Page 4 of Whiskey Throttle
Thank you.
Plain and simple. Nothing else, but I’m surprised. My mind grinds to a stop about my boys and switches gears to think of her.
Dom’s mom.
CHAPTER 2
BABS
The champagne tastes flat, despite being crisp, golden, and chilled to the perfect temperature. The flute in my hand is a delicate crystal engraved with the event’s initials: Y.E.S. – Youth Empowerment Society. The kind of name designed to look good on a banner but vague enough to be forgettable.
A fashion show for at-risk youth, a noble cause, or an elegant execution. Another afternoon of expensive performative goodness.
We’re seated at white linen-covered round tables in a pristine garden in Beacon Hill, boxed in by manicured hedges, symmetrical topiaries, and staff that move like ghosts. Barely seen and certainly not heard. Pale pink roses spill out of antique vases. A string quartet plays something forgettable in the background. There’s an open bar, a silent auction, and a thousand smiles that never reach anyone’s eyes.
I sit at the head of table four, surrounded by women whose pearls are real and whose plastic surgery is fake. Their marriages are arranged for appearances, if not in paperwork. Their eyes flicker charming, curated, and so deeply bored. Here to be seen, to be charitable, and to get in the society pages of the newspaper.
I cross one leg over the other.
The slit in my Valentino garden gown opens just enough to hint at the silk beneath. My heels are Louboutin. My earrings are vintage Cartier. My expression is unreadable.
I take another sip of the champagne, let it settle on my tongue, then swallow with a soft sigh. Around me, the show begins.
Models begin their slow glide down the makeshift runway. Youth from the program, paired with professional stylists, walk to applause that sounds just a few decibels too polite. They’re beautiful, nervous, radiant with that particular kind of hope you can’t buy.
I envy them.
My eyes drift, not to the models but to the attendees. I observe them like thespians in a play. Everyone has a part to play, some bigger than others. Smiles are painted on with the same precision as their lipstick. The couples sit hand-in-hand who haven’t touched each other with genuine desire in years.
Who here is actually happy?
Do all married couples cheat? Do men always want to trade in their loyal wives for a younger version with perkier breasts, bimbo brains, and fewer memories of their past indiscretions?
Three tables down, I see Meredith Caldwell leaning into her husband’s side like she’s still the same debutante he married at twenty-two. She laughs at something he says. He pats her thigh. A few years ago, that would’ve impressed me. Now I know the truth.
He’s been sleeping with his law clerk. Even putting her through law school. His wife has been in love with her tennis coach for the last four years.
Still, they make a stunning pair, picture perfect. A postcard of an enviable life that everyone desires, except for them. Neither is willing to concede in meditation, so they remain miserably married, with secret side flings.
My gaze flits left.
Gregory Windsor, arms folded, eyes downcast. His wife is chatting with a group of women. He’s pretending not to notice the way her fingers keep drifting to her wedding ring, where she twists it round and round as if loosening a leash.
The man hasn’t smiled once.
Not since the media caught wind of his indiscretion with a very junior associate. Underaged, according to the rumor mill. He was never charged. She didn’t leave, but it cost him dearly. She went on a girls' shopping trip to Europe and then escaped to oversee sudden renovations at their country house when the story broke. When everything died down, she renegotiated her postnuptial agreement and threw a gala.
It’s a game I find myself playing more often than not at these events. It is necessary to be here to maintain the family name after facing my own scandals. It’s all a charade.
At least I know better. The truth is, I don’t believe in happiness. Not anymore. I believe in appearances, stability, and composure. A curated and controlled existence. And I’ve perfected the performance.
I had to after the scandal with Dominic’s father. The initial reaction to our implosion painted me as the villain. Yet now, after parading young girls to the same events as mine and the sleazy characters he’s defended in the media, he’s the evil one.
I’m the victim.
A narrative I’m more than happy to maintain if it grants me unattainable reservations at the best restaurants and personal invitations to Boston’s elite parties, some of which he’s permanently blocked from. But today, something aches in me. A rawness I can’t sip away with champagne or fashion shows.
Maybe it’s because my son didn’t care about his father’s tacky entrance at the last charity event we attended. Perhaps it’s because it’s been 421 days since my daughter, Violette, last spoke to me. Or maybe it’s the boy who ran after me when I broke down, unable to bear the scene and spectacle of my ex and his paraded young escapade.
