7. Renee

It’s a cruel twist of fate that I can’t have a drink even though I want one more than I’ve ever wanted one in my life.

“Could you please try to look as though you aren’t bored out of your mind?” Deacon leans in and smiles as he berates me. To anyone else watching, it looks intimate, but it isn’t. It’s Deacon being Deacon.

I paste a smile on my face. This is the first charity event I’ve been to with Deacon in years. He loves these things. Loves being seen in his Armani tuxedo, loves people watching him hand over a check that is subsidized by my father.

I, on the other hand, despise them. I can’t stand being watched and photographed simply because of my last name or whose arm candy I am for an evening. And this place is packed with photographers thanks to my father. Like Deacon, he, too, loves to be seen.

Right now, Mr. Alistair DuBois is standing in a crowd of similarly smug and pudgy men nattering about business this and merger that and oh yes, did you see Ronald received a special commendation from the mayor?

I turn from him in disgust. The rest of the room is a crowd of people from every sector of L.A.’s upper crust. There are pro basketball and baseball players. Actors. Singers young and old. It’s a who’s who of who’s who. I would be starstruck, but I’m too busy trying to remember to smile.

Deacon shifts again as yet another Orange County princess in pearls comes up and hugs me and air kisses cheeks. “Oh, Renee, darling! I’m so happy you’re back. We have to have lunch so you can fill me in about everything you’ve been doing.”

I have no idea who she is, but saying that out loud would earn me a subtle pinch in the ribs from Deacon, and my sides are already hurting from a few of those tonight.

“I would love that,” I say instead. She beams and moves on.

Deacon pats my hand where it lays over his arm. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

If only you knew how hard it was, I whisper to myself. How every interaction like that steals a little piece of my soul.

The night crawls by. I keep my fake smile pasted on because that’s the deal we made. But my cheeks stays aching and my stomach stays twisted.

My parents, thankfully, have remained across the room, hobnobbing with more of the glitterati. I’ve kept an eye out because I’m at my mental limit for tolerating my mother.

Deacon, on the other hand, is the parent whisperer. He has his parents and mine alike convinced that he does no wrong. On countless occasions over the last few days, my mother has told me what a lucky, lucky girl I am that Deacon is willing to overlook my behavior and the depths to which I’ve sunk since I left the safety and security of their residence. I keep my opinions on that to myself. She hasn’t cared about my feelings since… ever.

It’s just when I’m wracking my brain for any memory of her being even slightly maternal that she and my father part from the sea of rich and famous people and make their way toward us. She always did have exquisite timing.

Deacon kisses my mother on the cheek, then she does the same to me.

“You look thin tonight, Renee.”

I clench my teeth. “You look beautiful, too, Mother.”

Her gown is a deep navy lace, form-fitting and accented by jewels that make every move sparkle. Her hair is piled on top of her head with wisps that escape down her cheeks. “Have you moved your things into Deacon’s house yet?”

“Some of them. The movers started today.”

She purses her lips. I know that look—it means a lecture is incoming. Sure enough, she starts to say, “You’ve very lucky that Deacon is so understanding. You?—”

Mercifully, before she can go on, there is a commotion in the crowd, a ripple of whispers, and I turn to look at what is causing such a stir.

My mother has also turned to look. “Oh my.”

I see her go deathly pale before I see the reason why.

I can’t see around one of the pillars, so I move to the left and that’s when I see it. My heart drops. My stomach churns.

Weston Scott has entered the ballroom.