by Score, Lucy
Daisy, the compulsive rebel, would appreciate my mother’s horror.
We ordered our usual. Kale salads with broiled chicken breasts. Had I been here with friends, I’d have gone for the fish or perhaps even a small filet. But this way, I didn’t have to endure Mom’s pointed comments about diet and waist size. We Stanton women had to maintain our appearances.
That tenet did not extend to the male members of the family. My father’s waist had been expanding steadily in recent years into a comfortable, rotund gut. And my brother’s playboy tan was reaching George Hamilton shades. But male Stanton value was calculated by bank balances, not waist size or skin tone.
It was easy to forget that my mother had grown up without money. She wore wealth so well. Her father, my grandfather, had abandoned his wife and two children to marry a tire heiress. When they’d died in a car accident, my twenty-two-year-old mother had inherited a respectable fortune and invested it in remaking herself. By twenty-four she’d straightened her teeth, lost the flat Midwestern accent, and caught the eye of a wealthy Chicago entrepreneur. She’d lived up to her end of the prenup and pocketed nearly two million dollars when they divorced civilly five years later. She married my father six days after her divorce was final.
“Tell me all about your life,” she insisted, pretty blue eyes sparkling as if we were girlfriends.
Knowing full well she meant who was I seeing and when would I be marrying them over a tasteful ten-karat diamond ring, I answered passive-aggressively. “Work is ramping up. We have a new product line launching in the third quarter, and the predictions for the IPO are robust. It’s shaping up to be a banner year.”
“Ugh,” she said with an elegant eye roll. “I mean, who are you seeing? I haven’t heard a thing about you in the gossip columns in weeks.”
It didn’t matter to my mother that I had more money than the entire rest of the family combined. In her eyes, a woman wasn’t secure until she’d scrawled her signature on a favorable prenup.
I glanced around the restaurant, sedate by Miami standards. White linens and potted palms. Forty-dollar hamburgers. This could have been any over-priced bistro in New York or Chicago, which was probably why my mother liked it.
There were a few subtle glances in our direction. I wasn’t famous by Hollywood standards—thank God. But I was one of the city’s resident female billionaires. It came with an elevated level of attention.
“You could text me instead of stalking me through the columns,” I reminded her.
“I need to stay on top of the family’s image.”
“Speaking of image, how is Trey?” I asked, pushing another one of my mother’s buttons.
“Oh! Your brother won’t be satisfied until he’s ruined this family,” Mom scoffed dramatically. To underline her point, she waved the waiter over and ordered her second vodka tonic. Always two and only two. Enough to take the edge off but not quite enough to get sloppy.
Stantons didn’t tolerate sloppiness.
Unless it was generated by my brother.
“Did you see his last post on Instagram?” she said, lowering her voice as if divulging state secrets.
“I did not,” I said, spearing a piece of flavorless chicken. Twenty more minutes and I could head back to the office. I still might have time to check in with Esther at the lab.
“Six topless women,” she hissed.
Byron Stanton III, or Trey as he was known by his fifteen million Instagram followers, was a charming, shiftless, trust fund baby content to do nothing but soak up the sun on yachts and party his life away. He’d spent his trust fund distributions twice now and was living on my parents’ generosity… and occasionally mine.
I loved him. I did. In the way that all sisters loved brothers they didn’t understand.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
“I’m talking to your father about cutting off his credit cards,” Mom said, neatly carving off a microscopic sliver of chicken.
It was an empty threat, and everyone but she knew it.
“I’m sure he’ll settle down someday,” I placated.
I was sure of no such thing.
My brother made bad choices like it was a compulsion. And my parents bailed him out, unable to stomach the idea of their baby boy suffering the consequences.
“Even worse,” Mom continued. “He said he isn’t coming home for the gala later this month. What could be so important in the Mediterranean that he can’t come home for one little appearance?”
“I don’t know, Mom,” I said, wishing I would have at least ordered a glass of wine.
“So you’ll need to take his tickets,” she continued.
I put my fork down. “Mom, I am booked solid for the next two months. This IPO is—”
“Darling, I know it’s not fair that you have to keep making up for Trey’s messes, but that’s just the way it is,” she said, steamrolling me with a flick of her Tiffany tennis braceleted wrist. “We have a—”
“Responsibility,” I said for her. The word tasted more bitter on my tongue than the kale. “I don’t have the time in my calendar for more responsibilities.”
“Emily, I don’t ask for much from you,” she said.
Except to pick up Trey’s slack for his entire life. To never do anything fun or interesting that could cause you untoward attention at the club. To focus my entire life on finding the proper husband so you can play hostess at a multi-million-dollar wedding.
“We need to put on a united front. Your father’s ex-wife will be there,” she said as if that explained it all.
“Which one?” I asked, tossing my napkin on my plate. I’d find a protein bar at the office.
It had nothing to do with the cause. Rainforests or homelessness. There was nothing more important to my mother than showing up at Dad’s ex-wives’ functions and rubbing his checkbook in their faces.
I had nothing against the two women who’d tried to get the great Byron Stanton II to settle down before Venice. In fact, I was a fan of the second one. Unlike my mother, I didn’t have the luxury of time that a good vendetta required.
