chapter 1

DAPHNE

Today is the worst shitshow of my entire life.

I’m exhausted, weary down to the bone in every part of my body. I need makeup like the Pope needs Jesus. I need caffeine injected directly into my frontal lobe. I need a fresh start and a REM cycle. I need a Xanax and somewhere, somehow, a glimmer of hope.

None of that is forthcoming.

And it’s all Conrad’s fault.

That’s because, as of eight hours ago, my now-ex-boyfriend decided to throw me into the streets so his mistress could move in and enjoy what used to be my home.

I couldn’t even fight back. Why? Because duty calls. Work duties, specifically. I’m the curator at Bloomington Brothers, an up-and-coming gallery on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and tonight is one of the biggest events of my life.

I have to curate the art show… at which my cheating ex is the star artist.

“Conrad! You’ve done it again!” a woman standing in the midst of the gallery cries out in a posh, has-to-be-fake accent. She clutches her husband by the tweed elbow of his suit. “Oh, darling, look at this! We simply must add it to our collection!”

I wish so fucking much that I was allowed to drink on the job. It’s probably for the best that I’m not, though, because I’m pretty sure I’d clean out the bar just listening to the show’s patrons spew endless garbage in Conrad’s direction.

The funny thing—and not “funny” as in “ha ha,” but funny as in, “let me know if you see a bridge nearby so I can jump off it”—is that I used to be one of them. I used to swoon over every piece Conrad’s brilliant mind created; I’d sigh and fawn and ooh and ahh.

Especially the central piece of tonight’s showing. That one is his pièce de résistance, his magnum opus, the culmination of his life’s ambitions painstakingly poured onto canvas with all the love and adoration of a man worshiping his personal goddess.

I used to think that goddess in the painting was me.

But the two tiny freckles on her left breast, bared for the world to see, give the secret away.

I don’t have freckles there. Brittany, though? The woman on Conrad’s arm currently blushing and waving off her new admirers? The mistress who stole my bed, my man, my life?

She has those freckles.

In that exact. Same. Spot.

That’s my day in a nutshell. My boyfriend cheated on me, kicked me out of our home, then forced me to curate his art show, which prominently features a nude painting of the mistress he left me for.

I must’ve pissed off someone celestial.

Conrad has been pretending to not notice me since the event began. Even now, as I stare at him and wonder how the hell I ever found his slimy ass remotely attractive, he acts as if I’m not standing two feet away.

That is, until the admirers dissipate and we’re left alone for the first time since he arrived with his new girlfriend.

“Are we really going to do this? Here?” he mutters under his breath through a gritted smile, as though I’m responsible for everything that’s happened.

“Do what?” I tilt my head to one side.

“This. You.” His gaze grows cold as he scans me up and down. “You couldn’t even bother to dress up for tonight? Try to look somewhat professional?”

Wow. Okay. Let’s just go ahead and go there, why don’t we? But instead of blurting out a witty comeback, something scathing that will blister his soul for the next millennia, I just… freeze.

No, worse—I choke up.

I feel the tears I refuse to shed lodge like shards of glass in my throat, and no matter how hard I try to coax myself into retaliating, it won’t come.

You’ve got this, Daph. You’re a badass bitch who doesn’t need some man to validate her worth.

He did you a favor.

She did you a favor.

I almost believe what I’m saying. Then the bane of my existence materializes in a cloud of sulfur, smooths her left hand on his chest, and leans into him. “Don’t let it bother you, baby. That’s probably all she has left after she had to leave in such a hurry this morning.” Brittany Cleary’s smile oozes venom. “Oh! Which reminds me, NeNe—do you still want those stud earrings from Cartier? Or did you leave those for me?”

I wince. Conrad gave me those earrings as an anniversary gift. Five years together. Five whole goddamn years, burned up and discarded like radioactive ash.

“Consider them a gift,” I croak through a painfully tight throat. “They’ll match your personality.”

A.k.a., a lumpy piece of nothing I want to squeeze to shit until something worthwhile pops out.

“Thank you!” she preens. “They’ll look better on me, anyway. You could barely see them behind all that dark hair of yours.”

Oh, fuck you sideways with a socket wrench.

Fuck him, too.

Fuck all of this and all of them and everyone who let it happen without batting an eye. Everyone who didn’t tell me the obvious: He’s cheating on you. He doesn’t love you. He never will.

I clear my throat. “If you’ll excuse me?—”

“Aww, don’t be like that.” Brittany purrs and nuzzles Conrad’s shoulder. “You can’t blame Conny for wanting better for himself.”

My vision goes red. “Excuse me?”

Brittany sighs and dramatically rolls her eyes. “We’ve talked about this, NeNe. Remember? Back in prep school? You have to put in more effort. Do better; be better. Dress better, if nothing else.” She eyes my wrinkled outfit with a matching wrinkle of her nose. “I mean, look at you. It’s no wonder you couldn’t keep your man interested.”

Once again, I remind myself that it’s good that I’m not allowed to drink on the job.

Or the broken stem of a champagne flute would be lodged in her throat right about now.

Instead, I feel a warm hand grab my elbow and pull me back from other fantasies of violent homicide. “Steady, girl,” my best friend Hazel whispers in my ear. “Just a few more hours, then you’re in the clear.”

Bless her for coming. It’s her night off, and she really didn’t have to show up. But Hazey is as ride-or-die as they come; she would never leave me alone in the trenches.

In fact, when I called her this morning and told her what Conrad had done, her first suggestion was that we take an X-Acto knife to every single one of his works-in-progress, pee on his couches, and steal the batteries from all the remotes in the house.

Hazel swears she has Viking blood in her veins. I doubt it less and less with every passing day.

