Chapter 6

CHAPTER6

SCARLETT

It’s the day after my birthday, and I’m in a bad mood.

I hate feeling like this. Cranky and unsettled and more than anything . . . disappointed. Those three feelings swirl within me, growing bigger and bigger, until I finally give up trying to lie in bed and indulge in my weekend-morning routine, which is scrolling my favorite gossip sites. I can’t enjoy it. Especially when I’m actively involved in one of the top featured headlines.

What’s happening to me is so big, so completely unexpected, I’m just . . .

I don’t know what to do.

By the time I’m walking into the breakfast nook connected to our kitchen, I’m desperate. Ready to ask for any sort of advice on how to navigate this unfamiliar situation. My parents—my father—will have something to say. He’s been through this sort of thing before. I’m sure he’ll know what to do.

I come to a stop in the vast open doorway and stare at my parents sitting at the table, their heads simultaneously swiveling in my direction.

“Good morning, darling! Want some coffee?” Mom smiles at me, always cheerful, appearing ready to spring out of her seat and take care of me like I’m still a little girl.

The temptation to run into her arms and let her protect me is strong, but I hold myself back. I’m a grown woman of eighteen now. Officially an adult.

I can handle this.

Right?

I put on a brave smile, hating how false it feels on my face. “I’ll grab it, thank you.”

My mother’s gaze trails after me as I go to the coffee bar and make myself a cup, carrying the mug with me to the table and settling in across from my parents. My dad has his head buried in the newspaper, while Mom watches me expectantly.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks when I remain silent too long for her liking.

A shrug of one shoulder is my answer. I don’t know how to broach this. Do they know what the media is saying? Have they seen the fallout from last night?

I’m mortified. Vaguely humiliated but also . . . excited? Is that the right feeling to have after being caught kissing a celebrity?

My mother continues with her questioning.

“Have you spoken with Ian this morning?”

Scowling at the thought of Ian, I shake my head. “I didn’t even get a chance to talk to him much last night. He left my party early.”

A crease appears between my mother’s eyebrows, her sign that she’s distressed. “Oh dear.”

“Oh dear, what?” I take another sip of coffee and tell myself to calm down. I didn’t think it would be such a big deal to kiss Tate in front of a photographer. Who cares about us anyway?

Apparently there’s not much going on in the world, because it feels like everyone freaking cares. So many articles and posts about how great Tate Ramsey sounded. How healthy he looked. How amazing his performance was, and where has he been anyway? When did he get so sexy?

And speaking of sexy, our innocent kissing moment has caused quite the . . . scandal?

It wasn’t just a single photo taken by that lingering photographer, either, but all kinds of photos of us locked in an embrace, plus videos. None of them catch me making the first move, thank goodness, but we definitely look . . . into each other. I look as if I’m enjoying that kiss.

He seemed to be enjoying it too. He held me close, his fingers drifting across my back. I clung to him as if I might float away if I didn’t.

There’s no denying I look really into it. I’m the one who kissed him, after all, so this isn’t surprising.

There are even reaction videos to our kiss. Women picking apart our body language and acting like I’m the luckiest girl alive, kissing Tate Ramsey like that. All the comments on those particular posts, I can’t figure out if they’re supportive or rude.

Get it gurl.

OMG I DIE FOR HIM. FOR HER. FOR THEM.

She’s so lucky, ugh I wish I was her.

Who the f* is she?

Her dress! Look at how he’s touching her. *heart eyes*

I can feel the heat scorch my cheeks just thinking about it. Knowing my parents most likely saw those photos, when I’m supposed to be completely into Ian. What are they thinking? Are they disappointed in me?

“I’m sure Ian is not pleased to see you kissing another man.” Dad rattles the newspaper he’s holding in front of him, and I can hear the amusement in his voice, which fills me with relief. I should’ve known this would be his reaction.

