Page 14 of The Art of Scandal

“You could file for cause.” Ben paused. “Cheating is cause.”

It would feel good to reveal Matt’s affair. No, it would feelgreat. Better than sex. But she would also lose her leverage. After last night, Matt would happily kick her out of the house if he thought she was no longer useful. And she’d be back to where she started, struggling to pay rent and bills while people gossiped behind her back.

Ben gave her a number for an attorney and extracted a promise to keep him updated before they disconnected. Her phone was dying, so she rifled through her dresser drawers, searching for a charger. Her gaze caught on a Bic lighter and a half-empty pack of cigarettes shoved to the back. The contractors they hired to update the master bathroom last spring had left them on the new vanity, enraging Matt. She’d taken the cigarettes and hidden them in her nightstand.

Rachel lit up and inhaled, remembering Nathan’s slow grin as he warned her, “Those are bad for you.” She imagined him plucking it from her fingers, only to replace it with something worse but better. Something potent and destructively sweet.

She wandered over to Matt’s closet. The dark blue Hugo Boss was his lucky suit. He had worn it the night he was elected mayor. She aimed for that one first, exhaling smoke on the sleeve and lapels as she worked her way along his closet.

Rachel straightened and admired her handiwork. Then she yelped, spun around, and pointed the lighter like a weapon against a dark-clad figure in her doorway. But the intruder was just their housekeeper, Lenora, eyeing Rachel with a laundry basket balanced against her hip.

Rachel never realized how devoted domestic employees could be until she was exposed to the people who kept the Abbott household running. Matt’s mother, Matilda, always claimed that they were part of the family. As if the monogrammed rubber gloves handed out at Christmas were a sign of love, and not because she refused to let them use anything but industrial-strength cleaner on her toilets.

Lenora had been picking up after Matt since he was in diapers. He insisted on keeping her around, even though watching Rachel cook his meals and pick up his dry cleaning seemed to cause the woman physical pain. At the moment, she looked ready to tackle Rachel to the ground and smuggle Matt’s suits away for safekeeping.

“What are you doing?” Lenora gaped like she’d stumbled into a crime scene.

Rachel knelt to attack his favorite shoes. The suede loafers were custom, handcrafted by little old European ladies, according to her mother-in-law. Rachel pressed the cigarette tip against one toe and burned a small hole all the way through.

“You know Matt’s allergic to cigarette smoke,” Lenora huffed. She rarely addressed Rachel by name. It was alwaysyouorpardon me, or when she thought Rachel wasn’t listening,that woman he married. It was a constant reminder that Rachel would always be a guest in this family.

“That’s probably a lie.” Rachel stood and took another drag. “He’s very good at those.”

Lenora swallowed hard, her hands twisting on the edge of the basket. Rachel held her gaze as she puffed out small rings of smoke. She used to tie herself into knots wondering why this woman hated her so much. Whenever Rachel completed a chore, it was deemed inadequate and had to be redone. Dinner was always supplemented by one of Matt’s “favorites since he was little.”

Maybe she hated Black people. Or women. Or Black women who fucked her precious Abbott prince.

“I need to get the laundry,” Lenora sniffed. “I tried to wait until you woke up, but well…” She glanced at Rachel’s nightgown. “It’s noon,” she said, with a tone that added,you lazy drunk.

“Why don’t you take the day off?” Rachel moved closer and reached for the basket. “I can do the laundry.”

Lenora’s grip tightened. They engaged in a brief standoff that Rachel considered ending by blowing smoke into the woman’s face.

“The washer’s broken,” Lenora said. “I called the repairman, but he won’t be able to come out until Monday. I was going to the laundromat.”

“I can go.” Rachel tugged at the basket, harder this time. Lenora finally relented but eyed the dirty clothes as if Rachel had stolen her purse.

“With all due respect, Mrs. Abbott, when was the last time you used a washer and dryer?”

Rachel hitched the basket up on one hip and leaned close enough to make the older woman flinch. “With all due respect, Lenora? That’s none of your goddamn business.”

Rachel hoped her exit was actually as dramatic as she’d intended. She wanted Lenora to be stunned silent and maybe a little intimidated, for her words to echo as she got dressed and threw her hair into a disgraceful ponytail, then carted the dirty socks and undershirts downstairs like a trophy. She was flying on wings made of spite as the door slammed behind her.

Once outside, three things immediately became apparent. One, she didn’t know where the laundromat was. Two, her car was parked in the garage, which meant she’d have to retrace her steps to reach it. And finally, Sofia Cárdenas’s bright green Corvette was headed directly for her house.

Rachel’s biggest humiliations during her early attempts to navigate the social cliques that ruled Oasis Springs could all be traced back to Sofia, a former telenovela star and the wife of a billionaire coffee mogul. Rachel received her first lesson about Sofia’s influence when she was forced to reschedule a dinner party that was supposed to be the soft launch of Matt’s political career. Every caterer Rachel contacted was unavailable. One chef who declined advised her to have a signed contract in hand before she sent out invitations. “Thursday night is Ms. Cárdenas’s book club. You should get the schedule and avoid those altogether.”

Then there was the green dress fiasco. Matt had recently announced his candidacy, and they were invited to the charity gala Sofia’s nonprofit held at the National Portrait Gallery each year. Rachel had agonized over her dress and eventually chosen a custom chartreuse satin. No one had bothered to tell her that the important women in town all had a signature color. Her mother-in-law wore purple. Joanne Wilson, whose family owned the oldest Black investment firm in the state, always wore marigold. And Sofia, the first person Rachel saw when she arrived, was a vision in chartreuse satin. Sofia’s expression remained placid as she joked about how similar their outfits were, but Rachel was never invited to the gala again.

Despite those early missteps, Rachel had become a woman other people admired. She had her own signature color now, crimson, which screamed sex and power. If she wore a scarf from a local Etsy shop, it sold out within twenty-four hours. The rosé she brought to a dinner party would soon be prominently displayed in local liquor stores. Since Matt had elevated their profile beyond Oasis Springs, there wasn’t as much pressure to keep up with her neighbors. Most felt pressured to keep up with her.

But Sofia existed on a different plane of influence. Most of the money that flowed through their community could be traced directly back to her family. If Oasis Springs was its own overpriced suburban kingdom, then Sofia was the de facto queen. Queens didn’t follow trends. They didn’t acknowledge trends existed. That was what Rachel envied, the freedom that came with removing yourself from the conversation.

A cloud of Jasmin des Anges wafted toward Rachel as Sofia glided up her walkway carrying an elaborately wrapped gift. The woman’s insistence on bathing in expensive perfume was considered her single social misstep. But Rachel knew better. Sofia managed her image like a chess master. That familiar whiff of bergamot and jasmine inspired fear in every socialite in DC.

Rachel ran a hand over her ponytail and pushed her shoulders back as if she were wearing an Armani pantsuit instead of a vintage Santana T-shirt from college. Sofia’s pleasant smile wavered when she got a closer look at the black-and-white raglan. “Hello, Rachel,” she said. “I’m so sorry for stopping by like this. I should have called.”

“No, it’s fine. I was just—” Rachel’s eyes fell to the laundry. Sofia followed her gaze with raised eyebrows.

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