Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
I shake him off. He’s not one to drink, but he’s bright-eyed and flushed so perhaps he got a bit sloshed at the after-party. “What?”
He growls and makes a visible effort to focus himself, smoothing his shirt and taking a big breath. “Jacqueline. The show. Autumn.”
That gets my attention.
“What about Autumn?” I demand.
“Jacqueline fired Jeanette, replaced her with Chloe. I don’t know about Marisol . . . I think she really just got sick. An unfortunate coincidence,” Tobias says, explaining nothing.
“Tobias.”
He shakes his head. “I know, sorry. Jackie set Autumn up—replaced Jeanette, got Chloe to go after you, had Beatrice destroy her collection, all of it. It was . . . Jacqueline.”
I narrow my eyes, scanning him for any lie. But I find none.
“What the fuck? Why?” I run my fingers through my hair as I pace, trying to figure out what in the world my aunt could be thinking. Why would she ruin the best thing to ever happen to me? Why would she ruin the show?
“I don’t know. But I saw Jacqueline and Chloe talking, and you know people like that forget people like me are even around. I’m just the help.”
“That’s not true,” I argue.
“It is. Not for you, not always. But it’s totally true for Jackie and Chlo-Ho.”
I’ve never heard Tobias call Chloe that, not while we were dating and not after, either. But it rolls off his tongue so easily, so I know he’s thought it and probably said it before. “What do you call Autumn behind her back? And me?”
His brows jump in surprise at the question. “Uhm, Autumn. And if you don’t get your ass over to your aunt’s house right now and figure out what the fuck is going on, your new name is going to be Dumbass. Go!” He shoves me out the door, in only my athletic pants. No shirt and no shoes.
But he’s right. I need to figure this out.
“What the fuck happened tonight?” I snap as I push my way into Jacqueline’s penthouse.
I haven’t been here in years. Not really. She has an annual holiday dinner party, but I’m a guest like anyone else. It’s not home, not to me.
But tonight, I barge in like I own the place.
“Simon! Excuse you,” my aunt says, her hand pressed to her chest as though she has no idea what I’m talking about.
It’s late and I’ve been through the wringer, but she looks as fresh and pulled together as she did before the show tonight. In fact, she’s still wearing her gold outfit and heels, likely only just getting home from the after-party. Ignoring me, she walks into the parlor and picks up her glass of wine before settling in her favorite chair. It’s no comfy recliner, of course, not for Jacqueline Corbin. Her favorite place to sit is a tall, throne-like, leather tufted chair that speaks of power and opulence as much as the woman who sits there does.
“You did this, didn’t you? What in the world were you thinking?” I snap in angry disbelief. But I believe Tobias whole-heartedly, and that says something ugly about my aunt.
Jacqueline sips her wine and sets it down, totally unruffled. “You’ll thank me one day.” She looks at me with almost . . . disappointment in her eyes. “You’ll realize that this was for the best.”
She sounds so sure of herself, completely apathetic that she’s broken me apart. And like Humpty-Dumpty, I don’t think I’ll ever be put back together properly again. I was already broken but had managed some degree of repair over time, with stitches made of distrust and a protective barrier to keep people at arm’s length. Autumn barreled right through the barrier and climbed in between the stitches to make herself at home in my heart, though, and now . . . I’m destroyed from the inside out.
Yet Jacqueline sits there, prim and proper as you please, with a smirk on her face like she hasn’t done a damn thing wrong.
In some misguided attempt to explain herself, my aunt tells me, “The designers should’ve been grateful for a chance to design with House Corbin, not gallivanting around Paris trying to snare you in their net.”
“You’re not talking about the designers, you’re talking about Autumn,” I hiss.
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, but they’re so young . . . under twenty-five?” She huffs indifferently. “None of them have found their artistic vision yet.”
“Like you?” I retort. “The woman who refuses to change even though the market is screaming that you’re outdated? Are you holding onto your dusty crown that tightly? To the point that you can’t allow progress? Were you ever going to let this competition be successful or did you always plan to interfere with it?”
I don’t speak to Jacqueline this way. Nobody speaks to her this way. It’s all deferential ‘yes, madame’ and ‘what can I do for you?’ in her world.