“The alcohol in Lo’s closet?”
“Planted. Savannah and Ben put it there when Lily was taking a nap. They were supposed to install a camera too, but they ran out of time.”
How many bullets did we actually dodge this time around?
I can’t get off the couch to help them or to shout another expletive. Ryke has said them all anyway. I’ve known what everyone is just finding out. In fact, I’ve known for a while that production was behind all of this shit. I guess they couldn’t one-hundred percent believe in that truth because they had other options to consider. Like us. Lily and I—we could have lied to them.
“I’m going to let Ryke go if you don’t get out of this house,” I hear Connor tell Scott. “And his fists are going to hurt a hell of a lot more than mine. So take what’s on your back and leave.”
Not long after, the door slams shut.
I can only hope that’s the last cancer in our lives, but my dad would tell me that I’m being a little fucking fool. For believing in that impossibility. When you have money like we do, there will always be people ready to bury you for a payout.
It’s how the world turns.
{ 37 }
0 years : 10 months
June
LILY CALLOWAY
Connor never once hesitated, not even for a moment did he second guess his plan, which is on a grand, massive scale. Even with the sex tape and a lawsuit being flung in Scott’s face, Connor said, “There is no better time than today.”
Both Lo and I strongly disagreed. Rose was going to claw his face the minute we did the wedding switcheroo.
I think my doubt vanished about the same time I stepped into the “Château de Fontainebleau”—a French palace fit for a queen.
Every single detail resembles my older sister. The simple pale pink bridesmaids gowns, like ballet dresses. The hundreds of attendees, showering her with compliments. The lavish antiquity of it all. Diamonds, roses, red velvet cake and classical music.
It’s a dream wedding that she never dreamed of until now.
I couldn’t be happier for her, especially since she said yes.
I stand beside Lo in a grand ballroom that resembles a royal castle in a history book. Paintings engulf every wall with gold ornate frames. The ceiling is just as fancy, and a row of chandeliers twinkles overhead. Giant red rose bouquets line the room, classy and elegant like my sister.
Ryke comes up beside his brother while clusters of people enter the ballroom after dinner, a stage setup with violinists, cellists and a pianist.
“When you two get married, should I be prepared for something like this?” Ryke asks us. He downs a champagne flute filled with water in two seconds and a server collects it before he even turns around.
“No way,” Lo says. “There will be a finite number of people.”
“And no press,” I add. Connor let the media squeeze through the doors so they could blog about the event. He said something about needing “good” publicity for Fizzle and Cobalt Inc.
“Exactly.” Lo gives his brother a half-smile before putting his arm around my shoulder. I lean closer to his body, waiting for Rose and Connor to take to the empty floor space for their first dance as husband and wife.
“I’m not trying to pressure you,” Ryke says, “but are you going to set a date for it?”
Lo and I haven’t really talked about it. We got engaged because our parents ordered us to, and they also said we had to be married today. And then when all of that changed, the timeline kind of dematerialized with it.
“No,” Lo answers. “We’re going to wait until the media dies down.”
Ryke’s jaw hardens and he nods a couple times. “And if that doesn’t fucking happen? What then?” I don’t like his tone one bit. Like he believes it won’t ever come true. I just hate thinking that this could be our new normal. The frenzied cameras, the invasiveness, the never-ending questions and rumors. The reality show is over so everything should return to the way it was, right?
Lo’s cheekbones jut out a little more than usual, irritated. He licks his lips and shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe you should worry about your own future wife. Oh wait, she doesn’t exist.”
Ryke raises his hands in defense. “Hint fucking taken. I’ll stay out of it.”
Lo lets out a short laugh. “When have you stayed out of anyone’s business?”
He nods. “Good point.”
“Shhh,” I whisper, swatting Lo’s arm. The violins have shushed, and Connor saunters into the open space. When he stops in the center, his deep blue eyes lock straight on Rose.
I am full-blown smiling. The way he’s staring at her—it’s beyond magical.
