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Lucille woke early and checked her phone at once. She relaxed when she saw a text from Brett waiting for her. When she hadn’t heard back from him after the Sylvia bombshell, she’d been worried. Not about-to-hop-a-plane worried but close. If anything happened to Brett and she could have been there to rescue him but wasn’t, she’d never forgive herself. It was still new, this caring-for-people thing. New but not unwelcome. Well, mostly not unwelcome. She wasn’t going to begin to deal with her tiny, minuscule, microscopic warm feelings for Noah.
So, Brett’s sisters were on the island. Annoying, potentially an issue if they found out about Michel, but not life-threatening. She dashed off a few suggestions and sank back against her pillow, the relief relaxing her tense muscles.
A short while later, she sipped her coffee and scrolled through the search results for Sylvia Stanton. She didn’t want to go to this meeting but knew she had to. She didn’t care if Sylvia eviscerated Noah, but she sure as hell cared if she destroyed their business. Sylvia knew too much, and it was Lucille’s fault she did.
Noah entered the kitchen, yawning and shirtless. Lucille looked up and wished she hadn’t. He had a long, muscular, brown torso. No six-pack abs but enough definition to show he worked out. His chest was lightly sprinkled with dark, black hair which led down to the waistband of his sweats.
She realized he was watching her, the sleep gone from his eyes and a wicked little smile on his lips. She looked down at her tablet and tried to focus on something, anything else. “Don’t you own a shirt?”
“Actually, I didn’t bring any pajamas at all. Found these sweatpants in a drawer in the guest room. I’m guessing they’re not Simon’s?”
Lucille narrowed her eyes and glanced at the sweatpants, not lingering on how tight they were on Noah, who had substantially more muscles than their owner. When had Brett left sweatpants at her place and why hadn’t she found them before?
“Simon wouldn’t be caught dead in sweatpants,” she said, keeping her voice as deadpan as she could, not meeting his gaze.
Noah had to be loving this. “Well, whoever’s they are, I hope he doesn’t mind me wearing them.”
She didn’t respond.
After a moment of silence, he said, “So, what’s the breakfast plan?”
She raised her mug of coffee in response. “I don’t do breakfast.”
“Hm. Mind if I raid your kitchen?”
Lucille didn’t care if he ate everything in her house, as long as he put on a damn shirt and stopped talking to her. She picked up her tablet and mug, intending to move to her office where she could strategize in peace. “Fine by me,” she said before leaving the room. “I hope you have something to wear for the meeting with Sylvia,” she couldn’t help adding, combining it with a slow look up and down the half-naked man in her kitchen.
When she returned to his face, she saw a slight flush that betrayed his otherwise impassive response. Even more interesting.
“Does this mean you’ve decided to come with me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said curtly and left.
At the appointed time, Lucille emerged from her office, put on her red power suit, no shirt underneath, and a pair of dangerous-looking black stilettos. She found Noah on his laptop at the kitchen table, dressed in a formfitting black, pinstripe suit, hair styled in an intentionally unruly swoop, and serious concentration replacing the morning flirt. He looked up when she entered, and she thrilled at his momentary speechlessness. Served him right after that shirtless-sweatpants routine.
“Let’s get this over with,” she said, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder and walking toward the door.
“I feel like it’s my turn to ask if you own a shirt,” he said.
“It isn’t.”
****
The restaurant they were meeting Sylvia at was one Noah picked out. It was off one of the main drags, nestled between a salon and a designer boutique, and it looked like the sort of place that took reservations six months in advance. Lucille approached skeptically. They needed to hide in plain sight and this place looked like the opposite of where they should be. Sylvia Stanton was too easily recognizable and the chances of her making a loud, violent scene when she saw Lucille were high. Inside, however, Lucille found her initial assumption disproven. The interior of the restaurant was segmented into private alcoves and rooms. Instead of wide spaces where diners went to see and be seen, this place was a maze of intrigue and strategically placed potted plants. From where they stood at the host stand, they could hear voices but couldn’t see anyone.
Their table was in one of the alcoves, one where the wall curved dramatically, leaving room for only one person to enter at a time. The table was set for three and empty at present.
When the waiter left, Lucille couldn’t help asking, “Where’d you find this place?” After all, she’d never heard of it and she’d been in the city far longer than Noah. She knew all the places for meeting clients and yet this one wasn’t even on her radar.
“Simon told me about it,” Noah said with a shrug as he took his seat.
Lucille sat beside him, leaving the seat across the table for Sylvia. She bristled at Simon giving Noah a tip he hadn’t bothered to share with her. He was relentless in his attempt to get her to accept Noah.
