by H. M. Ward
“Mother, I wish you’d told me Dad was sick.” There I said it. Plain, direct and honest, but it doesn’t make this moment feel any less childish.
Mother slides into Dad’s massive leather armchair and gestures for me to sit next to her on the other. She sighs deeply, then looks into my eyes and matches my direct tone. “I tell you what you need to know, and you didn’t need to know about this. Your job is school, and that’s where you’ll go back to first thing tomorrow.”
“No, I’m not.” My voice is stern, but my throat is too tight. “I’m staying here this semester.”
She laughs once, harshly. “Oh, no, you most certainly are not. I’ve not paid in excess of fifty thousand dollars for your degree for you to throw it away months before graduation. You are returning to college, finishing your degree, and then moving back home. This is not open for discussion.” Her words are clipped, and I know she’s tired. I feel bad for her, how alone she must feel with Daddy sick.
I stand, and I know I shouldn’t say another word, but they fall out of me like raindrops—a trickle at first, then a downpour. “I understand. When I left for Texas, I didn’t mean to burn bridges with you, Mother. I simply needed space. If I’m still welcome in this apartment, I would like to take my final classes from here. I want to come home.”
It kills me to admit it, but that’s the crux of the matter—I want to come home. If she won’t let me live here, I can’t. I can’t afford New York unless she helps me, and maybe some daughters are always welcome and can do no wrong, but I wounded her pride and rejected her way of life when I left. Things have been strained between us since.
Mother looks over at me slowly, considering me, her gaze scanning my jeans and t-shirt, the sloppy ponytail of brown curls tumbling off the back of my head. “You’re not capable of conforming, Elizabeth. I will not endanger the status of this family for you to ease your conscience.”
“Mother, I can. I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me stay," I plead, tears prickling the backs of my eyes. "I miss my family.”
Mother sits up, beaming. Damn it! I walked right into that—and it was what she was pushing for the whole time. Uhhggg! How did I not see it? She presses her palms to her lap and starts gushing details about the social season. “And of course, I expect you to attend every event to restore my faith in you, starting with the charity gala tomorrow evening. Your appearance, your manners, and your education will all be tested. Don’t make me ashamed to call you my daughter, and you may stay as long as you like.”
I nod. “Yes, Mother.” I need a kick-me sign on my back because I’m the biggest dumbass there ever was. I fought to escape this living hell only to beg to be taken back.
CHAPTER 4
The grand ballroom hums with excitement. Men in tuxedos and women in an array of beautiful gowns mingle and whisper to one another. Diamonds twinkle from the ears, necks, and wrists of every woman in the room—except for the Bennet women, of course. I'm certain these other women didn't rent their dresses either.
Tables clad with crisp linens and adorned with extravagant vases of roses and gardenias circle an expansive dance floor. On stage, a full orchestra playing a waltz attracts a few older couples to dance with a certain grace that comes from age, years of marriage, and just the right amount of imported champagne. Wait staff weave through the crowd in sharp red jackets and pristine white gloves, dispensing flutes of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. The mood of the room seems to correlate directly with the weight of the champagne-laden trays—it lightens as they do.
“The Livingston family's financial holdings are doing well this year," Mother whispers, motioning to a table of rotund men and women all resembling sparkly penguins. I think Mother was a gossip columnist in another life. Maybe she’s reliving her glory days. "At the table nearest them is the Sinclair family. My, my, if only their son weren't involved in the Diamond Reserve scandal," her eyes shine with genuine disappointment, "he would’ve been perfect for you Beth."
I imagine myself melting into the carpet or being hit by a flaming toilet seat—anything to avoid dwelling on the financial status of every family in the room.
I reach out desperately as a tray of champagne passes just outside my reach. Jane giggles at the look on my face. No champagne for me.
"Oh! There are the Ferros," Mother exclaims with shocked pleasure, enjoying private satisfaction at their expense. I steal a glance at their matriarch, Constance, and shudder. That woman gives me the creeps. She’d kill her own mother if it meant securing more power or money for her family.
