6
Victoria navigated the online appointment system for Atelier’s Salon and scheduled a blowout for the last available slot of the day. The last thing she wanted to do was waste an hour in front of a mirror, but if she’d learned anything from her father over the years, it was to keep her business clean. Following surface-level expectations was necessary to maintain her air of innocence. If she showed up to the Gala unprimped and flat faced, Margaret would one hundred percent call her out, drawing attention where she didn’t want it.
She scooped up the materials from Miller’s and stuffed them in a bottom cabinet, out of sight in case Warren decided to come home early. Being observant wasn’t a trait Victoria would ascribe to him often, but he had his moments.
Her stomach grumbled, which struck her as both funny and odd. How normal it was to feel hunger when she was coming to that fork in Robert Frost’s proverbial woods. Granted, most people misinterpreted that poem, not realizing that the path never mattered; she was going to end up in the same place regardless of which direction she chose. In that, Victoria found comfort. A sense of rightness.
One way or another, they would’ve always wound up here.
With an apple in one hand and her phone in the other, she skimmed the messages in the Kent Wood Manor group chat. News of the Gala was spreading fast. Her neighbors rallied in excitement while fretting about the weather. Many complained about the burden of securing impromptu babysitters.
That’s going to be me, she thought.Warren wants that to be me.
Scrounging for childcare at a moment’s notice. Competing with the other mothers for who pays the most or who has the best snacks in the pantry for some teenager flicking through TikTok. Begging for an iota of responsibility while trying to figure out which dress hides her post-baby weight the best.
Okay, she didn’t have time to stress about what Warren wanted anymore. She needed to focus and that wasn’t going to happen with a thread full of neighbors arguing over curfews and parking fees. Wishing everyone luck with Gala prep, she padded across the darkening foyer up the stairs to their bedroom.
When Victoria had met Warren one star-crossed evening, he’d bought her a beer and delivered the cheesiest pick-up line she’d ever heard:So aside from being sexy, what do you do for a living?
It was still cringeworthy, but she also smiled at the memory. The ruffle of his dark hair, the curls at the nape of his neck, how shaggy yet tailored he seemed. The way his blue eyes gleamed under the bar lights.
She had loved him that night; she was sure of it. He was smart and witty and unbelievably charming. Victoria had been surprised at how hard she’d fallen but didn’t fight the attraction. Her father had adored him. Her mother had approved (which was high a praise for Clare Livingston).
She didn’t realize how royally she’d screwed herself until it was too late.
Until her father had handed the company to Warren.
At first, Victoria had thought it was a test, some ill-conceived plot he’d cooked up to push her limits and prove her worthiness. A very Jeremy Livingston thing to do. So she’d risen to the occasion. Grew her client list. Banked crazy hours. Increased revenue. She’d hosted dinner parties and registered for a goddamn yoga class to sweeten the relationship with the CEO of the largest female-run financial institution in the Northeast, but the ah-ha moment never came. Warren stayed at her father’s side, and Victoria was banished to the shadows.
The longer the denial, the more certain she’d become. Her father wasn’t changing his mind. Not even Teagan had been able to find the logic.
That she and her sister had agreed on something spoke volumes.
Victoria hit the lights and sat on the tufted cream bench in the center of the closet. Her evening gowns were spaced evenly apart on velvet rods to protect them from wrinkles. Some fashion faux pas were acceptable, often debatable. White after Labor Day, denim on denim, pattern mixing. Those rules could be broken, but nothing said careless like wrinkles.
And maybe trace evidence.
Victoria would be guilty of neither.
Every Gala had a theme, and this year’s was the Art of Nature. She doubted Margaret and Barnaby had spent any discernible time outdoors, but that wasn’t important.
People came for the extravagance, not to see who could best understand the assignment.
Victoria’s gown fit the bill for both, however. She’d chosen it months ago, scouring websites, department stores, and designer trunk shows until she had her Say Yes to the Dress gasp. The rich reddish-purple hue was technically called tyrian and would’ve been right at home on Game of Thrones.
Made of lightning and fit for a queen.
From the kitchen, the phone rang. Warren insisted on having a house phone for emergencies. Only punch-drunk telemarketers and automated survey bots called landlines anymore. Another archaic notion which proved that Warren was incapable of adapting to a progressive mode of thinking. Left up to him, Livingston would stay in the glory days of the nineties, all handshakes and hired escorts.
The answering machine activated, blasting Warren’s voice into the silence.
“Hey Vic, it’s me. Missed you at the office this morning, and you haven’t answered any of my texts. Should’ve told me if you weren’t coming in. I want to go over the contract before I send it to Lauren in HR. She’ll have the final e-doc for you to sign once we get this taken care of, so check your email and get that back to me ASAP. Judy’s got boxes coming for your office on Monday. I hope she got a hold of you about the Gala. Okay. Talk soon.”
Contract. Boxes. Monday? Like hell she was signing that document.
She jumped when her cell vibrated in her pocket, Warren’s name blinking onto the screen. She wondered if it was possible for someone to strain an eyeball rolling it too hard.
“Nice of you to pick up,” he said, and she mouthed a silent curse at his snarky tone. “I just left a message at the house. Why aren’t you at the office? Where are you?”
“Home. I felt off this morning and cleared my schedule. About to head to the Plaza, though. Duty calls.”
“Ah. I see.”
He didn’t see. “What’s up, Warren?”
“I . . . nothing. You heard my message? About the e-doc?”
Heat rose up her chest. “I heard.”
“Great. Glad we’re on the same page.” The relief in his voice was palpable. She was about to call bullshit when he pressed on. “Listen, I’ve got to cut this short. I’m about to conference with James. Had to cut some corners to make the Gala work. I just wanted to make sure you knew about the contract. We’ll talk more tonight.”
Lie, she thought. James ran an international financial organization based in Cape Town. If Warren knew anything about time zones, he would’ve known that it was almost ten p.m. there. What’s more, Victoria happened to know that James was on a digital-free retreat.
“How was Lorenzo’s?” she asked warily.
He hacked a cough. “Hm? Oh, good. Same as always. Fish was a little dry.”
God, Warren was a terrible liar. He was hiding something, and while she couldn’t deny that she wanted to know what that something was, she didn’t press her luck. There was no need. Warren would either tell her the truth or he’d die with his secret.
“There’s always next week,” she said. “All right, well, I have to get going.”
“Sure. Right. Listen, don’t wait for me tonight, Vic. I’ll just meet you at the Mansion.”
She stood and crossed the room, counting the footsteps from the bench to the bed. Continuing down the hall and stairs, she paused at the closet and hooked her arm through her coat sleeve. “You’re getting ready at the office?” She looped a scarf around her neck and opened the garage door. Christ, it was cold. She cinched the scarf tighter and jumped into the car.
“I have everything I need with me,” he said. “Going home would be impractical.”
Didn’t that sound loaded. “Okay, I’ll see you there.”
“Bring up a bottle of red from the basement too. The vintage merlot. I think we’ll both need a glass after tonight.”
The engine thrummed. She switched to speaker and pulled down the visor, rubbing at the smudged mascara in the creases under her eyes. “Why?”
“I’ll meet you at seven,” he said, ignoring her question.
So he was going to continue to be cryptic. The call disconnected as she eased onto the street.
Warren’s comments left a bitter taste in her mouth. There was no way he’d figured out what she was planning. Not a single person would suspect Victoria of being capable of homicide, least of all her husband. She’d set herself up well in that regard. Volunteer work and charity and never—not once—uttering a word of disapproval at Warren’s promotion.
But if he wasn’t suspicious of her, why was he lying?