Bethany squeezes my hand. “I’m glad you decided to crash at our place. There are pictures of us at the airport with Mom and Dad. It looks like everyone’s tracking your movements.”
The idea that people are watching me like that makes my skin crawl. I saw how bad it was for Ryder, but it’s one thing to watch it happen to someone else and another to experience it first-hand. “I’m really sorry. I’ll find a place soon. I don’t want you to lose your privacy because of me.”
She snorts. “Don’t even think about it. They’re welcome to watch me drive to the grocery store, the post office…and my gynecologist! I’m so boring, they’ll lose interest within a week.” She puts an arm around my shoulder. “No matter what, you have me and Oliver. And Mom and Dad, too. We love you and we won’t let anything happen to you, okay? So cheer up. I want to see you smile.”
Her unconditional love thaws the cold knot in my chest, and I manage a tiny smile.
“There you go.” She tightens her hold on me. “Have you had dinner yet? If not, Oliver made a killer quesadilla and guacamole…unless you can’t keep anything down?”
I shake my head. “No morning sickness. And I’m ravenous. I’ll join you.”
“We already ate, but I’ll set you a place and re-heat some of the food. Come on down whenever you’re ready.”
The wooden stairs creak under her steps. I inhale the mild detergent on the sheets and will myself to cheer up. Moping won’t solve anything, and I have to pull myself together. I’m going to need a new job and a place to stay ASAP.
But first things first. It’s time to eat and fortify myself. I won’t waste away like some distraught Victorian maid. Paige Johnson is made of sterner stuff.
So I get up and pull myself together. When I reach the dining room, one end of the rectangular table has a plate piled with quesadillas, a bowl of what looks like homemade guacamole and some salsa. At the other end is a stack of papers. Bethany is reading through them, a frown on her face.
Oliver hands me a glass of OJ, and I take my seat. His quesadillas are amazing, gooey with tons of cheese. I eat in silence for a few minutes, just savoring the food.
Finally, the edge comes off my hunger. “What’s that?” I gesture at the papers.
“The contract for that investment,” Bethany answers without looking up. She jots something down in a spiral notebook. “My web comic thing.”
“Any problems?” I ask. Her brows are pinched with more than just concentration.
“It’s just so…grabby. It’s like nothing I create would be my own anymore. Ditto for the other artists I want to showcase. I can’t have that. I need to talk to my lawyer about it.” She purses her mouth.
“Can’t you just walk away? You can just raise the capital you need through crowd funding.”
She shakes her head. “It isn’t that simple. I’ll owe them fifty thousand dollars in a break-up fee.”
My jaw slackens. “Oh my gosh.”
“It’s my fault. I should’ve read the initial agreement more carefully. I was so excited that I basically skimmed it.”
Oliver squeezes her shoulder. “It’s not your fault. Anybody in your position would’ve done the same.”
I nod. “What your wise husband said. I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it work. You’re too smart not to.”
“Thanks,” Bethany says. Her chin firms a bit. “And you’re right. I will.” She returns to the contract.
I munch on the food, watching my stepsister. No matter what she faces, I know she’ll find a way through. She’s the kind of person I’ve always wanted to be…but somehow can’t seem to manage to become.
Chapter Eight
Paige
The next day, the house is empty after breakfast. Oliver went to work, and Bethany went to see her lawyer.
I sit on the IKEA couch and tap my knees. Not having anything to do feels really weird. Normally, I’m on call even on weekends and have errands to run on Ryder’s behalf. Once we got engaged, I spent most of my time being dragged around by his personal shopper and fashion consultant. To have an entire day when I don’t have to be anywhere or deal with anybody? It feels like I stepped through a portal into some alternate universe.
A dark remote on the coffee table catches my attention. I start to flip through the channels, then stop when a show mentions me and Ryder.
The well-dressed hosts with perfect makeup and perfect hair and perfectly bleached teeth talk about us like we’re some kind of gossip topic. I guess we are, except I’ve never been in this kind of situation before.
They speculate about why Ryder is marrying me—probably the baby, and they talk about why I should be careful because things like that surely can’t last even if the man in question is known for donating huge sums of money to help underprivileged women and children.
“I mean, there’s a big difference between donating once in a while and dealing with it yourself every day for the next eighteen years,” says a blue-eyed blonde who looks positively gleeful.
“At least it solves the mystery of why he’s marrying her,” a brunette says. “It was on a lot of people’s minds.”
Bitch.
Fat cow.
Beached whale.
And so many other hateful things said about me online flood my mind. My hands start shaking, and I turn the TV off. I don’t need the stress.
The doorbell rings. Grateful for something to do, I get up. It’s probably a delivery man, but I check through the peephole anyway.
Standing outside is Elliot Reed. I open the door.
He’s in a white t-shirt and denim shorts, his feet stuck in black flip-flops. A pair of sunglasses dangles from one hand.
Despite the fact that he’s Ryder’s half-brother, they look nothing alike. I heard that he takes after his mother, who was Wife Number Two. His hair is dark, but compared to Ryder’s it’s a shade or two lighter. He also didn’t get the classic Pryce profile with those perfect, aristocratic lines. But he’s still a striking man, with even features and a charming smile.
Unfortunately for him, I’m immune.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He gives me the smile. “I happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“Right. Because you routinely hang out in middle class neighborhoods that don’t have high-end bars or strip clubs.”
“Ouch,” he says with a wince. “Guess I deserved that.”
I give him a look.
“Can I come in?”
“If Ryder sent you—”
“He didn’t.”
I gaze at him, wondering. “All right,” I say finally. “You can come in.”
He walks in, looking around the humble living room. It’s smaller than Ryder’s bedroom, and it is decorated with inexpensive furniture and second-hand items. Shelves have tons of framed pictures of Oliver and Bethany—an unbroken photographic record from the time they became an item to the present.
“Nice,” he murmurs.
“I bet you’ve never set foot in a house that’s worth less than three million.”
Something flashes in his gaze, then disappears just as quickly as it appeared. “Now who’s being a snob?” He sits in the couch. “Elizabeth called me.”