Page 48 of The Art of Scandal

The line of questioning was starting to make sense. Julia thought she was spoiled. A woman with a law degree, working long hours in a modest office, would probably consider her situation a joke.

“I haven’t worked in over a decade,” Rachel said. She listed her résumé—unpaid internships, a few cashier positions, and waiting tables. “The utilities for the house are more than three grand a month. I can’t pay for that on tips. I need to keep the lights on while I figure out what to do with my life.”

Julia slipped off her glasses and placed her pen on her notepad. “Okay,” she said. “You made this deal because you need money. I get that. You’ve been married awhile and it’s more than fair.” She folded her arms. “But I don’t really do fair. Or nice. Or neat. Whoever referred you to me is aware of that. So why don’t you tell me what you really want, Rachel. Deep down. With attorney-client privilege attached.”

That word:want. Rachel had initially brushed off her lack of “wants” as a side effect of domestic life. Her wants, her needs, even her name had been overtaken by her personae of “Faith’s mom” and “Matt’s wife.” But abandoning her own wants had started well before her marriage. A few days after Matt had proposed, Herman Abbott had pulled her aside, handed her a glass of wine, and calmly explained that while he understood that she loved his son, people don’t get things simply because they want them. “Relationships like yours only work in the movies,” he’d said. “I’m not talking about race. This is about pedigree. My son could end up in the White House and you’re a scandal waiting to happen.”

When she’d told Matt about Herman’s warning, he assured her they’d be fine. “Dad has a messed-up way of saying ‘grow up and be responsible.’ We’ll figure this marriage thing out together, Rache. As a team.” And that’s what they’d become. A unit. Strategic partners, instead of the naive fools who fell in love. Rachel had remade herself into the wife Matt needed instead of paying closer attention to everything he didn’t say. He’d never told her that she was already enough.

Now, she looked at Julia, with the memory of that day still raw and burning. “I want thirteen years of my life back,” she said. “I want the long nights working on his campaign, the boring vacations with his toxic family. I want to get back every time he told me to wait. To justwait, for a better time to go back to school. Or to open a business. Or do anything that was for me. I want every second of every day that I trusted that man refunded. And I want it withfuckinginterest.”

Julia opened a drawer and pulled out a client agreement form. She slid it over to Rachel. “I can work with that.”

Nathan was nervous about seeing Rachel again, so he picked a casual but suitably public setting for their first meeting. Sunlight streamed through the windows of his favorite coffee shop. The long tables at Press were filled with people studying, reading, or scrolling through their phones. He’d usually take a seat at the bar so he could people watch while he drank his coffee. Today, he stopped a few feet inside and looked around until he spotted Rachel.

Unlike the rest of the Saturday crowd, she was dressed for business—high-heeled pumps, navy dress, a strand of rich-lady pearls around her neck. Her hair was long and straight, and she held a dainty teacup with a death grip. The whole look had a definitedon’t fuck with mevibe.

Rachel didn’t see him until he was almost to her table. She didn’t smile or speak, so he took a cue from her and sat without a greeting. “How long have you been waiting?”

“I don’t know. I had two espressos already, so I switched to tea.” She tapped the cup again. “I’ve never been here. It’s busier than I expected.”

No one was looking their way, but Rachel’s posture was beauty queen proper and her face was deliberately flat, like she was about to take a polygraph.

“Are you afraid someone will think we’re on a date?” he asked.

Her fingers clawed against the teacup, which wobbled and threatened to spill its contents. “Could you keep your voice down?”

“No one’s listening to us.”

“Everyone’s listening. Don’t be naive.”

It was tempting to remind her that he was born into this kind of scrutiny and knew how to handle nosy people. She was the one bashing in car windows and crying barefoot at the drive-in.

“Naive?” He laughed. “You really think you’re fooling anybody? You can’t stand Abbott. I saw the look on your face when he touched you. Like you wanted to file off your own skin.”

Rachel pitched forward and lowered her voice to a rough whisper. “Stop pretending that fucking me opened a window to my goddamn soul. You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

She was closer to him than she realized. Her hair brushed against his forearm, and the memory of that night ran through him like a current. Rachel was right, they barely knew each other. And this was the second time she reminded him that they had “just fucked” and nothing more. His one-night stands were usually skin deep, but that night with Rachel had burrowed and rooted somewhere deeper. It ate at him that a guy like Matt Abbott had years of memories with this woman, while he was stuck mentally rewinding a few stolen moments. But that was his problem, not hers.

“Rachel—” he started, but stopped when she averted her eyes. He leaned back and pulled his hands down to rest against his thighs. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I know you’re dealing with a lot right now. It was wrong of me to throw it in your face like that.”

He could see her winding up, like she wasn’t ready to let go of the fight yet. But then her shoulders caved. “I didn’t come here to argue. I’m sorry. It was unprofessional and won’t happen again.”

A server approached and put a drink down in front of Nathan. Once they ordered food, Rachel laced her fingers on the table, with a straight spine. All-business. “Are you nervous about the gala?”

“Aren’t you? This is a big deal for you. It’s okay if you’d rather work with someone else.”

Her neck snapped back. “Why would I do that?”

“Come on.” Nathan touched his chest. “Me? Featured artist at some thirty-thousand-dollar-a-table dinner? It’s a punch line to a shitty joke.” He’d made the mistake of looking up the gala last night. He’d always thought of it as another one of his mother’s numerous parties. But it was held in a large courtyard at the National Portrait Gallery and typically attracted over eight hundred people. Last year, the featured artist had sold a single painting for six figures. And here he was with his blurry non-dragons.

“What if no one shows up?”

She smiled and said, “They’ll show,” with conviction that threatened to melt away his anxiety.

“What if no one bids?” he asked quickly, clinging to the cold comfort of his doubt. Borrowing her confidence seemed hazardous. Like the path to leaked-sex-tape-level disaster.

“I know this is a lot,” she said. “But I was serious about helping you. Everyone gets stage fright their first time out. It’s normal.” She leaned closer. “We are partners. You’re the talent and I’m like…” She paused, searching for words. “I’m like the director, guiding you through a performance.”

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