“You’re certain he’s cheating?” Mr. Becker asks me, his expression stone-cold angry.
“Positive,” I say, the weight of the situation hanging heavily in my tone. “I have a recording.”
Mr. Becker releases a long audible breath. “Good. When can I expect it?”
But it’s not good. We were never supposed to betray Ella and strong-arm her into a breakup with a recording of her boyfriend and her best friend, much less give that evidence to her parents. This was supposed to be gentle; it was supposed to leave her feeling uplifted and better about herself, ready to go to London and conquer journalism.
“I’m certain Ella and Justin will break up without it,” I reply.
Ella’s dad looks like he’s going to explode. “Is that your way of telling me you’re not giving it to me?” And when I don’t immediately respond, he follows up with, “Then I guess you don’t expect to be paid for this.”
“Honey,” Ella’s mom interjects, trying to calm her husband.
While the last thing I’m thinking about in this turd of a moment is money, his comment pisses me off. He offered us three times our rate, and now he’s threatening me with it. And while I’d love to just say Fine, don’t pay us, I can’t do that to August. So instead, I say, “If they break up, then we’ve completed our end of the job.”
“No, you have not,” he fires back. “You promised my daughter would be both happy and none the wiser. And you assured me there would be no kissing.”
For a second, I’m totally confused. “Kissing?”
“As in your colleague groping my daughter yesterday in his car!”
“Jim.” Ella’s mom’s tone is stern. “I told you to leave this one alone.”
“Well, it needed to be said,” he replies and angrily shifts his attention to what everyone is looking at—Ella and August arguing. I don’t try to mediate, I don’t even say goodbye when Ella’s parents walk off, because all I can think is that August kissed Ella after he promised he wouldn’t, and worse, he didn’t tell me.
I stare after them, dumbstruck and angry. Bentley says my name, but I don’t respond. I can’t even think. All I can do is watch as Ella yells, as August walks away, as everything falls apart. And to make matters so much worse, my mom is headed toward me with a fiery glare.
“Valentine Sharma. Upstairs, now,” Mom says in a tone I haven’t heard since I accidentally lost her grandmother’s necklace when I was eleven. “Bentley, you’ll have to excuse us—my daughter is done for the night and for a lot longer than that.”
I follow my mom and her sequined dress, the one she spent a whole week picking out in order to look perfect tonight. Her steps are tense as she leads me through the crowd and into our house—even her French twist looks angry. But it’s nothing in comparison to the cold calm of her expression when she shuts my bedroom door behind us. She doesn’t say anything for a long moment; she just stares.
“You can imagine my shock when Mrs. Becker begs my pardon for leaving so abruptly because she didn’t know that Valentine was our daughter, the same Valentine she hired to break up her daughter’s relationship?” She pauses, eyeing me. “Now normally, I’d have set the woman straight, told her that she’s obviously mistaken because my Valentine is a caterer. I should know. I see her leave the house most days carrying her work uniform. And more importantly, my daughter isn’t a liar. But she was gone too fast for me to get a word in, chasing you around the lawn while people screamed and caused scenes at your father’s most important work event of the year.”
I swallow, feeling worse than I did ten minutes ago, which I honestly didn’t think was possible. “There’s a reasonable explanation for this, I swear,” I start, which is apparently not a good move judging by the way her eyebrows shoot up her forehead.
“An explanation for why you have been lying to us for . . .” She gestures at me to fill in the blank.
It’s hard to get the words out. “Two years.”
“Two ye—” She presses her hand into her chest like I physically wounded her.
“Mom,” I start, but she shakes her head.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more disappointed in you.”
Death blow.
“You’re definitely going to explain this. But it’s not going to be now,” she says. “I’m too angry. And your father . . . Well, if I were you, I’d spend your time thinking up the most impactful apology of your life.”