Three weeks ago, when Grace died after a long battle with cancer, my family was shocked to find out she’d left forty-nine percent of The Countess to my grandfather and forty-nine percent to Oliver Lockwood. The other two percent went to a charity, one that was currently auctioning off their new ownership to the highest-bidding family—which would in turn give one of us a very important fifty-one percent controlling interest.
Grace Copeland had never married, and I saw her final act as a beautiful Greek tragedy—though, I guess to outsiders it seemed crazy to leave a hotel worth hundreds of millions of dollars to two men you hadn’t spoken to in fifty years.
“Your family is nuts,” Scarlett said. “You know that, right?”
I laughed. “I absolutely do.”
We talked for a little while about her last date and where she was thinking of going for holiday, and then she sighed.
“I actually called to tell you some news. Where are you right now?”
“In a hotel. Or rather in The Countess, the hotel my family now owns part of. Why?”
“Is there alcohol in your room?”
My brows knitted. “I’m sure there is. But I’m not in my room; I’m at the bar downstairs. Why?”
“Because you’re going to need it after I tell you this.”
“Tell me what?”
“It’s about Liam.”
Liam was my ex. A playwright from West London. We’d broken up a month ago. Even though I knew it was for the best, it still caused an ache in my chest to hear his name.
“What about him?”
“I saw him today.”
“Okay…”
“With his tongue down Marielle’s throat.”
“Marielle? Marielle who?”
“Pretty certain we both know only one.”
You’ve got to be joking. “You mean my cousin Marielle?”
“The one and only. Such a twat.”
I felt bile rise in my throat. How could she? We’d grown pretty close while I lived in London.
“That’s not the worst part.”
“What’s worse?”
“I asked a mutual friend how long they’ve been shagging, and she told me close to six months.”
I felt like I might be physically sick. Three or four months ago, when things had started to go south with Liam, I’d found a red Burberry trench coat in the back seat of his car. He’d said it was his sister’s. At the time, I didn’t have reason to suspect anything. But Marielle definitely had a red trench.
I must’ve been quiet for a while.
“Are you still there?” Scarlett asked.
I blew out a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“I’m sorry, love. I thought you should know so you aren’t nice to that slag.”
I’d been meaning to call my cousin, too. Now I was glad I’d gotten so busy.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“You know I always have your back.”
I smiled sadly. “I do know that. Thanks, Scarlett.”
“But I have some good news, too.”
I didn’t think anything could perk me up after what she’d just told me. “What’s that?”
“I fired one of my senior editors. I found out she’d been avoiding covering certain designers based on their race.”
“And that’s your good news?”
“Well, not really. The good news is that she had a ton of things on her schedule, and I’m going to have to work a gazillion hours to cover them.”
“I’m thinking you don’t get the meaning of good news, Scarlett.”
“Did I mention that one of the gazillion things I’ll have to cover is a fashion show in New York in two weeks?”
I smiled. “You’re coming to New York!”
“That’s right. So book me a room at that grossly overpriced hotel your granddaddy’s dick now owns half of. I’ll email you the dates.”
After we hung up, the bartender brought me a menu. “I’ll take a vodka cranberry, please.”
“You got it.”
When he came back to take my order, on autopilot I ordered a salad. But before he could walk away, I stopped him. “Wait! Can I change that, please?”
“Sure. What can I get you?”
Fuck the calories. “I’ll have a cheeseburger. With bacon, if you have it. And a side order of coleslaw. And French fries.”
He smiled. “Bad day?”
I nodded. “Keep the drinks coming, too.”
The vodka cranberry went down smooth. As I sat at the bar, looking at the notes my father had spewed at me and thinking about my cousin Marielle screwing Liam behind my back, I started to get angry. My immediate reaction had been to feel hurt when Scarlett told me, but somewhere between the first vodka and the second I ordered, that shifted to pissed off.
My father can go to hell.
I work for my grandfather. No different than he does.
And Marielle has bad hair extensions and a nasally, high-pitched voice.
Fuck her, too.
And Liam? Fuck him the most. I’d wasted a year and a half of my life on that cardigan-wearing Arthur Miller wannabe. You know what? His plays weren’t even that good. They were pretentious, just like him.
I gulped a quarter of my second vodka in one swallow. At least things couldn’t get much worse. I suppose that was the bright side.