chapter 2

"Darling, that dress,” my mother said approvingly as we air kissed and pretended not to notice the interest from neighboring tables. The Palm was Mom’s favorite place

to be seen lunching. And by “lunching” it was understood that she would push her kale salad around on her plate while enjoying her vodka tonic and pressuring her daughter into whatever scheme would most effectively raise the Stanton family profile.

“You look lovely,” I said, taking in her glowing cheeks and freshly styled hair.

We were both blonde. Both tall. But my mother made it her life’s work to cling to every shred of youth or, as she saw it, value. In some ways, I imagined my mother had subliminally planted the idea for Flawless in me at a young age. It certainly hadn’t been my childhood dream to develop a wrinkle reducer—at five, I’d spent an entire weekend trying to develop robot bandages. Yet here I was, the queen of high-end skincare. Wrinkle reducers had led to wrinkle prevention products, skin tone correctors, and moisturizers.

Women now had an entire line of weaponry in their fight against the aging process, most likely thanks to my mother’s early influence.

I never put quite as much effort into my appearance as Mom would have liked, and she never put quite as much effort into pretending to be interested in my work as I would have liked. It was the perfect balance of vague disappointments.

Mom patted her hair in satisfaction. “Oh, I’m just my usual mess. The salon had their work cut out for them this morning,” she said breezily.

Venice “We Have a Responsibility” Markham-Stanton had never been a mess in her life.

“I’ve been thinking about doing something different with my hair,” I mused, skimming the menu and regretting it instantly.

“Emily! Don’t you dare do something vulgar like cutting it all off. Or, God forbid, getting those trashy extensions like that Daisy friend of yours. She looks like an exotic dancer.”

Daisy, the compulsive rebel, would appreciate my mother’s horror.

We ordered our usual. Kale salads with broiled chicken breasts. Had I been here with friends, I’d have gone for the fish or perhaps even a small filet. But this way, I didn’t have to endure Mom’s pointed comments about diet and waist size. We Stanton women had to maintain our appearances.

That tenet did not extend to the male members of the family. My father’s waist had been expanding steadily in recent years into a comfortable, rotund gut. And my brother’s playboy tan was reaching George Hamilton shades. But male Stanton value was calculated by bank balances, not waist size or skin tone.

It was easy to forget that my mother had grown up without money. She wore wealth so well. Her father, my grandfather, had abandoned his wife and two children to marry a tire heiress. When they’d died in a car accident, my twenty-two-year-old mother had inherited a respectable fortune and invested it in remaking herself. By twenty-four she’d straightened her teeth, lost the flat Midwestern accent, and caught the eye of a wealthy Chicago entrepreneur. She’d lived up to her end of the prenup and pocketed nearly two million dollars when they divorced civilly five years later. She married my father six days after her divorce was final.

“Tell me all about your life,” she insisted, pretty blue eyes sparkling as if we were girlfriends.

Knowing full well she meant who was I seeing and when would I be marrying them over a tasteful ten-karat diamond ring, I answered passive- aggressively. “Work is ramping up. We have a new product line launching in the third quarter, and the predictions for the IPO are robust. It’s shaping up to be a banner year.”

“Ugh,” she said with an elegant eye roll. “I mean, who are you seeing? I haven’t heard a thing about you in the gossip columns in weeks.”

It didn’t matter to my mother that I had more money than the entire rest of the family combined. In her eyes, a woman wasn’t secure until she’d

scrawled her signature on a favorable prenup.

I glanced around the restaurant, sedate by Miami standards. White linens and potted palms. Forty-dollar hamburgers. This could have been any over-priced bistro in New York or Chicago, which was probably why my mother liked it.

There were a few subtle glances in our direction. I wasn’t famous by Hollywood standards—thank God. But I was one of the city’s resident female billionaires. It came with an elevated level of attention.

“You could text me instead of stalking me through the columns,” I reminded her.

“I need to stay on top of the family’s image.”

“Speaking of image, how is Trey?” I asked, pushing another one of my mother’s buttons.

“Oh! Your brother won’t be satisfied until he’s ruined this family,” Mom scoffed dramatically. To underline her point, she waved the waiter over and ordered her second vodka tonic. Always two and only two. Enough to take the edge off but not quite enough to get sloppy.

Stantons didn’t tolerate sloppiness.

Unless it was generated by my brother.

“Did you see his last post on Instagram?” she said, lowering her voice as if divulging state secrets.

“I did not,” I said, spearing a piece of flavorless chicken. Twenty more minutes and I could head back to the office. I still might have time to check in with Esther at the lab.

“Six topless women,” she hissed.