“Oh, would you look at the time!” she crows over her shoulder to Brittany and Conrad as she steers me in the one direction I’ve been avoiding this whole time: the bar. “It’s drink o’clock.”

I try to dig my heels in. “Haze, I can’t. I’m on the job.”

“You can, and you will, and if anyone wants to argue, they can kiss between my booty cheeks. I dare The Tweedles to so much as try, because I am not in the mood for their brand of bullshit.”

The Tweedles is what Haze and I call our twin bosses, Todd and Keith Bloom, who run the gallery like a prison camp. A quick glance locates them in the corner, chatting up a rich heiress from Long Island.

I sigh and my shoulders slump. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Excellent.” Hazel turns to the bartender. “I need two double shots of absinthe, please.”

My eyes damn near bug out of my head. “Um, absolutely not! I have to work!”

“Oh! Right! Because dealing with Conrad and his floozy’s bullshit is best done sober.” She rolls her eyes sarcastically and hands me both shot glasses. “Knock these back. Leave no drop behind. Do yourself a favor and live a little—and then do us all a favor and consider them tranquilizers to stave off your murderous rampage. Not that I’m not here for it—believe me, I absolutely am—I just need to earn all my commission before the bloodbath ensues.”

I can’t help but laugh. Somehow, she knows just what to say and when I need to hear it. “Fine. You win. But I will not be held responsible for whatever happens after I consume these.”

She waves a hurry-up hand at me. “Say less. Drink more.”

Welp, alrighty then. Down the hatch we go. I knock the first shot back, then the second. Damn, that liquor hits hard. Absinthe is not a drink to toy with.

It is, however, spreading a lovely warmth through my aching body. Hazel may be right. This may be exactly what I need to get through the rest of the evening.

Suddenly, Hazel spots something over my shoulder. I turn to see one of the Tweedles marching toward us. “Stay here,” she mutters. “I’ll handle him.”

Before I can protest, she’s gone in a cloud of Jo Malone perfume.

I close my eyes and squeeze the bridge of my nose for a few blissful seconds. The gallery is filled with the white noise hubbub of patrons circulating and chatting amongst themselves, and for a moment, I lose myself in it.

It’s going to be okay, Daph, I tell myself. Everything’s going to be okay.

Then the microphone screeches like it begs to differ.

I hear a few taps, a blast of feedback, a man clearing his throat. Then: “Everyone? Excuse me! If I can have your attention, please…” I glance up to the stage. Conrad raises his arm and gives his admirers that signature charming smile that suckered me in years ago.

I hold my breath. This is it. He’s going to take it all back and issue a public apology. He’s going to unravel this nightmare. He’s going to?—

“Babe?”

I take an automatic, unthinking step forward…

And then freeze when Brittany emerges from the crowd before I do.

She flips her hair over her shoulder, beams at him, and takes his outstretched hand. Conrad kisses the backs of her fingers. “I know this is kind of a whirlwind, but what can I say? I’m an artist. Albeit not one who colors inside the lines, apparently.”

The whole room chuckles. I have to force myself to not roll my eyes in disgust. I can’t believe they’re buying it.

I can’t believe my paycheck depends on them buying it.

“Brittany, baby… you are my muse. The inspiration behind every piece. I can’t imagine life without you in it, constantly filling my darkness with your radiant light.”

Definitely heard that one before. Gonna pretend it doesn’t cut me as deep as it feels.

Conrad drops to one knee.

My jaw drops right along with him.

No. No. This can’t be happening…

But it is.

“Will you marry me?”

The screaming that fills the air isn’t mine, though I sure wouldn’t mind joining in, albeit for very different reasons. Brittany bounces up and down and screeches in sheer delight. If she doesn’t calm down, she’ll end up flashing the assembled crowd with more than just her side boob in that skimpy excuse for a dress.

Nope.

Nopity nope nope nope.

I spin around on my heels and beeline back to the bar. “Absinthe. More. Now.”

The bartender lofts a brow. “How many shots?”

I think about it for zero point five seconds before I answer. “The whole bottle.”

“… Pardon?”

Before he can answer, I reach out and snatch it from its resting place. I don’t bother turning back, even as the bartender protests after me.

I slice through the crowd, headed toward the rear alley exit. The bottle feels heavy in my hand, but my heart feels even heavier. Maybe drowning one with the other will balance things.

Or maybe it’ll knock me out cold.

Either is fine.

The bartender shouts again, and I turn around to explain to him that it’s the worst day of my life and he needs to get off my case.

But as I turn, I run into something solid.

Correction: I run into someone.

And my absinthe splashes up the neck of the bottle and onto the front of his very fine, very expensive shirt.

“Oh my God.” I damn near drop the bottle in shock. Instead, I set it down on a nearby table, grab a few napkins, and backpedal into my best form of groveling. “I am so sorry! Are you okay?”

The man gazes down at me with an unreadable storm roiling across his face. “Better than you, it seems.”

I stop and look up at him. Is he… is he mocking me?

His full mouth is curved up in what looks like a suppressed smirk. His dark, curly hair hangs in front of his eyes, but even through that, I can see brilliant green eyes sparkling with mirth. The only thing I can find remotely funny around here is… well, me.

“I’m—”

“NeNe! There you are!”

I stiffen. He notices. The mirth leaves his eyes in an instant, replaced by an icy mask. He buttons his suit jacket around the splash stains on his waist, giving my worst enemies a polite nod.

When he looks at me again, I do something completely out of character.

I mouth the words, “Help me.”

He looks at me.

Glances over my shoulder at the oncoming nightmare. In the blink of an eye, I can see him process everything.

And then he does something completely, utterly unexpected, unscripted. Unbelievable, really.

He scoops my face into his hand and kisses me like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.