My mother continues to tell us her thoughts, rarely stopping for air. "I didn’t expect Constance to dare show her face with all the scandal surrounding her son Sean. Our Mary is a saint compared to him.” Mother claps her hands gleefully and moves along, snagging a flute of champagne from a passing waiter's tray while motioning us to follow behind her.
It was the last flute on the tray.
“Look, there’s Dad,” Jane says with relief, directing our attention to the far right of the ballroom. We spot him standing next to John Rivas, a business client, and wave them over.
Never show them you’re sick or you’ll end up with a hostile company takeover. This room is filled with affluent men who miraculously bounce back, all smiles. Heart attacks, strokes, even cancer can’t hold them down—nothing can. Which makes me wonder what’s ailing Daddy. I still have no idea. I keep studying him for clues, but I haven't come up with any possible diagnosis yet. I’m hoping if I’m around more, Dad will confide in me. It's a long shot, but he might.
“I see you got here in one piece,” Dad calls to us, stretching out his arms to hug me hello. Though he smiles brightly, his face still appears tired, and his once-substantial body is drowning in the fabric of his tuxedo.
“Hello, Daddy," I say, returning his hug, but trying not to squeeze him too tightly. "Good evening, Mr. Rivas." I turn to face Mr. Rivas, and he takes my hand, squeezing it warmly in greeting.
“Ah, Beth, Jane, you both look stunning. And Victoria, if David hadn’t grown my profits twenty percent last quarter, I’d steal you away from him in a heartbeat.” His dark eyes dance merrily as he reaches for Mother’s hand and kisses the back of it.
“Dear me,” Mother says, batting her lashes coyly. “You are a charmer. You must join us for brunch on Sunday. And bring your lovely wife. Is she here tonight?”
“I'm afraid not," Mr. Rivas says, his cheeks flushing slightly pink. "The last I heard, she was sunbathing on the Riviera. I'm afraid we lost touch after our divorce.”
“Oh, divorce. What a pity.” Mother beams, shifting her gaze to look at me encouragingly.
I can see the wheels turning in her head. Mr. Rivas is near Dad’s age, and I can't say his name without instinctively adding 'Mister' in front of it. Bad match, Mom! Don’t do it. Don’t say it.
“Well, you know Beth here is doing very well for herself. She graduates college in a few months. Maybe you have a job for her, close to your office so you can personally show her the ins and outs of the business. That would be a wonderful opportunity, wouldn’t it Beth?”
Shoot me. Someone. Anyone.
I glance around the room, desperate to escape Mother. Where's Mary when you need her?
“Doesn’t that sound lovely, dear?” Mother addresses Daddy, who smiles blandly from behind his glass of champagne.
I smile until my face hurts. We're way past Super Awkward Street and quickly approaching I Don’t Give a Fuck Boulevard, but I can’t speed off that way. Mother made it clear that I need to follow her rules tonight.
I giggle and nod. “It sounds lovely.”
Dad’s bland smile crumples, and he stares at me as if I'd grown antlers. “Are you all right, Beth?”
I never giggle. I don’t know where that came from. I nod too much and appeal to God for them to all look at someone else.
At that moment, I see a striking young man with bronze hair enter the ballroom. His face dances with excitement as he takes in the contr
olled chaos of the event.
“David, Charles Bingley is here.” Mother immediately pivots to Jane and gives her the once-over.
Jane turns a light shade of green and shoots an apologetic look to Mr. Rivas, as Mother begins to pick imaginary lint from Jane’s dress. A waiter with a full tray of champagne finally comes close enough for me to snatch two flutes.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper, handing Jane one flute of champagne. "Be strong. Say, no!"
“Bingley of Bingley Tech?” Dad asks. “Isn’t he the man you wanted to meet, dear?” My parents continue their conversation unaware of the silent argument I'm having with Jane right under their noses.
“Of course, he’s the one, David.” Mother snatches the flute from Jane, and gracelessly tosses it back at me. “Don’t be foolish, Jane. You can’t mix alcohol with your medication.”
I manage to catch it without spilling a drop and take a sip from both flutes. Knowing my mother is reason enough to double-fist champagne, but attending a gala with her practically requires it. Poor Jane.