My father loves this sort of thing. A scandal. Before he met my mother, my father was one of the most scandalous people in New York. Young, rich, and unbearably handsome, Fitzgerald Lancaster was a force to be reckoned with. He owned Manhattan in the nineties. And my parents’ relationship started in scandal—Dad basically stole her from the guy she was originally supposed to marry. She was engaged to him and everything.

My dad is what my dear grandmother would call a scoundrel. I’m sure what’s happening to me is giving him serious déjà vu.

I huff out an exasperated breath, trying to play it off. “That kiss between Tate and I was nothing.”

Dad lowers his paper to stare at me. “Looked like something to me.”

“Me too,” Mom murmurs before she takes a dainty bite of toast.

“Honestly? It all feels rather . . . familiar.” Dad’s blue eyes sparkle with unmistakable pride. “Pretty scandalous, Scarlett. And I never thought you were the type to cause a scandal.”

“Much to your disappointment,” Mom says to him, her tone wry.

He sighs, resting a hand on his chest, the paper flopping forward. “My greatest wish is for my children to live their lives to the fullest. Scarlett, you’ve always been such a good girl. I’m proud of you for rebelling.”

Rolling my eyes, I gulp the coffee down, ignoring the way it scalds my throat. Only my parents would be proud of me for causing a ruckus. Any other Lancaster would be appalled. “Hate to break it to you, but it was all fake. He needed me to help him distract the photographer.”

“Who needed your help?” Mom asks with a frown.

“Tate Ramsey.”

“Isn’t he used to having his photo taken?” Mom asks.

“He was trying to avoid it. After everything he’s been through in the past . . .” I shrug helplessly, not sure what else I should say.

“Quite an interesting way to distract the photographer, don’t you think?” Dad’s brows shoot up.

“I didn’t realize it would blow up like this.” The only person’s attention I wanted from this is Ian’s, and he probably didn’t even notice, while the rest of the country did.

And now I have no idea how to fix this. How to explain it. There is so much speculation about my supposed relationship with Tate Ramsey, I don’t think anyone would even listen to me.

“Your party has received a lot of attention,” Mom says gently.

“I’m not sure if this is the sort of attention I wanted.”

“You’ve gained so many followers too,” she reminds me. “Isn’t this your goal? Aren’t you trying to grow your reach?”

I glance down at the table, studying my phone sitting next to me, watching as yet another notification lights up the screen. “I’ve been . . . afraid to check.”

“You haven’t even looked yet?” The shock in my mother’s voice is obvious.

“I was too scared. I looked up my name and the Plaza online, and when I saw all the articles about my . . . interaction with Tate, I clicked right out of it. I haven’t even gone on my social media.” I was afraid of the comments on the lone photo I shared of me in my dress before I went to the party. Scared of all the photos I’m tagged in, most likely the majority of them having to do with Tate Ramsey and his performance last night.

Well, I’m sure there are plenty of posts about his performance, but the real juicy story is the kiss.

“Darling, open them up right now.” Mom waves a hand. “Go on. Do it. Hurry.”

I open up Instagram, going straight to my profile to find I’ve gained . . .

Almost a million new followers.

What?

Switching over to my tagged posts, I scroll through them. There are so many, mostly of the kiss, though there are also plenty of photos and videos of Tate performing, accompanied by photos of the party.

But yeah. It’s mostly photos of me in Tate’s arms. My eyes closed. Our lips locked.

I close my eyes for a fleeting moment, my heart in my throat. What is Ian going to think? My friends? Oh God, what about Rachel?

Opening my eyes, I take a deep breath and read the various captions below some of the kiss photos, all of them along the same lines.

Tate and Scarlett—the new it couple?

OMG aren’t they the cutest?

There are also headlines from gossip sites.

Tate Ramsey Snags Heiress as His Latest Conquest

Following in Her Father’s Footsteps, Scarlett Lancaster Is the Toast of the Town—and Has a Boy Bander as Her New Beau

“They think I’m dating him.” I glance up to find both of my parents watching me with concern in their eyes. “All of these posts imply that we’re together. Me and Tate.”

