Chapter Twenty-Six Elise #3
Across the ballroom stood the redhead, my father's first wife.
Claire. Older than the photos, no less beautiful, though, even I could admit that.
She wore a deep emerald gown that clung to her curves, her red curls pinned elegantly atop her head, diamond earrings glinting in the chandelier light.
A serene expression was on her face as she glanced around the ballroom, smiling at people passing her by with an expression so genuine, it almost hurt me to look at her directly.
My father left the conversation mid-sentence—walked away like he was in a trance.
My mother went pale for just a second before pulling her practiced smile back in place and grabbing my arm, her nails digging into my flesh as we hurried after him.
He walked away like he had forgotten about us completely. He probably had.
Claire saw my father, and her expression didn't crumble, but it shifted. The soft angles of her face sharpened with alertness.
My father, on the other hand, looked wrecked.
"Claire," he breathed, voice low and reverent, like he was seeing a ghost.
"Ellis," she replied, calm and poised, her gaze flickering to my mother and then to me. When her eyes landed on me, something in her face faltered slightly. The slightest flinch—barely perceptible, but there.
"Claire, darling," she cooed, offering an air kiss Claire didn't return.
I heard the soft, mechanical click-click-click of camera shutters nearby and knew that my mother was fully aware everyone was tuned into this exchange.
Bella Cabot never missed a good photo-op.
"So lovely to see you. Thank you for attending our little benefit.
Do let me know who gave you the invitation? "
Claire met her gaze head-on and smiled demurely. "Oh, no one actually. My husband owns the hotel. We love hosting these charity events."
My mother's smile faltered. Her fingers tensed around her champagne flute, and for a brief second, I genuinely worried the stem would snap between her manicured fingers.
We were in the five-star Salvatore International. An Italian luxury hotel and resort chain with properties across Europe, Asia, and the US. The name carried old money, a three-comma type of weight.
That kind of wealth made my dad's rather impressive net worth look pedestrian.
"Oh," my mother replied tightly, her voice suddenly pitchy. "How lovely. And where is your husb—"
"You look beautiful," my father, as if he couldn't hold it in anymore, told his first wife.
My mother's mask slipped, and I looked at him sharply. That tone he was using was so unfamiliar. It was soft, adoring, like the way you speak to someone sacred.
Claire didn't acknowledge the compliment, only turned slightly toward me.
"Your daughter has grown into a beautiful young lady. You must be very proud."
"Oh, we are," my mother's tone turned glacial as she looked at me, her eyes sending a hissed message: smile, be perfect, and don't embarrass me. "Elise was accepted to every Ivy League school she applied to. The pageants were excellent for her admissions."
I caught it—the way Claire's smile faltered slightly at the word pageants. It was a clean hit, a direct jab which was my mother's specialty. She knew what to say to make you love her, but she also knew what to say to make it hurt.
"But New York was calling to her. Columbia. She'll be headed there in the summer."
"That's my Alma Mater. That's wonderful," she smiled at me softly, and I wondered what she was actually thinking.
I couldn't seem to get a read on her face; she looked genuinely happy for me, but that couldn't be right.
I was the bomb that detonated her marriage.
She probably hated looking at me and was seething on the inside. "Congratulations, Elise."
"Thank you," I replied, lifting my chin a little higher, pushing my shoulders back, flashing the same practiced, perfect smile I'd worn on every stage. My mother's face softened instantly, beaming with pride.
That familiar jolt of validation—of winning—thrilled through me. I had performed, and I had won.
Then he appeared.
"Here you go, anima mia."
An incredibly handsome man approached Claire and handed her a fresh flute of champagne. He was tall, dark-haired, and commanding in the way that only real wealth affords. I recognized him instantly—the man from the family photo.
Claire's shoulders dropped slightly, and she smiled at the man, tucking under his big arm and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. My father flinched at that while Claire's husband's brown eyes lingered on his wife for a long moment before he finally turned to give his attention to us.
"Grant Salvatore," the man introduced himself, holding out his hand. "Welcome to my hotel."
"Ellis Cabot," my father responded stiffly, shaking his hand, and I watched as they sized each other up.
The tension between them was almost visible as my father's jaw clenched and Grant's eyes narrowed slightly at the name—yes, he knew precisely who Ellis Cabot was, and not just through the political sphere.
Grant's large hand tightened around Claire's hip, pulling her closer—steady and possessive. Her beautiful face looked serene, confident, a portrait of peace. It made me feel nauseous.
My mother stood next to the woman whose husband she stole and, while younger and polished and dyed and perfumed, paled in comparison.
I stared at the redhead, trying to figure out what made her more pleasing to look at, why I thought she was so beautiful. My mother had spent thousands upon thousands of dollars on her appearance to become perfect.
There wasn't an ounce of perfection in Claire's appearance—smile lines around her eyes and mouth, excess weight in her belly and arms, probably from those little brats in that picture, and she only had a light dusting of makeup on.
Her outfit was expensive, no doubt, and those jewels she wore were absolutely real, but what was it that was so attractive?
I wouldn't understand till much, much later that it was because she had something my mother never could have.
It was something that couldn't be bought to be injected into you.
Happiness. Pure happiness.
Her husband clearly adored her, she was a loving mother to two boys, and I would later learn that she had her own wealth as an art dealer. The men on either side of her—her once husband and her now husband—looked at her like mortal men look at God.
Like she was the sun, the moon, the stars.
And my mother, as her perfect, glass-like face cracked even more, looked like she was vanishing into thin air.