She didn’t have long to be insulted, at least not by Simon. As soon as she’d sat back in the white padded chair, the waiter reappeared, escorting their guest to the table.
The last time Lucille had seen Sylvia Stanton, the woman had been in rough shape. She’d faked her own kidnapping, been in hiding on Mino Island for a while, then actually kidnapped Michel and Brett. The strain of trying to force one of the men to perform a marriage ceremony between her and the other had shown on her thin, angular face. Her hair had been badly in need of a cut and dye, dirty blonde roots poking through the tangled mess. Her outfit had been a few days past fresh.
The woman who entered their secluded alcove now was a far cry from the one in the mansion. Her blonde hair shone, her contour was flawless, and the strapless white jumpsuit she wore made Lucille tense with envy. She wore huge diamond-rimmed sunglasses and strolled in looking like she owned the place and, odds were, her father actually did own it.
When she saw Lucille, however, she stopped, whipped off her glasses, and contorted her face into one of the scariest glares Lucille had ever seen, the scariest being her own, naturally. She waited until they were alone and then hissed, “You.”
“Hello, Sylvia,” Lucille said calmly. She’d anticipated her presence enraging the heiress and was planning to use it to her advantage. She expected to be blamed for ruining Sylvia’s life, reputation, and $56,000 dress. Then use those same points to make some ground rules for their interaction. And drive up their fees. No one should have to work with Sylvia Stanton for anything less than an atrociously exorbitant amount of money.
Only Sylvia didn’t follow the script Lucille had written for her. She took a deep breath, sat down at the table, crossed one leg over the other, and gave them both a dazzling smile.
Noah cleared his throat. “Sylvia, I can call you Sylvia, right?”
“If you want,” she said sweetly.
“I hope you don’t mind I brought Lucille along. I understand you have a history...” The way he trailed off implied he wanted them to talk about their history now and get it over with.
Sylvia shook her head, her hair tumbling around her face. “I should have put it together. You said you work with Simon Anton who of course would be related to you... I’m sorry, what’s your first name again?”
The way Sylvia said it, her eyebrows slightly arched, her blue eyes a sea of concern, Lucille was deeply impressed. She’d been expecting a screaming, angry, dramatic starlet and what she’d gotten was a manipulative bitch. Lucille couldn’t help herself, she was intrigued. “That was cold,” she said, her voice in awe.
Sylvia looked at her, eyes glinting, her deep-red lip-sticked mouth curving into a small smile. “Thanks.”
They stared at each other for a while longer, an unspoken conversation passing between them that Lucille was both not expecting and not mad about.
The waiter interrupted to take drink orders.
When he’d left again, Lucille said, “Sorry about the dress. I normally would never bleed all over something so exquisite.”
“And then steal it and sleep with my cousin while wearing it?” Sylvia asked, her eyebrows arching higher. There was a laugh behind her voice and Lucille found herself picking up on it and smirking.
“That too,” she said.
Sylvia shook her head again. “Well. I’m sorry for trying to shoot you.”
“And Michel?”
Sylvia sighed. “Especially Michel. Although, it was exhausting dating that man. He’s absolutely fucking perfect at everything and he’s like that all. The. Time.”
“It drove you mad?” Lucille suggested. Six months ago, she would never have thought she’d be having a candid, almost friendly conversation with Sylvia Stanton. Six months ago, she fully expected, and hoped, to never see the woman ever again.
“That and the drugs I was on,” Sylvia said, looking down at the table.
Lucille frowned, surprised by Sylvia’s cavalier confession of her drug abuse. Sure, she’d suspected it. Sylvia’s actions had been exaggerated, her villainy disproportionate with reality. But had she actually gone to rehab instead of doing what so many of the rich and famous did—use rehab and mental instability as an excuse for their extralegal activities?
The drinks arrived and she found herself raising her soda water in a toast to Sylvia’s cucumber-lemon water.
“What the fuck?” Noah said suddenly.
Lucille blinked at him. She hadn’t forgotten he was there, exactly, but she also hadn’t thought about him much in the past few minutes.
“I thought you hated each other,” he continued. He looked between them, his expression incredulous.
“We did,” Sylvia said with a shrug.
Lucille nodded. “Yes, but I think that’s changing.”
“Did someone put something in your drinks?” He frowned, his body rigid with disbelief and confusion.
Lucille turned toward him. “Can I talk to you in private for a second? Excuse us, Sylvia.”
Sylvia waved them away and scanned the menu.
Lucille pulled him out into the hall. “What’s going on with you?”
“Me? What going on with me? You just spent the last twenty-four hours telling me off for wanting to work with Sylvia Stanton, and now what, you’re best friends with her?” Noah’s face flushed as he whispered indignantly at her.