Dad frowns. “You’re not?”

“I only just met him last night,” I remind him.

“And you’re already dating him? That’s my girl.” Dad lifts his hand up like he expects me to give him a high five.

“I’m not dating him. That’s the problem.” I open up one of the many photos of me lip locked with freaking Tate Ramsey, and I make it bigger with my fingers, zooming in on our faces. Our fused mouths.

The kiss is extremely convincing.

“This isn’t good,” I mumble to myself, rubbing my temple with my fingertips. “This isn’t what I expected at all.”

“But isn’t that the best thing about life? When an unexpected opportunity pops up, it’s always good to take advantage of it,” Dad says, trying his best to sound logical.

“I have no idea how to take advantage of any of this.” I set my phone on the dining table face down. “I feel like it’s only going to make things worse. Everyone will be talking about me being with Tate when that’s not what I want.”

“What do you want, darling?” Mom asks me.

“I thought I wanted Ian.” A cold shiver steals through me, and I wrap my arms around myself, staring unseeingly at the table. I don’t want Tate. And I can guarantee he doesn’t want me. That kiss was all for show.

It was nothing.

And now Ian will think I’m with Tate and forget all about me.

“I don’t want to become that random heiress who kissed Tate Ramsey that one time,” I say when my parents remain quiet.

“You could never.” Dad drops his newspaper onto the table, his expression indignant. “Do they know who they’re dealing with? You’re Fitzy Lancaster’s daughter.”

“Fitz,” Mom tries to interject, but he ignores her.

“I will never let anyone minimize who you are. You’re going to make a difference in this world, I just know it!” He thrusts his finger in the air as if he’s delivering a rousing speech to his constituents.

Mom rests her hand on his arm, gently forcing him to lower it. “She doesn’t just want to be known as Fitzy Lancaster’s daughter either.”

I appreciate her saying that. I could never utter those words out loud to him, and especially not right now. He would be hurt, and that’s the last thing I want.

And there’s the root of all my issues. I am tired of being stuck in the role I was supposedly born to play. The daughter of a rich man. The heiress to a vast fortune. From a prominent family that is all lumped together. There is no individuality in the Lancaster family tree, with a few exceptions here and there.

My older cousin Whit Lancaster? He stands apart.

He also terrifies me.

My cousin Charlotte? She married a man from another wealthy family and has become the new darling of New York high society. It’s kind of cute, how so many people want to spend even a sliver of a second with Charlotte and her husband, Perry.

Oh, and my cousin Crew, Charlotte’s little brother? He’s become the toast of Europe along with his fiancé, Wren, as they travel all over to attend various art shows and make purchases from new artists, helping elevate their careers and sales.

All of that is so incredibly interesting, while I’m over here living a not-very-interesting life. Stuck in the shadow of my former-playboy father and my beautiful, elegant mother. That important name that’s been well known across the country—the world—for centuries.

I know I’m only eighteen. My life is just beginning, and I haven’t done much, but I wish . . .

That I were somebody.

I want to stand out, stand on my own two feet. I want to make a mark on this world, and I don’t want my family name or history to burden me.

“You’re so much more than that one girl who kissed Tate Ramsey at her birthday party.” Mom settles her hand over mine, her expression and tone reassuring. When I meet her steady brown gaze that’s so much like mine, I’m immediately calmed. “Don’t worry about it, darling. This too shall pass.”

My anxiety ratchets up at my mother using clichés to try to make me feel better.

News flash—I don’t feel better. Not at all.

Dad changes the subject, talking about a couple they’re friends with who attended the party last night, and I tune him out, mulling over my situation and how I can deal with it. Is it best to ignore what happened? Pretend that kiss between Tate and me never existed? The more I post, the more buried the story will get. Eventually everyone will forget that I kissed Tate Ramsey at my party.

And that’s exactly what I want. This entire situation behind me.

Never brought up again.