Later that night, Mr. Salvatore stepped onto the dais to give the gala's keynote. He spoke with confidence, thanking the organizers for allowing the hotel to host this fantastic event and for the opportunity to talk about the importance of giving to charity.
"My beautiful wife," he said, voice soft as he looked at Claire, eyes glowing, raising his glass in tribute. "Had a wonderful idea, as she always does."
The room erupted in warm laughter and applause at his devotion. Claire had smiled gently back at him, shaking her head in amusement.
My mother's face cracked a little more, and my father looked as though he might be sick.
"We will be matching the donations from tonight."
You could hear a pin drop.
This gala was famous, and donors who attended had very deep pockets. The donations accrued tonight had to be within the tens of millions.
We were wealthy, but my father couldn't just drop that kind of money without calling his Financial Advisor first. My mother looked green with envy, but my father... my father looked broken in half. Weak and pathetic.
Then the applause started, deafening—roaring and rowdy—as people praised Mr. and Mrs. Salvatore for their generosity. They were all anyone could talk about for months after—my mother couldn't attend a lunch, a party, or a ball without hearing the name Claire Salvatore.
Add in the fact that the woman she had destroyed once had clearly upgraded majorly from Ellis Cabot, who was still in love with his first wife, had broken Bella Cabot just a bit.
Not the love part, she couldn't do anything with that, but the feeling of true defeat was excruciating for her.
And, later, when I went to the bathroom to powder my nose, I cackled at the memory of my mother's face. Bitch.
"To my Claire," Grant Salvatore murmured, raising his glass again, and the crowd echoed it without question. He stood tall, addressing the room, but his eyes stayed fixed on his wife. "Tutto ciò che sono appartiene a te, regina mia."
All that I am belongs to you, my queen.
That event changed everything.
My father threw himself into politics with a desperation that felt almost manic, chasing validation from every headline, every handshake, every photo op.
My mother, meanwhile, slipped seamlessly into the role of the perfect politician's wife.
She was so distracted, so focused that she stopped enrolling me in pageants altogether.
"What about Miss Massachusetts Teen America?"
"What's the point?" she'd laughed, a cold, cruel sound that still echoes in my head. "Can you even remember the last time you won the grand prize?"
That single sentence had sliced right through me, cutting deeper than any insult she'd ever thrown.
And yet, in a strange, twisted way, it had been freeing.
For years, the pageants had been my prison—sequins, spray tans, and smiles that hurt. Without that structure, I didn't know what to do with myself.
So, I started having fun.
And that fun would end with my father having to cover it up.
The first time I got pulled over, I was eighteen, flying down Route 1 in my white Porsche after a party at Clay Erikson's lake house.
The blue lights flashed behind me, and I remember laughing when the officer walked to my window.
I looked like a disaster—my hair tangled, the world spinning out of focus, and a suspicious-looking white powder dusting my nostrils.
The officer recognized my last name from my license. He called my dad, who picked me up, and that arrest never made it to my record. It was as if it hadn't happened.
But it happened twice more before I went away to college.
Two arrests that disappeared before the sun rose.
My father was always angry afterward, pacing his office, lecturing me about responsibility, appearances, and the importance of his image in the election.
I rolled my eyes and tried to focus on not falling asleep when he would go on and on.
I never listened. Why would I, when he always fixed it?
The self-righteous speeches were tedious and boring.
All I had to do was look contrite and promise to do better.
My mother had been out of the house more and more—charity luncheons, political galas, and trips to Martha's Vineyard with other politicians' wives.
Separation breeds clarity, and clarity breeds resentment. My mother is pathetic. My father is pathetic. Both useful, but pathetic all the same.
When I turned eighteen, I left Boston behind. Columbia had accepted me—Harvard had too, of course—but I couldn't stomach being that close to them.
I wanted true freedom, and in New York, I found it.
College was... heaven.
I studied hard, but I partied harder. I joined a sorority, made friends who were gorgeous, polished, connected, and untouchable. Girls just like me. We shared coke, drank champagne out of red Solo cups, wore designer dresses to dive bars, and laughed like we owned the world.
Those four years were the freest, brightest, wildest years of my life.
Then I had to return home.
Well, I didn't have to, but I already had a job lined up and waiting for me.
My father's best friend, Andrew Abbott, offered me a position at Abbott & Grey PR. Not an entry-level assistant job like most fresh graduates—no, I started as a Senior Account Executive. Nepotism? Obviously. But who gives a fuck? That's how you make it in today's world.
A salary in the high six-figures, a top-floor office overlooking the city, a company car, and a corporate credit card. Every weekend, there were invitations to every exclusive restaurant, every launch party, every industry gala that mattered.
People envied me—and they should have.
It was opulence. It was power. It was fucking perfect.
For five years, my life was perfect, everything I had ever wanted.
But the best part? It was the catch-up lunches with my mother. Sitting across from her at five-star, impossible-to-get-a-table, coat-required places, and casually rattling off updates about my career while swirling my white wine in a crystal goblet.
She'd sip her red, perfectly composed, while I told her about my job, my office, my clients, the elite events I was managing. I could see the jealousy simmering beneath her perfect skin. I had everything she wanted—power, youth, beauty.
My mother had to spread her legs to get what I got through hard work and determination.
She tried to keep me small with snide remarks and rolled eyes, with passive-aggressive digs about my makeup and my weight. It didn't matter, because no matter how she clawed or hissed, she would never reach what I'd already surpassed.
And for that, I pitied her. She wasn't a rival, not even a has-been.
Never was, never would be.
Then, that one night a year ago at a party I shouldn't have gone to. Too many drinks, too much coke, and too turned on by the man whispering in my ear to think straight.
I ruined it all.