“So you’ll come? It’s only one night of your life. What could be more important?”
I gritted my teeth, mentally juggling my events, appearances, and meetings. If I said no, it would only lead to two straight weeks of guilt trip phone calls culminating in my father showing up in my office and demanding that I make an appearance to save my parents’ marriage. It was just easier to say yes. “Of course.”
Someday, I vowed, I would take a week off on a private island with no internet access, no cell service, and only a very attractive man to entertain me.
“Wonderful. I’ll have Esme send you a picture of my gown. We want to complement each other but not match. Oh, and you’ll need to bring a date. I’m happy to find one for you,” she offered innocently.
Glancing at my blank smart watch, I feigned a wince. “Uh-oh. There’s a crisis at the office,” I lied.
Mom was nonplussed. “There’s always a crisis,” she complained. “I never get any time with you.”
We had lunch every week. A shopping excursion once a month. And dinner every other Sunday at her house.
“I need to head back. I have a date tonight,” I said, pulling my phone out of my tote and texting Jane.
“A date?” Mom perked up. I could almost see the visions of golden-haired babies in Givenchy onesies that danced in her head.
“A first date,” I said. I felt the usual low-level guilt of cutting our lunch short—again—and wanted to leave her with something that would cheer her up.
“Text me his particulars,” Mom insisted as I signaled for the check. “Do I know him? I’m sure I know him.”
“It’s Merritt Van Winston,” I said, slipping my credit card in the leather book.
“Oh! He’s friends with your brother on Instagram,” she said brightly, scrolling through her phone.
Strike one for Merritt Van Winston.
“He’s quite hand
some.” My mother’s approval was an automatic strike two against a man in my book. I wasn’t shopping for a life partner right now. But if I were, my requirements would be wildly different from my mother’s.
An interest in the sciences. A sincere respect for my intense work schedule. And the ability to provide toe-curling orgasms.
I glanced at the photo she’d pulled up on her phone and kept my face neutral. Another tanned, long-haired playboy. But it was just dinner. I could survive that.
“Maybe you can bring Merritt to the gala!” She was already happily plotting an engagement party.
I kissed her goodbye and headed to the door. Jane pulled the Range Rover up at the curb just as I got there.
“How was lunch?” she asked cheekily when I slid into the passenger seat.
“Trey posted a picture with six topless women, and my mom needs me to bring a date to the gala that I don’t have time to attend in two weeks.”
Jane handed me a paper deli bag.
I peered inside.
“You are a goddess,” I told her, pulling out the half turkey and avocado on whole grain.
“I am aware,” she said, pulling into traffic.
3
Emily
The legal briefing ran late. As I’d anticipated. Put seven attorneys and their paralegals in a room together, and they would debate everything from where to get the best coffee in town to what an obscure 1950s ruling in a Mississippi courtroom meant for a business conglomerate in Dover, Delaware.
Keeping them on task and speaking in layman’s terms was an exercise in futility.
I headed briskly in the direction of the in-house graphics department on the other side of the floor with the intent to bribe a designer into showing me a preview of the “new direction” in product packaging.
This was the kind of thing Lita and I would have done over drinks at my house or hers just a few short years ago.
But circumstances changed. Schedules got busier. And friendships morphed. We found ourselves in an awkward dance with Lita insisting on veering from the Flawless vision. My vision. Just last week I’d had to put my foot down when she’d announced Flawless would be partnering with twenty-something YouTube makeup vloggers on sponsored posts featuring our wrinkle reducer. A twenty-two-year-old did not have wrinkles. Nor did she have a wrinkled audience.
My sigh was closer to a groan, and it made an assistant in a pink skirt shoot me a wide-eyed look.
It bothered me that Lita wasn’t interested in adhering to my vision. But like everything else, I’d deal with it later. We had bigger fish to fry, so to speak.
According to my legal team, the IPO was on track with the SEC. We’d been working toward this for the last two years, and the finish line was in sight. In less than eight weeks’ time, we would be offering up $1 billion in shares to the public. It was the culmination of years of effort and the beginning of a new phase of growth for Flawless.
My watch vibrated on my wrist.
Lita: Don’t forget your hot date tonight!
Shit. I had forgotten. I changed directions and headed back to my office. I could remind Lita over email how the packaging needed to reflect our brand and vision while I changed for my “date.”
This sort of thing was more common at a certain level of fame rather than plain old wealth. Unfortunately, it was a line my circumstances straddled. Being seen together was a discreet, mutually beneficial favor when attention was required. I’d taken dates I’d never met before to galas. I’d been a plus-one to strangers’ weddings and had been photographed going to dinner with gal pals I’d only known to nod to across the room.
In general, I avoided those kinds of favors on principle. I didn’t like lending myself out. My value—as I saw it—was in the office, not being seen on the arm of a man or in the company of starlets. However, Lita was right. We needed to keep the public interest up if we wanted the stock offering to meet expectations. And that meant I had to be seen… outside of the office or the lab.
Back in my office, I stripped out of my workwear and yanked the dress Jane brought for me over my head.
