Page 89 of Rush

Good family,meaning old money—and someone with his stamp of approval.

“Yeah, well, too bad he’s a sleaze.”

“What do you mean? The Witneys have always been a respectable family.”

“This isn’t the 1800s. Cooper’s just another entitled rich douchebag with more money than sense—and zero respect for women.”

Mortimer’s expression tightens. “Did he hurt you?”

His reaction takes me by surprise.

“No.”

“Good,” he says simply, though his jaw flexes.

He hesitates then, as if he’s working up to something.

“And…I’m sorry. About what happened with the actor.”

There it is.

“Are you?”

He nods once but doesn’t elaborate. Or maybe he doesn’t want us to end up in a fight.

“I appreciate that.” I sigh, forcing a weak smile, even though every part of me wants to throw it in his face. Why would he be sorry when he wanted us to break up? He got what he wanted.

But I know this is just another one of his carefully timed gestures—a way to smooth things over for Philippa’s sake.

Though a small, traitorous part of me curses myself. Because even now, I can’t ignore how much I’ve wanted to hear those words.

“I know I haven’t always been…the father you needed,” he adds softly, almost like an afterthought.

I look away for a second, blink fast, then find my polite smile again. “We’re all doing our best, right?” I say in the voice I save for answering uncomfortable questions in interviews.

He nods satisfied.

As he turns to leave, he pauses at the door, glancing back. “You look beautiful, Elena.”

“Thank you.”

I’m not sure what stings more—finally hearing the words I’ve wanted for so long, or realizing they might be empty.

Maybe they’ll never mean what I need them to.

When the door clicks shut behind him, I let out a long breath. The gloss on my lips still perfect, even if my thoughts are a mess.

Best behavior.

I make my way down to the Glass Ballroom, and it’s already buzzing—the soft hum of conversation, the clink of champagne flutes, the glow of candlelight catching the gold-leaf walls.

The space is beautiful, of course. Everything in Philippa’s world always is.

Tall windows frame the dusky sky. Clusters of white and deep burgundy flowers fill the room with a heavy, sweet scent. A string quartet plays a cover of“Young and Beautiful”by Lana Del Rey in the corner as servers glide through the crowd with silver trays of drinks.

I take a glass of bubbly from the nearest tray—liquid courage to steady my nerves.

I take my time, scanning the crowd, pretending I’m not searching for Broderick.