Lucille hissed back with equal indignance. “I’m not best friends with her. She just isn’t as bad as I thought she’d be, okay? So, can you please stop fucking this up for me?”
She knew it sounded ridiculous. She was Lucille Anton, ice queen. She kept her clients at arm’s length and everyone else further than that. She turned the term “scary bitch” into a compliment and wore it proudly. But it didn’t feel ridiculous to connect with Sylvia Stanton. It felt like she’d finally found someone she could have a real friendship with, one where she didn’t have to swoop in and save someone every other month like she did with the guys. Of course, it also meant Sylvia wasn’t quite the ideal, train wreck of a client she’d anticipated, but maybe that was okay too.
She sighed and tried to explain it to Noah. “I get it seems weird, especially coming from me, but I think, if circumstances had been different and Sylvia hadn’t been dating Michel—”
“Or taking so many drugs,” Noah added.
“Or taking drugs, we could have been friends,” Lucille said. In her mind, she reimagined their first meeting. She’d have run into Sylvia at a party and they’d be catty to each other for a while before bonding over their rich, fucked-up families and inability to have a healthy romantic relationship.
She sighed and looked at Noah.
His expression was something she couldn’t name. The look he gave her was soft, not sympathetic but gentle. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and returned to the table.
“Don’t mind me, waiting here while you two go off and feel each other up in the hallway,” Sylvia said as they sat down.
It was such a snarky, nasty thing to say, and Lucille laughed. “Please. There’s nothing like that going on between me and Noah.”
“Why not?” Sylvia asked, looking him over.
Lucille also looked him over. Why not indeed. “We work together. Been there, done that.”
“I did hear about that. You and my cousin, I mean,” Sylvia said, returning her attention to Lucille.
“You did? How? No one’s heard about it.”
“Oh, please, like you’re the only one with sources.”
On an impulse she would never be able to explain later, Lucille said, “Should we have lunch and compare notes?”
“Yes. We absolutely should.”
Once again, Noah burst in to make his presence known. “Are you two going to do this all day or can we get on to the business part of the business meeting?”
Lucille raised an eyebrow at him, but he was right. Enough bonding. There was business to be done. They ordered food and Sylvia launched into her story.
After her father got her charges dropped, she’d gone to an expensive, exclusive rehab. While in rehab, she’d finally been able to detox from all the shit she’d been putting into her body. The substances, and the potent drug that was her relationship with Michel.
“When the therapist told me all the things I’d tried to do to Michel, I couldn’t believe it. I mean, yes, I was capable of doing them, but I don’t remember. I remember being mad at him because nothing could touch him while my life was falling apart so completely. And when I saw the video of my dad disowning me...” She shuddered.
Lucille remembered the video well. Most everyone had seen it, a dozen times at least. It trended, it lingered, it resurfaced. Sylvia and Lou Stanton fighting in a hotel lobby and Lou disowning his daughter. People had loved watching Sylvia get what they assumed she deserved.
“But that’s all in the past. I’m starting over, I’m in recovery, and this is where I need your help. I need good PR and I need it now. My dad’s still not convinced I’m back to my old self. I need to prove this to him or else I’m out again, no allowance, no inheritance, no nothing. I’d have to, I don’t know, get a job, and I have zero marketable skills.”
While Sylvia talked, Lucille’s mind flew through the possibilities. The pre-Michel Sylvia Stanton had been all over the media—shopping with the girls, partying with A-listers, hosting charity events on the Stanton yacht. They needed something bigger than that, something huge.
“Reality TV show,” said Noah.
Lucille stared at him. Had he read her mind? Or was he actually that good at this already? It was, of course, the best solution.
“Say what?” Sylvia asked, turning from one to the other.
“You’re going to do a reality TV show. A day in the life of Sylvia Stanton. You’ll shop, you’ll host parties, you’ll go to runway shows and gallery openings. You’ll have an entourage of friends and frenemies and you’ll show the world you’re back,” Noah said, leaning forward as he talked, his brown eyes bright and his words coming fast in his excitement. “Lucille, we have connections at the networks, right?”
Lucille couldn’t hold back her grin and didn’t want to. “Her father? Who owns three of them?”
“Right, right,” said Noah.
Lucille looked at Sylvia for her reaction.
She tilted her head to the side, seeming to consider them carefully. Finally, she broke into a brilliant smile. “I love it.”
Two hours, a few phone calls, and lots of martinis, on the part of Lucille and Noah, later, Sylvia Stanton had a reality show. Lucille locked down plans for their lunch and left feeling powerful and successful. She didn’t even mind that Noah had had one too many martinis, snored on the way home, and appeared to be imposing on her begrudging hospitality for another night.