“Victoria, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Bingley. I’ve known his family for years,” Mr. Rivas says kindly. Introductions are part of this social circle. Walking up to someone you don’t know and being all friendly is frowned upon. You have to be properly introduced. It’s like a different era with these people.
Mr. Rivas, adds, “Look, he’s brought Gwen and William Darcy with him.”
The room is a rustling wave of colorful ball gowns swishing toward and swarming around the billionaire. Through the crowd, I catch a glimpse of a petite, willowy woman standing next to a muscular, broad-shouldered asshole in a tux.
“Oh, my,” Mother gasps. “Mr. Darcy is even more handsome in person. Of course, no one is as handsome as you, David,” she adds, just a beat too late.
I take another sip of my champagne, wishing I could chug it. "Is that William Darcy of Darcy Biopharm?” I pretend I don’t know who he is—even though I’m shooting holes through him with my laser eyes.
“Yes, and the attractive woman next to him is his sister, Gwen.” Rivas lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Mr. Darcy keeps his sister on a short leash. Apparently, she’s prone to making scenes at social functions, especially when she...” Rivas trails off, gesturing to my champagne. I immediately start looking for a place to dump my second flute. “Darcy guards his company’s image jealously.”
“Don’t we all.” I say it sweetly, wishing I could draw attention to the fact that corporations are not people, no matter what the law says. People should come first, but that’s not the way this world works. Everything is done at the expense of the family to further the company, to build a dynasty. People are disposable, and family members are no different. Those who don’t make their own rules get removed from the game, like me.
Technically, I stopped playing and left. It’s not the same.
I study the radiant Gwen and her brooding brother as I slip quietly back to ditch the second champagne glass on a nearby table. Darcy stands behind his sister, one hand resting on her arm like he owns her. By the way the women around him are acting, though, they apparently wouldn’t mind becoming William Darcy's possession.
A voluptuous redhead wearing four-inch heels sashays past him. Being way too obvious, the woman brushes her well-endowed chest against Darcy’s arm as she trips over an invisible object. Darcy visibly takes a step back, allowing Mr. Bingley to play hero instead. He's an ass, but that was well played. The woman flares her nostrils and stomps off, barely uttering a stiff thank you to Mr. Bingley.
There might be another reason why I dislike Darcy—he’s arrogant about his greed. His reputation exceeds him, and while I don’t know everything, I know enough. Family should come first, always. That’s why I’m here. Treating Gwen like a pawn isn’t all right with me, and just gives me another reason to push pins into his voodoo doll.
Mr. Rivas motions for us to follow and sets off across the room. Seeing no other alternative, I dutifully follow my family closer to the jackass. Dad heads straight for Darcy, whispering something to him that I can't quite make out.
Darcy nods once and they shake hands.
Mr. Rivas holds out a hand to Mr. Bingley, who clasps it warmly in both of his.
“John Rivas! It’s a pleasure to see you, and you’ve brought friends, I see.”
“Cameron, Miss Darcy, Mr. Darcy, allow me to introduce you to the Bennets.” Bingley nods politely as Mr. Rivas makes the introductions, but his green eyes remain fixed on Jane. Mother vibrates like an excited Chihuahua.
“Cameron Bingley,” he says, extending his hand and shooting Jane a dimpled smile. His eyes are kind and sincere. I like him instantly.
As introductions begin with the Darcys, Mr. Bingley remains transfixed by Jane.
“Please call me Gwen,” Darcy's sister says warmly, seizing the opportunity to shake my hand and spur the conversation. Gwen is possibly more stunning up close, her long dark lashes framing magnetic blue eyes. “You can call my brother Willie,” Gwen giggles as I turn to shake Darcy’s hand.
“Very humorous, Gwen. I prefer the use of my surname if you must address me,” he says sternly, his deep voice booming with irritation—as Gwen obviously intended for it to do. Even Darcy winces at the sound, but unapologetically holds out a hand in greeting nonetheless.
