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I peek through the opening between the walls, catching sight of her fiery red locks. She studies another painting beside a woman I instantly recognize—the one in a blue dress who sports a corsage that matches the pianist's. A unique shade of lilac, the flowery bundle wraps around her wrist above a gobsmackingly large engagement ring. The only one I've ever seen that rivals Lauren's.
Returning to my own painting, I can't help but eavesdrop.
"I think I sent her five already," the other girl says.
"And no reply? Weird. I wonder what the holdup is."
"Pffft, please. You already know the answer to that. Her and Ross can't keep their hands off each other. I'm sure they're doing it right now, as we speak. Maybe sneaking a quickie in the cab ride over here."
"Oh my god, quit it!" Lauren hisses, unable to stifle her laughter. "Not here."
I smile, surprised by the playful side of my family's otherwise serious lawyer.
Whenever I picture her in my mind, she's usually inside a courtroom, arms folded, staring down Warren's fleet of defense attorneys. Specifically, in civil court when the judge ruled in my favor two months back and ordered the defendant to immediately pay me restitution for his blatant acts of plagiarism.
A staggering thirty million.
Yes, million. Not thousand.
I still feel slightly nauseous, just thinking about it.
In the words of Hayden, watching his father crumble in his chair was in the "top five most satisfying moments of his existence." I'm sure he ranks Warren's little boardroom incident higher on said list—or maybe when Sylvia raked in half his net worth all those years ago, despite him being so young at the time.
But little does he know, none will top his father's impending criminal court sentencing. According to Lauren, he's royally screwed and will most likely never again walk these New York City streets in his lifetime, not with all the women stepping forward, voicing their own allegations against Warren. Accusations stretch back decades, sharing indisputable similarities, and took place at Kingston Entertainment, golf clubs, luxurious resorts, spas, and casinos.
Anywhere Warren touched, he was a plague. And these women—their strength and their stories—are a united front, a wave of overdue retribution, spearheaded by Lauren and triggered by my mother.
"You know I'm right, Lauren."
"Okay, fine. They're most definitely getting busy—that's why she's not texting back. But I can't be the only one still shocked over our girl finally settling down. Obviously, Damien's letting it slide and Ross is her boss and all, but… how have they not gotten caught at work? It's gone on for months."
"Come on, Lauren. It's Sofia, we're talking about. She knows how to fly under the radar."
They both hum in agreement, their tones hinting at well-kept secrets. Whatever the heck that's about.
Silence clouds the air around them, until Lauren's voice splices clean through. "Speaking of Damien, it seems he's backed off a bit. It's much quieter than when I first arrived. What, did he get tired?"
"You're kidding, right? Damien's fingers never get tireeee—" A gasp rings from the opposite side of the wall, and I clamp down on my lip hard, barely managing to hold back a laugh. "I-I mean… I didn't mean…"
"Jesus Christ," Lauren curses. "Yeah, you better rephrase that statement. That's a little TMI regarding a family member."
"I only meant… it was me. I told Damien to take it down a few notches."
"Did you, now?"
"Mhmmm."
In near-perfect unison, their heels clack against the ground, heightening my awareness. As they round the partition wall, I furrow my brow in concentration and study the painting before me, acting as though I've been lost in thought—certainly not eavesdropping. My artsy trance proves easy enough, except…
Aside from the soft music, I didn't realize it was this quiet. Nearly everyone is in the East Gallery.
"I told him he was getting carried away, like always," Lauren's friend continues. "Which is fine at Lincoln Center or Carnegie Hall, but not at an art showing, especially not one with ties to his cousin's clients. I said tonight was more about visual art."
Lauren chuckles, the sound growing louder.
Shit, shit, shit. I whip my head this way and that, in search of a solution that doesn't exist, until I just accept my fate and stare up at the exquisite painting, nursing my champagne.
"Wow, I'm sure he just loved hearing that. You telling him—" Lauren cuts off, stopping abruptly as both women cross into my peripherals. "Juliana?"
