Page 71 of Stick to the Deal
Three women sit at a curved table, debating my personal life on national television. Like a B-list actress, ex pop-star, and lackluster comedian, are experts.
“The popular gossip column Whisper Wire broke a story that the marriage between real estate heiress Nicolette Atherton and Reginald Bancroft, the future Earl of Silverbrook, have been faking their relationship this whole time. And it’s all for the money.” Leave it to the actress to state the obvious.
“I run a successful business, too! Who is their fact checker?” I yell at the screen as I search for a contact number at the station.
“Now, Brittani, that’s a bit of a harsh summary.” Thank you, Amber! I always liked her music. “They never claimed to be head over heels in love. How much of this was built up by the media?”
How the hell did this happen?
We’d been careful to curate an image of a happily married couple for the press. Sure. Doesn’t everyone only post the good moments on social media? Every photo, every moment of our relationship has been one hundred percent real.
At least forme…
“Here, suga’, chomp on this and give your poor finger a break,” Anna calls as she pushes a plate across the counter.
Turning my back on the morning talk show, I stomp across the open-concept living room to the adjoining chef’s kitchen that David remodeled when Anna moved into his house.
It really is beautiful. If I wasn’t so fucking stressed, I’d take the time to compliment the way she’s offset the navy lower cabinets with pops of yellow. Antique blue and white china plates hang on the wall in an abstract pattern to balance the homestead touches with modern flair.
Even decor can’t distract my inner voice today.
I’ve been the happiest I’ve ever been.
Maybe that’s why I’m so scared.
Lifting the pecan brittle to my mouth, the mix of sweet, crunch, and salt mollifies me slightly. The only one of our trio missing a sweet tooth, I normally bury my stress in cardio or alcohol rather than Anna’s treats. None of my normal go-to’s helped today. The apartment felt too quiet and memories of Reginald haunted every corner.
“You never care about what the press says. Why is this upsetting you so much?”
“I don’t need this bad publicity right after the gallery show. It’s going to kill any momentum I’ve built up.”
That’s not the real reason.
I shove another hunk of brittle into my mouth, hoping the loud crunch shuts up the little voice at the back of my head. Even Anna’s homemade salted caramel can’t work miracles though.
You’re worried they’re right. He only married you for the money. He’s never said he loves you. You both pretended so well even you bought the lie.
Hook. Line. And Sinker.
Anna eyes me across the counter, one blond brow arched. “You sure about that?”
“What else could it be?”
“Have you talked to him?”
“No.” I avoided the thirty-odd calls from him. Yes, I am aware that is not the most mature response. I need time. Time to gather my thoughts. Time to shove all these feelings into a box far in the back of my heart.
She hums noncommittally but thankfully drops it as she measures out ingredients for her next round of stress baking.
The only sound is the continued debate on the talk show. They’ve moved on to reading out social media posts about us. #ReginetteGate is trending.
Yay.
“Here.” Anna dumps out the concoction she’s made onto the floured surface with a plop. “Kneading dough is good for stress. Have a whack.”
As I take my frustration out on the dough, Anna dusts off her hands and picks up her nearby iPad. “Whoa.”
“What?” Her chocolate eyes dart from the screen to me, like she’s unsure what to say. “Come on, Anna. What is the picture?”
