the universe has apparently scheduled a follow-up run-in with.
This man who, a year ago, checked every box.
This man I painted in detailed strokes.
Warner Easton.
Who, it turns out, is everything I don’t want in a man—because he’s like my father, who gets going when things turn serious. Even worse, he’s just like the only person who ever made me feel expendable.
My grandmother.