27. Renee

I never gave my mother enough credit for being the wife of a socially prominent man. This shit is tiring.

I never realized how much preparation went into a single dinner, either. I’ve been addressing invitations, planning and replanning menus, hand-lettering place cards, shining silver, designing a signature drink for Deacon and his clients to enjoy in the cocktail hour before dinner.

It is beyond exhausting.

And it just kept going. The landscaping had to be freshened up. The pool had to be cleaned. The house spruced from top to bottom.

We’re hosting a dinner party for twenty-two people. All of them are Deacon’s clients and friends, and not one of whom I’d trust even to pee on me if I was on fire.

This is my first “official” dinner party as Deacon’s fiancée. And if dealing with the actual nuts-and-bolts logistics of the party wasn’t bad enough, Deacon’s insistence that I “live up to expectations” is like a guillotine hanging above my head, just waiting for one single flimsy excuse to sever me at the neck.

The executioner himself walks through the bedroom as I’m putting a face on. He is dressed in a burgundy suit with a fucking ascot. It takes a lifetime’s worth of self-control to keep from bursting out laughing. He looks like a shitty Dracula cosplayer.

“Fix your mascara,” he snaps as he steps into the walk-in closet to change his cufflinks. “You look like a whore.”

Then he whisks right back out before I even have time to respond.

Gee, this is shaping up to be just the loveliest evening.

I finish doing my makeup, then I take a deep breath and look at myself in the mirror. “You can do this,” I tell my reflection. That’s not super encouraging, so I add in a stern voice, “You have to.”

My gaze drags down to my belly. There’s not much to see yet, but it won’t be long. “You have to… for them.”

Tears sting at my eyes. I know I’m doing the right thing. I haven’t even met my baby yet and I’d lay myself down on railroad tracks to keep them alive if that’s what it took. I’d certainly humiliate myself in front of the Carringtons Co. again and again.

That doesn’t mean it’s not hard.

Then, before I can come up with anything else stupid to say to myself, I get up, slip on my shoes, and follow Deacon to the foyer where guests have started arriving.

My parents, of course, are the first, almost certainly so my mother has plenty of time and space to patrol the rooms in search of something to nitpick: a speck of dust she can “white glove,” a misarranged floral display, a sofa that is a millimeter off its appropriate position.

My father leans in and brushes the air next to my cheek with a kiss. I bite back my cringe and let him do it, even though his old man cologne makes my stomach churn.

Deacon steps away from the door to speak to my father about something “urgent,” leaving me to linger awkwardly in the foyer waiting for the next set of guests. To kill time, I run through the guest list in my head so I have small talk topics at the ready.

A senator and his wife.

A famous producer and his mistress.

The city comptroller (whatever that is), two golfing buddies of Deacon’s who do something questionable with cryptocurrency, and a gallery owner.

The police commissioner called to say his wife couldn’t make it, so I don’t have any earthly idea who he’s bringing—but it doesn’t take long to get an answer to that.

Because when the door opens, I see the commissioner step through…

Followed by Weston Scott.

My heart immediately does a cliff dive into the pit of my stomach. So much for “you can do this.” I can’t possibly be expected to do this.

Why can’t he just listen? Why does he fucking insist on making my life a living hell? Isn’t it bad enough that he’s the one who forced me into this horror show? Does he have to keep showing up again and again and a-fucking-gain like some zombie villain that won’t die?

I just don’t have the patience for this bullshit tonight.

I don’t have the wherewithal to handle it.

And I don’t have the slightest idea why this man can’t get it through his thick skull that he’s making life worse for me than he can ever imagine.

I don’t have to imagine that Deacon’s going to explode when he gets an eyeful of Weston; I already know it. Deacon told me about their little get-together.

And he was piiissed.

He took it out on me, too. Called me names. Shoved me into the wall and held me there, and I still have the bruises hidden just beneath the high collar of this dress to prove it.

The emotional fallout from this bombshell is going to be so much worse—I can almost guarantee it.

“Renee.” He leans in and presses a very real kiss to my cheek. I get a whiff of his cologne and I could swoon, but I won’t.

Instead, I swallow my immediate burst of lust and pull away. I can’t demand to know what the hell he’s doing here. Not with the police commissioner staring at me. But I suddenly have a splitting headache and a desperate longing for the sweet release of death.

Weston steps back and stares at me, up and down, a long look that burns my skin. Try as I might to pretend it doesn’t affect me, a sheen of sweat immediately coats my face, my throat, my breasts.