I’d have my picture taken. Grab a bite to eat. And put in another hour or two of work in my home office.
Glancing in the mirror, I frowned at the sedate updo I’d styled that morning.
“Dammit,” I breathed. Snatching my discarded dress from the floor, my bag from my table, I bulleted from the office.
The salon lights were still on. Maxim, the head stylist, lifted his head from the beachy waves he was styling for a woman I recognized from our payroll department.
“Damn, girl,” Maxim said, giving me the once over. “You looking to make someone fall in love tonight?”
I glanced down.
Jane had gone overboard with the damn dress. It was short and black with very unsubtle sparkle. Speaking of lack of subtlety, the deep V between my breasts skirted the line of classy and “hunting for a prenup.” I should have a necklace. Give people something to look at besides my small but mighty cleavage.
It was a dress I’d bought years ago thinking about special occasions with a special someone. And here I was wasting it on a stranger’s publicity because there was no special someone in my life.
Sacrifices.
“Do you have ten minutes for face and hair?” I asked Maxim.
“For you?” He gave me a slow wink while still wielding the clampless curling iron and producing perfect waves. “I’ve got all the time you need. Sheila, my beauty, you’re done. Give it a good shake and then go make What’s His Name speechless.”
Payroll Sheila gave me a nervous wave and scurried out of the salon, beaming in the glory of new hair.
“Thank you,” I said, collapsing into a chair and relishing having ten whole minutes during which nothing was required of me. “I’ve been running late since I got here today.”
“You’re pushing too hard,” he said, his fingers already working their way into my shoulder-length blonde hair. “When are you going to do something fun with this?” he demanded.
I thought of my mother’s comment at lunch.
“Soon,” I promised. Maybe after the IPO. Who knew what effect a haircut could have on an initial public offering?
He sighed, his skinny mustache perched over the flat line of his lips, and went to work with hair clips.
I’d hired him out of a salon in South Beach, doubling his salary and giving him a voice in product development. Our professional relationship consisted of me popping in once every few weeks when I worked too late to properly prepare for my evening responsibilities and Maxim grumbling over my conservative style. To be honest, it wasn’t even my style. My closet was a replica of my mother’s.
It was just easier that way.
True to his word, ten minutes later, my hair was big and bouncy. And I had smokey taupe eyes and red lips. I looked nothing like the prim and proper Emily Stanton who kicked ass all day.
“You’re a miracle worker, Maxy.”
“My canvas was especially stunning. Now go have a little fun before you forget how,” he called after me as I hit the door at a jog.
Jane was waiting in the garage for me, the Range Rover’s air conditioning on full blast.
“Did you have to pick a dress that my boobs are going to fall out of?” I asked.
“Your fault for sending me on wardrobe errands,” she smirked. Jane’s fashion knowledge began and ended with whatever showed up in the LL Bean catalog. “If you don’t like it, you shouldn’t have it in your closet.”
“Fair point,” I nodded. “What’s the game plan?”
“We’re meeting Prince Charming two blocks from the restaurant. We transfer you to his car so you can be photographed driving up together. I’ll hang back and wait for you to call when you’re ready to go home.”
I nodded, scrolling through my phone. Still no word from Esther at the lab. I wondered if I could squeeze in an in-person visit tomorrow. Checking my calendar, I winced. I’d be lucky to get a pee break
tomorrow.
“I hope this guy drives a normal car,” I sighed. My intestines did a slow kinking twist. I hated that my anxiety manifested itself in such an uncouth way. It wasn’t irritable bowel, but it was in the neighborhood. I’d always been thankful that my career aspirations had earned me my own private washroom, especially before big meetings that determined the future of thousands of people.
Jane laughed. “I did some digging for funsies. Let’s just say it’s a safe bet he’s got some $500,000 spaceship with undercarriage neons.”
“Lita so owes me,” I groaned. Someday, my debt to her would be paid.
“I’m following you to the restaurant,” Jane reminded me, consulting her mirrors as she veered around a huge Cadillac that was weaving across the lanes. “Text in case you need to make an emergency escape.”
“You’re a good friend,” I told her.
“Yup.”
* * *
Merritt Van Winston did not drive a normal vehicle.
I didn’t know my luxury sports cars, but I was pretty sure this bumble bee yellow lump of aerodynamic metal and plastic was a Ferrari.
A stupidly expensive car for a man who didn’t actually work for a living. Wonderful.
The Emily-Lita scales were definitely tipping in my favor.
The two blocks to the restaurant were the most interminable of my life. And that’s saying something in Miami. The man dressed like a European playboy and spoke like a valley girl. His bootcut jeans were so tight I wondered if the blood supply to his legs was cut off. And then there was the glossy purple shirt worn so open we could be cleavage twins.
“You’re like super-hot,” he said, grinding the gears and flashing me a smile so white I had to avert my eyes.
A Bentley, tires squealing, pulled out in front of us from an alley.
Merritt slammed on the brakes and stalled the car.
“What are you doing in town?” I asked, craning my neck to peer out the window. The car sat so low I felt like I was laying on the street.