Byron Stanton III, or Trey as he was known by his fifteen million Instagram followers, was a charming, shiftless, trust fund baby content to do nothing but soak up the sun on yachts and party his life away. He’d spent his trust fund distributions twice now and was living on my parents’ generosity… and occasionally mine.

I loved him. I did. In the way that all sisters loved brothers they didn’t understand.

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“I’m talking to your father about cutting off his credit cards,” Mom said, neatly carving off a microscopic sliver of chicken.

It was an empty threat, and everyone but she knew it. “I’m sure he’ll settle down someday,” I placated.

I was sure of no such thing.

My brother made bad choices like it was a compulsion. And my parents bailed him out, unable to stomach the idea of their baby boy suffering the consequences.

“Even worse,” Mom continued. “He said he isn’t coming home for the gala later this month. What could be so important in the Mediterranean that he can’t come home for one little appearance?”

“I don’t know, Mom,” I said, wishing I would have at least ordered a glass of wine.

“So you’ll need to take his tickets,” she continued.

I put my fork down. “Mom, I am booked solid for the next two months.

This IPO is—”

“Darling, I know it’s not fair that you have to keep making up for Trey’s messes, but that’s just the way it is,” she said, steamrolling me with a flick of her Tiffany tennis braceleted wrist. “We have a—”

“Responsibility,” I said for her. The word tasted more bitter on my tongue than the kale. “I don’t have the time in my calendar for more responsibilities.”

“Emily, I don’t ask for much from you,” she said.

Except to pick up Trey’s slack for his entire life. To never do anything fun or interesting that could cause you untoward attention at the club. To focus my entire life on finding the proper husband so you can play hostess at a multi-million-dollar wedding.

“We need to put on a united front. Your father’s ex-wife will be there,” she said as if that explained it all.

“Which one?” I asked, tossing my napkin on my plate. I’d find a protein bar at the office.

It had nothing to do with the cause. Rainforests or homelessness. There was nothing more important to my mother than showing up at Dad’s ex- wives’ functions and rubbing his checkbook in their faces.

I had nothing against the two women who’d tried to get the great Byron Stanton II to settle down before Venice. In fact, I was a fan of the second one. Unlike my mother, I didn’t have the luxury of time that a good vendetta required.

“So you’ll come? It’s only one night of your life. What could be more important?”

I gritted my teeth, mentally juggling my events, appearances, and meetings. If I said no, it would only lead to two straight weeks of guilt trip phone calls culminating in my father showing up in my office and demanding that I make an appearance to save my parents’ marriage. It was just easier to say yes. “Of course.”

Someday, I vowed, I would take a week off on a private island with no internet access, no cell service, and only a very attractive man to entertain me.

“Wonderful. I’ll have Esme send you a picture of my gown. We want to complement each other but not match. Oh, and you’ll need to bring a date. I’m happy to find one for you,” she offered innocently.

Glancing at my blank smart watch, I feigned a wince. “Uh-oh. There’s a crisis at the office,” I lied.

Mom was nonplussed. “There’s always a crisis,” she complained. “I never get any time with you.”

We had lunch every week. A shopping excursion once a month. And dinner every other Sunday at her house.

“I need to head back. I have a date tonight,” I said, pulling my phone out of my tote and texting Jane.

“A date?” Mom perked up. I could almost see the visions of golden- haired babies in Givenchy onesies that danced in her head.

“A first date,” I said. I felt the usual low-level guilt of cutting our lunch short—again—and wanted to leave her with something that would cheer her up.

“Text me his particulars,” Mom insisted as I signaled for the check. “Do I know him? I’m sure I know him.”

“It’s Merritt Van Winston,” I said, slipping my credit card in the leather book.

“Oh! He’s friends with your brother on Instagram,” she said brightly, scrolling through her phone.

Strike one for Merritt Van Winston.

“He’s quite handsome.” My mother’s approval was an automatic strike two against a man in my book. I wasn’t shopping for a life partner right now. But if I were, my requirements would be wildly different from my mother’s.

An interest in the sciences. A sincere respect for my intense work schedule. And the ability to provide toe-curling orgasms.

I glanced at the photo she’d pulled up on her phone and kept my face neutral. Another tanned, long-haired playboy. But it was just dinner. I could survive that.

“Maybe you can bring Merritt to the gala!” She was already happily plotting an engagement party.

I kissed her goodbye and headed to the door. Jane pulled the Range Rover up at the curb just as I got there.

“How was lunch?” she asked cheekily when I slid into the passenger seat.

“Trey posted a picture with six topless women, and my mom needs me to bring a date to the gala that I don’t have time to attend in two weeks.”

Jane handed me a paper deli bag. I peered inside.

“You are a goddess,” I told her, pulling out the half turkey and avocado on whole grain.

“I am aware,” she said, pulling into traffic.