Chapter 2
TWO
Simone
Shopping is therapy, and today, I’m in desperate need of healing.
Bergdorf Goodman on Fifth Avenue is my sanctuary—a gleaming temple of designer labels, crystal chandeliers, and sales associates who know my name without asking.
Chantal and I have been here for the better part of two hours, drifting through racks of silk and cashmere like we have all the time in the world.
And we do.
I run my fingers over a Prada halter dress in deep emerald, the fabric soft as butter. It’s perfect for the mixer Chantal’s throwing at her gallery next week. I deserve to spoil myself a little, especially after the week I’ve had.
Langston Global Impact, our philanthropic arm, was just dragged through the mud by some ambitious journalist who accused us of funneling millions of donations into private accounts. The scandal could’ve been devastating.
But I staged a high-profile audit, held a press conference with full transparency, and pinned the whole thing on a rogue board member who’d been skimming funds for years. The company came out clean.
Daddy was grateful.
So yes, I’m treating myself. On his dime, of course.
“Sim, you have to try that on,” Chantal says from her perch on a velvet ottoman, champagne flute in hand.
Chantal Banks has been my best friend since college—NYU, freshman year—when we bonded over being the only two Black girls in our public relations seminar who showed up in head-to-toe designer on the first day.
She’s the daughter of a New York senator, which means she grew up in the same rarefied air I did: private schools, charity galas, and Daddy’s limitless credit card burning a hole in our pockets at all times.
Now she owns her own art gallery in SoHo and treats dating like a competitive sport. Her type? Older men on Wall Street. Gray hair, recently divorced, and deep pockets.
She’s short, curvy, and thick, with gorgeous cherubic features and skin so dark and flawless it practically glows.
Today she’s in a pastel pink blazer and matching mini skirt, her nails freshly done in lavender. She’s one of the bubbliest people I’ve ever met, but she’s sharp as hell underneath all the sparkle.
We get each other. Both Black girls navigating elite spaces. Both shopaholics. Both perfectly comfortable spending other people’s money, specifically, our fathers’.
A sales attendant hovers nearby, waiting to bring her another pair of boots. Chantal’s already tried on four pairs. I’m pretty sure she’s buying at least three.
I hold the dress up to my body, checking the mirror. “You think?”
“Girl, yes. That color is stunning on you.”
I drape it over my arm and keep browsing. My phone buzzes in my purse. I fish it out to see it’s Dad calling. I send it to voicemail and slip the phone back in.
Whatever it is, it can wait ’til after I’m done here.
Chantal samples a chocolate truffle from the tray we’ve been served and crosses her legs, the price tag on the boots she’s wearing five digits long. “So, Derrick was talking to Heath the other day.”
I glance up. “And?”
“And he’s thinking of proposing soon.”
I pause mid-reach for another dress. This one a backless floral from ERDEM. “Derrick or Heath?”
Chantal laughs, the sound bubbly. “Who do you think I’m talking about? Heath, obviously. Derrick knows better than to pull that on me.”
I can’t help but smile. “There’s no way Heath would. He’d have to get Dad’s permission first, and he’s not marrying me off anytime soon. Definitely not to some mid-management financier—or someone only half Black.”
“But Heath’s Jewish! His hair is almost curlier than yours.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I scoff. “Anyway, Heath’s said it himself. He’s not ready for marriage ’til he climbs the ladder at Goldman.”
“Please,” Chantal says, waving a dismissive hand. “Heath worships the ground you walk on. He’d propose tomorrow if you gave him the green light.”
“Good thing I’m not giving him anything,” I say, pulling another dress off the rack—a Simkhai mini that would show off my legs and make me look like a supermodel.
Chantal grins. “Cold blooded.”
“More like realistic. You and I know Heath is not my future husband.”
“Then what is he?”
I shrug, giving it some thought. “He’s… a stop along the way. They all are.”
“I forget. Miss Keep the Cookies in the Cookie Jar. Nobody’s good enough for you. Simone Langston, the virginal princess—”
“Shhh!” I hush immediately, glancing around. “What’s next? A billboard on Times Square? That’s nobody’s business, Chani. Not even yours. Besides… I keep Heath good and satisfied in my own way.”
“That poor man’s so pussy-whipped, and he hasn’t even gotten a taste yet!” Chantal giggles then falls silent when I toss a chocolate truffle at her.
Over the next hour, I try on a handful of dresses while Chantal debates between the Saint Laurent boots and the Louboutins.
My phone buzzes twice more. I ignore it both times.