“I just want everyone to know,” I whisper again, “that I predicted this would happen the moment I saw them together.”
Both Lo and Ryke clap for me at the same time, mostly in sarcasm. Yeah, yeah, they can team up against me, but I was right. It doesn’t happen often, so I pocket that small glory.
Connor holds out his hand, and Rose approaches with a narrowed, passionate gaze. She takes his hand in hers. She’s still in her white wedding dress with sheer material around her collarbones. A high slit runs up her leg, but the tulle netting flows around her limbs so much that you can hardly tell until she walks. Sexy and classy.
She designed that dress, sewed it together for me, but it’s her style and something she loved with each last thread. Daisy stole the gown to have the bust altered to match the measurements of Rose’s bridesmaid’s dress. It fit her perfectly.
They wait for the music to start, questions flickering in Rose’s gaze about Connor’s song choice. The moment the instruments create a sweet, silky noise, Rose’s hand flies to her mouth. And her eyes begin to glass.
Connor pulls her closer to his chest, his grin so bright. Her hands tremble. Both have now risen to her lips that part with unrestrained surprise. She shakes her head, and I start crying as soon as rare happy tears stream down her cheeks. French lyrics leave the singer’s mouth like honey.
The music is gorgeous, even if I can’t understand a single word.
“What song is this?” I murmur, wiping my eyes quickly.
“No clue,” Lo says, the corners of his mouth lifting the longer he watches Connor and Rose in the center of the room. There aren’t many dry eyes around here.
Connor kisses Rose’s forehead and I read his lips: I love you.
I bite my gums to stop the waterworks from beginning all over again. Every moment of Rose’s wedding has been a surprise, and with each one, I think that we’ve all realized how well Connor knows her and how much he truly, truly loves her.
“La Vie En Rose,” Ryke suddenly says with a French lilt.
“What?” My brows pinch together.
“The song,” he says, “it’s called La Vie En Rose.”
“How do you know that…?” I ask, my voice trailing off, distracted for a second by my sister. Rose calms after the initial overwhelming shock of the song choice. And they begin to slow dance together.
“It’s a popular song,” he says before walking backwards. “I’m going to get another drink. You two want anything?”
“Bourbon, no ice,” Lo quips dryly.
“Hilarious,” Ryke says with zero humor. He nods to me. “What about you?”
I can’t get over how he said La Vie En Rose, like he understood exactly how to pronounce each syllable in the foreign language. If I said the song title, it’d sound like an American butchering the words. “Do you know these lyrics?” I ask.
“They’re in French,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the growing line to the bar. “Last chance, Lily.”
“Fizz Life,” I place my order, letting my suspicions go with it. He weaves between the guests, and I focus my attention elsewhere. “Do you think they’ll be okay?” I ask Lo as we watch Connor spin Rose with poise and masculinity. They haven’t confronted the serious repercussions of having a sex tape floating on the internet.
Once th
ey start Googling themselves and the hatred and criticism pours through—they’ll feel the real sting. It’s not fun.
“Yeah,” Lo says. “They’re Connor and Rose.” He says their names like they’re a fortress of steel. While I agree on some accounts, he hasn’t calculated the fact that negative cannon-blasts from tabloids can easily knock down their defenses.
“Yeah but they’ll need us,” I say with a nod. “We’ve been through this before.” We’ll pay it forward, be a friendly shoulder to cry on like Rose was to me. Not that she sheds more than a few tears a year.
He stays quiet on the matter, his eyes darting to alcoholic beverages in almost everyone’s hands. It’s an open bar. He wears that mildly annoyed look that he used to get in college, when happy people flaunted their enthusiasm in front of him.
Just as the first song ends, guests begin to join Rose and Connor on the dance floor. Instead of rushing to the middle, a hoard of people edge closer to us. They unfortunately linger, as though to eavesdrop. We haven’t had a single reporter bombard us with questions because Connor ordered them not to, but they’re studying our movements from afar…well, now they’re doing it from five feet.
