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One
JUNE
“There she is.”My boyfriend’s mother sweeps toward me, her eyes sparkling like polished daggers. “The luckiest girl in the world.”
I take a sip of my birthday champagne. I’m going to need it for this encounter. “Grace. It’s nice to see you.” Lies. All lies.
“As if I would miss my potential future daughter-in-law’s party,” she says, giving me a smile that doesn’t go farther than the corners of her lips. The word “potential” is in unspoken air quotes.
Grace is the one who insisted on having a massive blowout for my thirty-third birthday. She didn’t take no for an answer and CC’d me on a party organization email chain so long, it’s a miracle my laptop didn’t go up in a puff of smoke whenever I opened my inbox.
But that’s what’s expected of the girlfriend of the son of the wealthiest oil magnate in Texas.
Braydon Rowling II deserves the best, and I’m to play the part, even if I’d much rather spend the evening in my pj’s mainlining M&M’s and reading spicy books—living vicariously.
“Are you enjoying the party, dear?” Grace asks. A loaded question.
I scan the sweeping lawn, the sparkling infinity pool, Braydon’s family’s mansion with its gabled roofing, its countless cupolas, spires, and nooks. Floor-to-ceiling windows give a glimpse of the opulence inside: marble, Persian rugs, gold finishes, and chandeliers made of deer horn. Texas royalty chic.
Partygoers, wearing clothing that’s probably worth more than my childhood home, move through the space. They’re “friends of the family.” My friends are back home in Heatstroke.
I clutch the champagne glass tighter. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble. I—”
“Nonsense,” Grace says. “Only the best for a future Rowling. It’s only a pity your mother couldn’t be here to enjoy the party.” Grace’s lips thin. She’s never gotten over the fact that her son chose me over one of the daughters of another equally rich, storied family.
“Mom’s a busy woman. And this is a great party. I’m grateful, Grace.” I smooth my hands over my yellow silk dress. It’s my act of defiance—Grace hates the color yellow, and I’ve also gone with yellow ribbons woven into my French braid to complete the look.
“I did it for Braydon,” Grace says. “He needs to let loose after the stress he’s been under. Besides, I want him to know that things are taken care of at home, especially with his new endeavor on the horizon.” The words are pointed. The dagger-eyes sharpen. “You understand how important this next year is going to be, don’t you? The campaign trail? A Rowling woman, even a potential future Rowling woman, must know her place.”
I’m not even his fiancée, but Grace has a set opinion of how I should behave. Cook the meals, perform in the bedroom—now that was a fun conversation—and speak when spoken to.
“Yes, we—”
“And a Rowling woman’s place is supporting her husband. That’s what has made this family what it is.”
At times like these, I long for my mother. At least she’s up-front with her insults.
When Braydon and I met—me serving him hash browns at an Achin’ Bacon diner—I had dreams and no prospects, fresh out of high school and heartbreak. We’d started dating, and Braydon had provided for me. Asked me to move into his family home. Showered me with gifts.
And the years had passed. They’d passed so quickly I could barely fathom that I was already thirty-three. And still not a teacher. But when I told him I wanted to follow my dreams, he’d asked me to wait until the time was right. That he needed me to support his career first.
I open my mouth to tell Grace as much, but sudden silence saves me from the confrontation.
The speakers playing classical music a moment ago—I prefer country—have cut out, bringing frowns and murmurs from the gathered billionaires and high society.
“Now what?” Grace sighs, puffing her hair, her diamond tennis bracelet catching rainbows of light. “Darn Bluetooth, I told Braydon not to switch off his phone.”
A sultry moan penetrates the backyard.
It takes me a second to put two and two together. The moans are coming from the speakers. What the—?
“That’s it, babe. Just like that.” Braydon’s voice is a cold shock to my system.
“Braydon, I’m going to come.”
“Fuck,” he murmurs, in that whine that signals he’s about to finish. “I wish you were here. I want you so bad, babe.”
“Only two more nights and then you can come out and see me. No more phone sex. You can have all of this pussy.”
