“Hoping to? A little late in the year for hopes, isn’t it?”
“Well, I was accepted, but …” I trail off, unsure of what to say. I look at Troy before ultimately deciding on, “I’m still trying to work out the financing.”
“You’re better off attending a real school anyway,” he says.
“It is a real school.”
“Design school isn’t the same as college.”
The table goes quiet. The butler slides the first course in front of us, but I’m too busy glaring at Troy to pay it any mind.
The woman speaks again. “What do you hope to do in the future?”
“I want to be a fashion designer.”
Troy dips a spoon in his soup. “Hobbies rarely become lucrative careers.”
“A hobby?” A flush spreads across my chest and forehead. “For your information, I’ve already been given an opportunity to showcase my new line at the store.”
“Boots n’ Bangles is hardly Prada.”
“It’s a start. We don’t all have ready-made careers waiting for us after graduation.”
Troy scowls. Another woman—this one in a hideous sequined top—tries to smooth out the tension. “My late husband always said, if you do what you love, the money will follow.”
“There’s no shame in starting from the bottom. Hard work makes the spoils that much sweeter,” Troy’s father adds.
I grin, but my relief goes up in flames when the man in a handlebar mustache suddenly says, “You look so familiar to me. Where do I know you from?”
My stomach lurches. I swallow down the nausea clawing up my esophagus while I think of what to say. I hadn’t planned on becoming the topic of conversation. This is not the place to discuss my mother. I was meant to be a support for Troy and nothing more.
Troy’s father directs a cautious gaze at his son. I lick my lips, preparing to evade the question as best I can, but Troy throws me to the wolves. “Her mother was Sarah Cartwright.”
A hush swells over the table. I may as well be Jeffrey Dahmer’s kid. Though, cannibalism is likely more acceptable to folks like this than stealing wealth for your own personal gain. After all, the best way to hurt rich people is by making them poor people.
“That must have been awful for you, dear.” Sequin, once again, comes to my aid, though I’m not entirely sure what she means by awful—my mother’s death, or the fact that she got caught with her hand in the pockets of people across the entire country.
“I’m getting by.”
“So how did you end up here?” someone else asks.
“I came to live with my mother’s friend over in Hell’s Bend.”
“You remember Jackson Wilder, right, Colin?” Troy’s dad turns his attention to me to explain. “Colin’s in the oil game, too.”
Colin nods. “Oh, right. Was he your father?”
A laugh gets stuck in my throat. “No, no. My mother grew up in Hell’s Bend. She was close with Jackson’s wife, Cindy.”
“You were friendly with their son, weren’t you?” Colin asks Troy.
“I try not to consort with criminals if I can help it.”
“Troy,” Mr. McNamara warns.
Troy’s green gaze narrows as he glares across the table. “What? Are you denying Jace is a thief?”
“Jace may have stumbled as a boy, but he’s always been a hard worker. You can learn a lot from him.”