Chantal, meanwhile, is deep into her Derrick complaints. “I think I’m going to dump him.”
I glance at her through the dressing room mirror. “Why?”
“Girl, you know he’s too young for me.”
I raise a brow. “He’s thirty-six.”
“Exactly. Thank you for making my case.” She sips her champagne like she’s just won an argument. “I like them gray, fine, and refined.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Chani, one of these days an ex-wife is going to roll up on you and demand her husband back.”
In the end, I settle on both the Prada halter and the Simkhai mini. Chantal tells me I’ll look gorgeous in both, whichever one I decide to wear to the mixer.
We head to the counter, arms loaded with bags and hangers. The sales associate rings everything up with an enthusiastic smile, pleased she’ll be earning a hefty commission off us.
I hand over the family black card without a second thought.
She swipes it, then pauses. Her smile falters as she swipes it again. “It says declined.”
I’m digging in my purse, pulling out my compact to check my makeup. “That’s impossible. Run it again.”
She does just that, running it a third time to the same result.
“Miss, this card is no good. Do you have another?”
My stomach tightens. I pull out another card—the backup royale deluxe—and hand it over.
But that’s declined too once she runs it through the card machine.
Chantal’s eyes go wide and she whispers, “Sim, what’s happening?”
“We do have alternatives,” the sales associate says. Her tone is still polite, except with a condescending undercurrent. “We offer store credit if—”
“That won’t be necessary,” I say quickly.
A couple of shoppers glance over. My cheeks warm, though I keep my face neutral. I step away from the counter, my pulse pounding in my ears.
It’s Dad. It has to be.
I pull out my phone and call him. He answers on the first ring.
“Princess,” he says in greeting. He almost sounds amused. “Thought that would get your attention.”
“What the hell, Dad?”
“Come home. We need to talk.”
“Why did you—”
“Now, Simone. It’s important.”
The line goes dead.
I stand still for a moment, staring at my phone, my chest tightening with a mix of confusion and anger.
Chantal appears at my side, concern written all over her face. “What’s going on?”
I force a smile, even though I’m tense. “I have to go.”
“Do you want me to—”
“It’s okay. I’ll handle it. Text you later.”
I leave the dresses on the counter, grab my purse, and march out of Bergdorf Goodman with my head high.
But inside I’m already bracing for whatever storm is waiting for me at home…
The drive to Scarsdale takes half an hour, but it feels like five minutes.
My mind races the entire way, running through every possible reason Dad would shut off my cards. None of them are good.
Our estate sits on a sprawling property just outside Manhattan, a white stucco mansion with dark gray trim that exudes understated wealth. Tall windows gleam in the afternoon sun, the circular driveway lined with meticulously manicured hedges.
It’s the kind of house that would be featured on the cover of a lifestyle magazine.
I pull up and turn off the engine, my hands still gripping the steering wheel. For a moment I sit there, staring at the front door.
Whatever this is, I’ll handle it. I always do.
I’m the Public Relations Director of our company for a reason. I’m good with crises.
It’s sort of my super power. If another scandal is about to rock Langston Defense Solutions, I’ll think fast and come up with a plan to help Dad and the company out of it.
Inside, the staff greets me with warm words and bright smiles as I make my way through the marble foyer.
My cousin Karter is halfway down the hall, leaning against the wall with his phone in hand. He nods at me, but I don’t stop to chat. I’m on a mission.
Dad’s office is at the end of the corridor, the double doors imposing and solid. I knock once—more out of habit than courtesy—and push them open without waiting for a response.
He’s sitting on the leather sofa with Duchess, his Doberman, sprawled across his lap. Her sleek black coat gleams from the luxury salon care she’s given. She’s completely at ease, her eyes half closed as he scratches behind her ears.
The TV is on, playing sports highlights.
Dad looks up when I walk in, a warm smile spreading across his face. He’s dressed casually today, a pullover sweater and slacks, his afro-textured hair cut short and neat. His dark eyes shine with that familiar blend of affection and calculation.
“Princess,” he says, his baritone smooth and welcoming. “I thought that was your convertible tires screeching out front.”
I’m hardly amused. “What’s wrong? Is someone going to prison? Did someone die? What crisis am I solving this time?”
He laughs as if I’ve told a joke then gestures to the cushion beside him. “Sit down. There’s no crisis.”
I don’t move at first, still suspicious. “Then why did you shut off my cards?”
“It’s actually good news. Well… for the family. You might see it differently. But I know once I pitch you the big picture, you’ll understand.”