I press up against Lo’s hard, lean body. The spot between my legs pulses, and my arm latches around his waist. If I shift just a little close I can feel his bulge—
“Lily,” he says softly, staring down at me. He fixes a piece of my flyaway hair. “If you rub up against me anymore, I’m going to get hard.”
Ohmygod. I let out a shallow breath. “That’s the point…” Or is it not the point? We’re not allowed to have sex at my sister’s wedding, are we? That’s old, bad Lily.
This is Lily 2.0. Scratch that—this is Lily 3.0. Brand spanking new.
He groans a little. “Lil…” He pries my fingers off his toned ass. Oh Jeez. I redden. “Spanking” is a very dangerous word. The intensity in his amber eyes magnifies when they bore into me. His chest falls heavier than before.
Lo doesn’t distance himself from me. Not once. Instead he closes the gap, kissing me with an urgency that I’ve missed dearly.
My limbs shake as his palm cups the back of my head, his fingers gripping my hair, his tongue skillfully sliding against mine. We part for one single breath.
“Lo…” We’re in a room full of people. It’s a thought that disintegrates in the back of my brain.
“Lil…” He rests his forehead on mine. Then he kisses my cheek, and quickly clasps my hand, leading me in a new direction, swerving between people. I realize we’re aimed for a hallway or a bathroom. He glances back at me once, his lips rising in a gorgeous, devious smile. We’re going to have sex!
Yes. Yes. Yes.
My body thrums with victory and applause. It’s not wrong. It’s so right. I hold onto his one hand with both of mine, afraid that we’ll break apart and I’ll lose him.
And then a sloshed guy with black Ray-Ban sunglasses on—indoors—haphazardly cuts through us, tearing my hand right from Lo’s. Another guy in a white button-down rushes through the same space. “Wait up, Luke!” he shouts after him.
His momentum forward pushes me backwards. I nearly stumble into an old lady with oversized jewelry.
Three, four…five other people follow the two guys like a wolf pack.
Luke essentially created a pathway right between Lo and me.
What’s worse: I can’t see Lo anymore. It’s like he’s vanished from the building, lost in the sea of bodies. I spin around, my heart pumping, the need thrumming for him. Where’d he go? I rotate one more time and catch eyes with a woman in a maroon dress. My attention narrows straight to her honey-colored curly hair that’s strangely tamed despite the large volume.
She stops mid-sentence in a conversation with another woman, white wine in both their hands. Her face just lights up when she sees me. For a brief moment, I wonder if I personally know this woman. She takes a few tentative steps forward, like she’s a vampire I haven’t invited in my house yet.
“Hi, Lily, I’ve been wanting to meet you for so long. I’m glad I caught you here.” She holds out her hand for me to shake.
I hesitantly do, a foreboding feeling in my gut. I scrutinize her deep red lipstick, darker skin and perfectly matched high heels, jewelry and dress. Very fashionable. “You must be Rose’s friend,” I say. “From Princeton?” Though she seems a little old to be a college graduate with Rose, probably in her early thirties.
She lets out a small, weak laugh like are you serious? You don’t know who I am? Oh God. Is she famous? A celebrity?
Shit.
I suck. I really wish Lo was—
“I’m Wendy Collins, a staff writer at Celebrity Crush.”
My face plummets. Wendy Collins. The one who posted my letter that I sent to her, online for the whole world to see. The one perpetuating any and all rumors that I’m sleeping with Loren and his brother…at the same time.
Wendy Collins. I have nothing to say to you. Any harsh, horrible insults that stick to the back of my throat must stay there. I don’t have one of my family’s publicists to help redirect the conversation. If I spout anything wrong, she’ll just twist my words for a better headline.
I know that now.
Maybe she can read the horror on my face because she adds quickly, “You have to realize that I’m just doing my job. If I didn’t write those stories, somebody else would have, and I wouldn’t be paid nearly enough to afford rent in New York City. We don’t all come from money.”
