Page 32 of The Art of Scandal

Rachel exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “Agreed. I bet the featured artist is excited to work with you.”

Sofia and Lyric exchanged glances. “Actually,” Lyric said, “I received a job offer in London, so I won’t be here to work on that collection.”

“We’re devastated,” Sofia said, with a hand pressed to her chest. “Thankfully, she’s offered to help us find a replacement.” She looked at Lyric. “I just found out Rachel curated for MoMA. She might know someone who could help at the last minute.”

Maybe it was the dress. Or the murder flower whispering in her ear. They drowned out the rational parts of her brain that reminded her that it had been more than a decade since she’d held an actual job. Inflating her résumé at a party was one thing. But working with a respected artist would immediately expose her as a fraud. Even Alesha looked wary. Sofia was still eyeing her like a show dog performing tricks. Lyric looked idly amused, like she’d turned on a reality TV show. Rachel couldn’t tell whether she was rooting for her success or failure.

“I can do it,” Rachel said. “I’m hosting anyway, so I’m happy to work with the artist. It’s for a good cause.”

Sofia looked at Lyric, who continued to be only mildly interested in the conversation. “That’s incredibly generous, but I’m sure your husband wouldn’t be happy about me monopolizing your time in the middle of his campaign.”

“Matt isn’t here,” Alesha said tersely. “And I think it’s an excellent idea. Another Black woman curating, and this one with actual ties to the community.” She glanced at Lyric. “An upgrade, if you ask me.”

Lyric’s smile finally faded, and Sofia’s eye twitched. Rachel pressed her lips together to suppress a laugh.

“It’ll be a tight deadline,” Sofia said, focusing on Rachel. “The pieces are still in the planning stages, and the artist is Circe Gavin. Have you heard of her? She’s incredibly in demand and can be a bit… eccentric. But with your experience, I’m sure you can handle it.”

“Of course I’ve heard of Circe,” Rachel said, with a smug chuckle that made her hate herself a little. She made a mental note to google the name later. “The timeline won’t be a problem. I’ll make it my top priority.”

Sofia squeezed Rachel’s hands again, tighter this time. A warning. “I’m sure you will. Now if you’ll excuse me. I think my husband has a speech planned.”

Lyric drifted away once Sofia left. Alesha tried to grab Rachel’s arm again but pulled back when she flinched. Her aunt looked worried. As if she had the right.

“Watch yourself,” Alesha said. “Sofia Cárdenas is a venomous snake. Be careful she doesn’t bite you.”

Nathan’s mother once told him that she could always tell when it was time to leave a party by how much the temperature had risen in the room. The longer people talked and the more they drank, the more stifling it would get. Make an exit as soon as you started to feel uncomfortable, because, according to Sofia, “that’s when it doesn’t feel like a party anymore.” Using her logic, Nathan should have left five minutes after he’d arrived. Then the fight with Joe never would have happened.

He was typing out an apology as he walked through the foyer and nearly ran into someone’s back. His father turned around and looked surprised to see him. Beto wore his usual black tux with a green tie that matched Sofia’s dress. He glanced down at Nathan’s clothes, checking for anything offensive. “We’re about to do the toast. You boys should stand with us.”

The crowd had migrated to where his mother stood on the stairs. She stared down at their upturned faces, like royalty greeting her adoring subjects.

“I can’t stay,” Nathan said. “But tell her I said happy anniversary.”

Beto fell silent, and Nathan knew what would come next. An insult. Cold ambivalence. Whatever it was, he’d take it. He was too raw from arguing with Joe to do anything else.

“Nathaniel,” Beto said. He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “What I said at dinner. I shouldn’t have—” He grimaced and frowned, frustrated. “I want more for you. I always thought it would happen sooner, I guess. Before I…” Beto looked away, toward Sofia. “She looks good, doesn’t she? Stuff like this makes her shine.” His eyes softened. “Like the sun.”

Nathan studied his father’s face. He tried to see past Beto’s wistful smile to the motive behind his confession. Was it guilt? Regret? Nathan would take anything that wasn’t disappointment.

Beto clapped a hand on Nathan’s shoulder and gently squeezed. Then he left to join his wife. Nathan spun blindly in the opposite direction, into a nearby hallway. He caught a glimpse of a woman slipping into his mother’s office, then stopped short and locked eyes with Matt Abbott.

Matt seemed scrawnier in person than in his photos, with ruddy skin and wire-rim glasses that made him look like someone who spent most of his time bathed in the blue light of a computer monitor. This was the guy who had Rachel falling apart at the drive-in and beating up washers at the laundromat?Thisguy, with a cowlick in his hair.

“Hey there uh…” Matt’s eyes drifted to Nathan’s chest, briefly searching, and then flicked back up again. “Young man. Will you leave an empty tray out here for dirty glasses?” Matt pointed to a spot on the floor next to Sofia’s library. “My friend and I would rather not be disturbed.”

Nathan was tempted to ask how he’d done it. How did this pompous hobbit persuade a woman like Rachel to be his wife? But Matt’s eyes were bloodshot and boozy, like he’d already started whatever private party he intended to have behind closed doors. Nathan nodded and said, “No problem,” so he could leave. Matt raised his glasses and strolled toward the office with the awkward swagger of an incel who was finally about to get laid.

Nathan stepped aside when an actual catering employee approached him from behind. The hallway was the quickest route from the party to the kitchen, and he may not have been the only person who’d seen Matt sneaking off with a “friend.” A few more servers slipped past him, but they seemed more interested in balancing crowded trays than spying on party guests. Only one person stood motionless, staring at the door that Matt had closed behind him.

Rachel. With her curly hair and leather dress, he almost didn’t recognize her. This wasn’t the woman with the blank eyes of a mannequin in Matt’s viral video. This was the Rachel who drove his Camaro like a race car driver and slid into his texts, seducing him with proper comma usage and tiny secrets dropped like bread crumbs.

Everything made sense now. The drive-in cocktails, her chaotic emotions, and the bitter rants about marriage. She already knew her husband was cheating. That’s why she stood motionless instead of chasing after him and demanding answers. She was intensely focused on the door, like if she glared hard enough, she could see the face of the woman who’d slipped in before she’d arrived. Nathan might as well have been invisible.

She spun around and stalked toward the kitchen. Nathan followed her. Rachel’s rapid pace and his obvious pursuit startled the servers into wide-eyed stares as he followed her out the side door. It was nearly pitch black. Unlike the front of the house, there were no streetlamps or decorative lanterns to light their way.

He was about to call her name when she stopped and crouched to pick up something from the ground. She straightened, standing in front of a gray Maserati. He saw the rock when it was too late, after she’d already wound up like a baseball player. The window shattered, spraying glass at her feet and setting off the piercing wail of the car alarm.

Nathan spun her around. He gave her a moment to realize who he was, grabbed her hand, and ran. He heard shouting and dodged a flood of light from a door opening. Valets spilled into the parking lot, frantically searching between the cars.

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