I don’t want to slip my palm against his. There’s a strange feeling spilling over me, pulling me toward him. He’s attractive, yes, but his ethics and attitude are undesirable. They should cancel out any attraction to him, but I swear to God, my body is so high-strung that if we touch, I’ll melt on the spot.
But it’s too late. His hand is there, lingering, waiting for mine. If I don’t shake it, all hell breaks loose, and if I do touch him—
"It’s nice to make your acquaintance, William," I say, emphasizing his first name before beaming at him. I intend to slip my hand into his for a blink and withdraw. It’s a hit and run handshake, but that’s not possible.
On contact, a rush of electricity flows up my arm and swirls in my stomach. My mouth goes dry, and there aren’t any words. I’m not convinced I’m still breathing. It’s too hot in here. The way his thumb moves tenderly over my hand is almost erotic. The gentle caress makes my heart pound harder until the urge to snatch my hand from his is overwhelming. I slowly lift my gaze to meet his blazing sapphire eyes, prepared for recognition to set in.
But the awkward moment never comes. Is he just pretending not to recognize me?
Darcy’s lips part as if he's going to say something, but no words come out. He just watches me from under those dark lashes. My eyes flick between his mouth and his eyes. I want him to speak, to say something, to tell me he remembers me, but he doesn’t.
He just stands there, a full head taller than me, staring into my eyes with those perfectly pink lips parted. Suddenly I want to feel those lips on mine and his strong hands on my face, sweeping over my skin in a gentle kiss.
The thought shocks me. I’m not usually like this and I sure as hell don’t swoon over assholes. What’s wrong with me? Before I can figure it out, Darcy's sister starts laughing. She touches my shoulder, reminding me to drop Darcy’s hand.
“Really, William,” Gwen chides, laughing. “And you wonder why Cameron is your only friend? Don’t mind my brother, Beth, dear. He abhors social settings and is only truly happy building his empire from behind his computer. Please excuse me.” She bounces down the steps toward the center of the ballroom, calling out to another guest. “Jax, is that you? I haven’t seen you in ages!”
Darcy takes in a breath as if to call after her, worry flickering in his eyes as Gwen disappears from his sight. He obviously cares deeply for his sister. His eyes flick back to me, a series of unreadable emotions crossing them before he breaks eye contact and pulls out his cell phone. Whatever tenderness he showed vanishes and the stern condescension reappears on that beautiful face.
And, I still want to kiss him.
&nbs
p; I growl frustratedly in the back of my throat and walk toward Dad as the orchestra lulls to a stop, preparing for a new piece. Dad’s cell phone buzzes loudly in the silence. He checks the screen apologetically, then turns to kiss Mother's cheek.
“Please excuse me, darling, I must take this call. Mr. Bingley, it was nice to finally meet you. Darcy, it was a pleasure to see you again. We'll have to arrange another meeting soon—I promise I'll be conscious at this one!" I frown as the men laugh politely at Dad's self-deprecating joke. Dad turns toward Mr. Rivas. "John, would you join me on this call?” Together, they disappear into the crowd.
The orchestra begins another waltz, and Cameron shoots a winning smile at Jane.
“This is one of my favorites," he says, gallantly holding out his arm to her. "Will you do me the honor?”
Jane blushes a delicate pink from the tips of her ears, to the neckline of her dress. She almost imperceptibly nods and accepts Cameron's hand, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor.
It's hard to believe someone as beautiful as Jane doesn't date more. I once read that beauty is intimidating, and most guys are probably too afraid to ask her out. Jane being too shy to initiate conversation with men doesn't help the situation.
I scan the room for the nearest table to hole up and hide, but am interrupted by a sharp elbow in my back. I turn to see Mother's eyes darting between Mr. Darcy and me, silently ordering me to encourage him to dance. My stomach rolls.
I study Mr. Darcy staring at his cell phone, oblivious to the silent battle of wills going on in front of him.
I look back at Mother and shake my head, "No."
Mother’s lips form a thin line.
I shake my head harder.
Mother’s eyes bulge in their sockets as a single brow lifts higher and higher.
I fold my arms across my chest and refuse to move.