Right. I don’t know if it’s my civic duty to let people berate me on the internet so they can afford their apartment. Maybe it is. Maybe this is the cost of growing up in luxury.
“I have to go,” I say, about to turn around. “I have to find my best friend.” Wrong term, Lily. I redden. “My boyfriend,” I amend and then wince. Still not right. “My fiancé. And yes, they are all the same person.” So there.
“We were just talking about your sister,” she says, freezing me in place.
I turn back, taking the bait too easily. Wendy motions to another woman by her side, older with a short blonde haircut and a pointed chin like a wicked witch. “This is Andrea DelaCorte an Executive Editor at Celebrity Crush.”
“Pleasure,” Andrea says, sipping her wine. Her needled brown eyes cast judgment from my toes to my face, probably speculating how many bodies touched mine.
Wendy doesn’t seem so evil compared to Andrea.
“What about my sister?” I ask, a little defensively, considering her name will most likely crop up on their front pages soon. And not only because of the wedding switch.
“Andrea and I were discussing how great it is to have someone like Rose in the public eye. She’s a female figure that we believe a lot of women can rally behind.”
What…?
Off my frown, Andrea says, “She’s been with Connor Cobalt for over a year, and she’s stayed committed to him through everything.”
Wendy nods in agreement. “Especially after her ex-boyfriend tried to break them apart. It’s empowering to have someone like Rose out there—she’s independent, driven, and sexually open. I wouldn’t be surprised if women start asking her for relationship advice.”
Rose? Relationship advice? I never thought I’d hear those words. Or that a sex tape could be spun positively rather than negatively.
I don’t understand. Wouldn’t she be slandered and outcast like me? A weight just drops on my chest.
“That’s a great idea actually,” Andrea says. “Do you think your sister would be open to a short column on the blog? It can be about sex tips, a guide to dating, anything in that field.” Sex tips?
“I don’t know,” I say in a small voice. Rose is being lauded for having a boyfriend for over a year, for only sleeping with him. But I’ve been with too many no-named guys. She’s a model that other people can copy whereas I’m dirty, right? No one should follow my footsteps.
I never thought of it like that.
I never thought that she’d be praised and I
’d still be condemned.
It’s not fair.
If I had been committed to Loren Hale all my life, would people love me more?
Probably.
Andrea and Wendy examine all of my reactions like they’re going to jot this down for an article. I think I mumble a goodbye, and then I just kind of drift away in a daze. Minutes must pass before I hear a familiar sound.
“Lily.” Lo’s concerned voice seems so distant. “I’ve been looking for you…Lil?” His hands go to my face, still standing in the ballroom, closer to the ornate wall.
“You were right,” I breathe. He was so right.
“Right about what?” His voice is low, like the hollow of a cave.
“Connor and Rose don’t need us.” They never needed us like we need them. Are we leeches then? We suck the life out of our friends and will never, ever be strong enough to pay them back.
I’m in his arms before I can even ask. He carries me in a front piggy-back. My legs tighten around his waist, sex sounding better and better. To at least give me a rush, a high of something good to drown out the bad.
But I know how this ends.
I will never satisfy this craving.
Very softy, I say, “We can’t have sex.” The words drive a nail into my heart. Because it aches to be denied it, even by my own lips. Because it’s all I feel like I need.
“I know,” Lo whispers, bringing me to an empty hallway with globes and more paintings overhead. He sets me on a bench and kneels in front of my spread legs.
My breath hitches, and I lean forward to kiss him, to grab a fist-full of his shirt and pull him even closer.
Just as my fingers clench the fabric, he puts his hands on my knees, shuts my legs tightly and rests one of his palms on my collar, pushing my back into the wall. The rejection stings. “Lo,” I say in a breath, his features sharp and severe and forceful.
A tear rolls down my cheek.
He’s not backing down from this. It’s like he could see this outcome from the very moment the wedding started. It’s like he was preparing all day for my descent.
Here it is.
I’m ashamed of myself and embarrassed. I just feel gross.
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