Page 27 of Boss of the Year
Daniel frowned down at his mother and patted her arm. She loosened her grip but didn’t let go completely.
“Mom,” he said in a tone that had lost its sparkle. “You, uh, remember Marie?”
Too?, his expression implied. First Lucas, then his mother. Who else remembered the lowly kitchen girl?
I offered him a smile I hoped was comforting. Or at least forgiving.
His mouth twitched, but the smile wasn’t returned. I wasn’t sure if I’d done something wrong.It’s okay, I wanted to tell him. I didn’t blame him for not remembering me, and besides, I didn’t want to be that girl anymore anyway, so what did it matter?
“Lucas said you’d returned from Paris,” Mrs. Lyons went on as if Daniel hadn’t spoken, though she set about adjusting his bow tie like he was a mannequin in a window.
Winnifred Lyons was the kind of woman who liked everything in its place, something the staff knew well if they wanted to keep their jobs. On my first day at Prideview, I spent two hours learning how to tuck perfect hospital corners in one of the guest rooms before the head housekeeper was satisfied my work would pass Mrs. Lyons’s inspection.
Her face barely moved as she spoke. Daniel’s mother was one of those incredibly well-preserved older women whose age was impossible to discern. With the help of good genes and better plastic surgeons, she would look the same at eighty as she did at fifty, with a sharp nose, blue eyes the color of the icicles that grew on the house’s eaves after a winter storm, and a halo of chin-length golden hair perfectly colored to match her son’s tawny locks. During the day, she was never without a starched shirt and tailored skirt, sometimes with a cashmere sweater thrown over her shoulders. Right now, she wore a gold-toned column gown that matched her hair and set off the tasteful wreath of diamonds around her neck.
Immaculate, quiet luxury. Just like this house. Just like her entire family.
Daniel was the exception; he burned through life like a sparkler on the Fourth of July.
Right now, however, that flare had dimmed under his mother’s exacting gaze. Despite the effort I’d put in to look my very best in vintage couture, I also couldn’t help but feel as messy and inadequate as one of those first miserable hospital corners.
“And how did you find the culinary school?” Mrs. Lyons asked. “I gather we spent a great deal of money to cultivate the chef to replace our dear Ondine. Though I can’t imagine a single year in Paris could compete with her résumé.”
“Not at all,” I agreed as I accepted yet another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. I was already two in—maybe a third would help me withstand this conversation. “But it was the best start anyone could have, and it gave me space to grow. I’ll never be able to thank you for it.”
Mrs. Lyons nodded.The best for someone like you, she seemed to be thinking.
I couldn’t argue with the unspoken thought. Access to the Institute wouldn’t have been possible without the Lyonses’ money and Ondine’s connections.
“And I suppose now you’ve…bloomed.” That scalpel-sharp inspection took in my hair, the dress, the makeup. “You certainly look different.”
It sounded like a compliment but was clearly not.
I swallowed thickly. Daniel seemed to be looking anywhere but at his mother or me.
Before I could answer, Mrs. Lyons spoke again. “Daniel, darling, there’s Senator Hubbard. Go offer some company—your brother is depending on him to sponsor that tax bill. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of our darling Marie.”
At the mention of the senator, Daniel straightened, visibly uncomfortable. “Must I?—”
“Yes, youmust,” his mother interrupted.
Their eyes met.
Daniel nodded. “All right, sure.”
He started to leave, then stopped, and turned back. With a rebellious glance at his mother, more characteristic of a teenager than a twenty-eight-year-old man, he kissed me quickly on the cheek.
I couldn’t help but blush. Maybe the champagne was making me dizzy, but his kiss seemed to have a similar effect.
“The conservatory,” he whispered. “Ten minutes.”
And then he was gone, leaving my heart thumping in time with his steps. Until I turned back to his mother, whose hardened, appraising examination could have stopped it completely.
“I love my darling son, but he is nothing if not predictable.” Her expression gleamed like the edge of a freshly sharpened knife. “Something tells me you know that. After all, you have been with us for ten years, isn’t it?”
Every cell in my body urged me to flee. Put down the champagne, make my excuses, and walk away from the woman who held my future in the palm of her perfectly manicured hand.
But my legs wouldn’t work.