He looks good in a tuxedo. James Bond with a crooked nose. Those eyes gleam viciously, violently.

“Please come in and enjoy the bar until dinner,” I croak. Then I turn and leave without waiting for a reply.

Deacon is still in deep conversation with my father, so I walk to the kitchen and stay there for a few moments under the pretense of checking on the food and the service. Everything is running according to plan, and I am more in the way than I am helping… but I can’t go back out there.

At least in here, it’s quiet and warm. In here, no one is wrapping their pruney hands around my throat and hissing death threats in my ear.

Until the door swings open and a man who has proven himself to be very willing to do that steps on through.

Deacon has murder on his mind. “I told you to get rid of him. Are you fucking stupid?”

The caterers immediately make themselves scarce. The kitchen that felt like a refuge two seconds ago suddenly feels like the loneliest place in the universe.

“He’s your friend’s guest,” I rasp.

Deacon snarls, ”I don”t give a damn who he”s with. You get him out of my house right now.”

I stand up straighter and meet his glare. ”You really want me to make a scene in front of all your friends? Find someone else to do it.”

His face reddens. ”You ungrateful bitch! After everything I”ve done for you.”

He steps toward me threateningly. I hold my ground. ”Don”t come any closer. If you lay a hand on me, I”m walking out that door and I”m not coming back.”

Deacon hesitates, fists clenched. For a moment, we”re locked in a tense standoff. Then he lets out a frustrated growl and turns away. ”Have it your way,” he spits over his shoulder. ”But this isn”t over. He tries anything tonight and I”ll rip his goddamn throat out.”

Then my darling fiancé storms from the kitchen. I sag against the counter, heart pounding. That was way too close for comfort. But I did it—I stood up to him. It”s a small victory, but one I badly needed.

After taking a minute to collect myself, I smooth my dress and hair and go back to the party with my head held high.

I keep my distance through the cocktail hour. When we get seated, I’m glad Weston is at the far end of the table, though he’s far enough I can’t stop him from misbehaving should he decide.

And I have a bad feeling in my stomach.

A churning.

A pain.

I make myself look at the senator, seated across from me with his wife. She clears her throat and looks at me with a serene smile. “And what is it that you do, Renee?”

Deacon, as if his name is Renee, answers her before I can. “Renee is quite content being a stay-at-home wife. Though there’s a promotion in her future: she’ll be a stay-at-home mother when the time comes.” He guffaws like he just ripped off the funniest joke in the history of comedy.

I cock my head. “Actually, I’ve been offered and have accepted a job as Sutton Medina’s social media coordinator. It’s the same job I was doing for a sports team while I was living on my own.”

I’m seated to Deacon’s left, which makes it easy for him to drop a hand under the table to give my knee a painful squeeze. “That’s news to me,” he growls.

“It just happened.” I smile and tilt my head, the picture of the perfect wife.

“We should’ve discussed it.”

Weston, who should be listening to conversations at his own end of the table and not mine, pipes up. “Renee worked for the Firebirds, so I’ve seen her work. She’s incredible.” He looks at me head on. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking of hiring someone to handle my socials for me. So, if you’re looking to expand your client base?—”

Deacon shoots him a glare. “She’s not taking the job.”

“Well, the offer stands.”

“I think that, if I take the job with Sutton, it will keep me very busy and I won’t have time for anyone else.”

I shoot him a look that begs him to shut up. The service staff comes into the room and plates are collected, glasses refilled. This is my chance to get out of here for a minute and breathe some air that isn’t tainted by tension or scented by Weston’s cologne. “If you all will excuse me, I’m going to check on dessert.”

But as I walk into the kitchen, my mother follows. “Renee DuBois!” Her voice is sharp because no one can hear us. No one who isn’t paid to remain silent, anyway.

I look at her, at the scowl that is so much the same as Deacon’s. “Mother, I’m busy right now.”

“Not so busy that you don’t have time to humiliate your fiancé by flirting with that… that… that hockey goon you dragged in.”

“I didn’t invite anyone here. These are Deacon’s guests.”

But she’s already shaking her head. “You’ve been making eyes at him. My God, I don’t know how you turned out so ungrateful. You don’t deserve Deacon. You never have and I fear you never will.”

“Enough, Mom.”

“Oh, I don’t think so! I think?—”

“I think it’s quite enough.” We both turn and look at the doorway where Weston Scott is leaned against the frame.