Constance, 2004
She hadn’t left their bedroom since the funeral one week ago. It was hard for her to imagine ever stepping outside again. She didn’t want to live in a world without Paulina.
Alan, dressed in a suit, walked into their bedroom, dark even in the middle of the afternoon. He pulled open the heavy custom brocade curtains and looked out at Park Avenue. She could imagine what he was watching: their doorman hailing someone a cab, parents holding the hands of small children, tourists carrying shopping bags. It was probably a beautiful mid-October day. The idea of enjoying a view, or a walk, or anything at all, was unthinkable to her.
“I thought you left for work,” she said.
“No.” Alan sat on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t go to the office this morning.”
“Where did you go, then?”
“I had a meeting with the Maybrooks and our respective attorneys.”
Constance sat up, blinking against the intrusive light. “The Maybrooks? Why?”
“There are logistics to work out.”
“Oh? What could possibly matter?” Constance sniffed and reached over to her bedside table for the Electric Rose. It caught the light streaming in from the windows and appeared to glow. But there was nothing beautiful about it any longer. There was now only an overwhelming sense of morbidity to the extraordinary stone; Paulina had been wearing it at the time of her death.
Fortunately, they’d managed to keep that detail out of the press; it wasn’t exactly the association Alan wanted for Pavlin & Co’s most famous diamond. When he’d shared his concern about public perception in the hours following news of Paulina’s and Liam’s deaths, Constance was appalled. How could he think of such a thing at a time like that? “It’s my job, as head of the family, as head of a global business, to think of precisely such a thing,” he’d said. “Public perception is fickle; once we lose control of it, it will be difficult—if not impossible—to regain control of the narrative.”
“I knew you never should have given her this ring,” she said now, looking up at him.
“What?”
“That stupid competition. The problems between her and Elodie. She was running away from it—from us—and it killed her.” It was the one thing she’d been thinking over and over again, on a constant mental loop. She hadn’t been able to articulate it to him until that moment. It felt good to say it aloud, even if Alan looked horrified.
He sighed and reached for her hand. “I know you want to make sense of this. I do, too. But the reality is, Paulina was driving the boat too fast. She had the motor on instead of using the sails and they were too close to the dock. The Maybrooks’ lawyer made it clear that the toxicology reports don’t work in our favor. The accident was just that—an accident. I know you’re having a hard time making sense of it all, but it had nothing to do with the Electric Rose.”
“Maybe those newspaper articles are right: There is a curse.” She put the ring down.
“Oh, Constance. Don’t start with that tabloid nonsense.”
Constance pulled her hand away from him and jumped out of bed. “We have to protect Gemma from the press. She’s our child now.”
Alan held out his hand to her once again. “Please. Sit down. We need to talk.”
“We are talking.”
“Liam’s family is prepared to sue us for wrongful death. For millions. You’re worried about the tabloids? Let me tell you, the Maybrooks are threatening to talk. Pavlin & Co, instead of being synonymous with glamour and romance, will become a symbol of wrongful death. And think of what this could do to Paulina’s memory.”
Sue them? How could those wretched people think of money? That wouldn’t bring the kids back. And her husband seemed more concerned about the company than the fact that they’d lost their precious daughter.
“Paulina is gone. She was the face of the company. You can’t sell your way around that.”
Alan started to speak, then stopped. He looked at her with something that seemed like pity. “I hate to say it, but we’ve seen a sales spike since the accident. Paulina’s become a tragic figure. But if she’s seen as the cause of the accident, then she’s the villain.”
“What a horrible, horrible world we live in,” Constance said, sinking back against the pillows. She put her forearm over her eyes, like she did when she had a migraine. “So just pay off the Maybrooks. Whatever it takes. It’s only money.”
“They don’t want money.”
“What do they want?”
“Gemma.”
Constance barked a bitter laugh, short and loud, a single syllable that sounded like a car horn. Alan furrowed his brow.
“I’m serious, Constance. They want to raise Gemma themselves, and they don’t want us to have anything to do with her. No contact.”
“That’s not happening,” she said.
“Yes,” Alan said. “It is.”