Page 43 of Choosing Us

We walk through the step and repeat for the press, and cocktail hour is well underway by the time we arrive. After all, Astor Morgan-Lane knows how to make an entrance.

Despite the lovely start to the evening, I find myself engaging in a few meaningful conversations with a couple of doctors that are involved with the charity, which actually does an impressive amount of good in the area, even if my mother is unaware of where any of her financial support is going. I behave exactly as my parents expect and even bid on a few items they also bid on. I don’t care if I win them; I just wanted my mother to see that I was listed as a bidder, so when she wins, she can double her joy in beating me at something.

Although I wouldn’t hate a week in the south of France at a private villa—so long as I don’t have to invite my parents.

Maybe I should go there next Christmas on my own.

My gown feels slightly tight as I raise my gaze and sweep the room. I’m suddenly aware of the space behind me as a prickle crawls up my neck. My eyes briefly land on a security camera in the corner, the small red light blinking steadily. It’s better than the flashes from the media, I suppose. It’s also not a stretch to feel like I’m being watched. This isn’t a foreign concept—assessing and judging are social currencies at these types of events. And the queen is holding court as my gaze lands on my mother visiting with Bunny Lockwood, nodding in my direction.

The host indicates dinner is about to be served, and we find our table assignment. If I had an appetite, it fled the moment I saw where my mother had assigned me to sit. On one side is Stuart Lockwood, a walking cliché of a spoiled trust-fund baby that my mother has tried throwing me at multiple times over the year. The other side is occupied by Stephen Marsh, a billionaire that likes to go through wives faster than my mother goes through hair stylists. I’m not against age-gap romances—my kindle would prove that fact—but the man has to be near eighty years old, and I was in ballet with one of his granddaughters as a child. Almost forty years is too much of an age gap to me; that’s more like an entire generational gap. I’m much more comfortable with the idea of someone say … just shy of ten and a half years older than me with gray-blue eyes, tousled chestnut brown hair, and a dimple that pops in his right cheek when he grins.

My mother clears her throat, bringing my thoughts back to the present. The location of my seat tonight is not by chance. It has Astor written all over it. I look to my mother who is grinning as she encourages me with a nod to take my seat. I can’t help but look around the room as I dutifully sit, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention as though eyes are on me beyond the table.

Dinner passes as I allow both gentlemen to fill the silence with talking about themselves, and then strangely competing to see who can impress me more. My mother preened at how they were trying to one-up each other, but I found the entire display exhausting.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention, the silent auction has closed for the evening, and the winning bids have been confirmed. We will be displaying the winning names on the monitors at this time. Thank you again for your generous support of the GNYCA CBLT this evening.” How is no one else laughing at that horrible acronym? “Please enjoy the wonderful dessert course and conclusion of our evening together. Happy holidays.”

My mother’s gasp pulls me from my thoughts.

“What’s wrong?” I start scanning the room for threats, but when I look back at her, she is glaring—openly—at me.

She leans closer to me from across the table. “How could you outbid us for that package? You know I wanted to stay at that villa, Harlow.” My mother is angrily whispering at me, but I am just confused, because I didn’t.

I didn’t outbid my mother on anything. I scanned the QR codes and only bid on things that I knew my parents would outbid me on, and I only placed a single bid on a handful of items.

“I think there’s been a mistake, Mother. I didn’t outbid you.” My voice drops off as I look at the results on the screen.

I think I’m going to be ill.

I did not bid $21, 111 on that villa package!

The bids tonight were all increments of one hundred dollars. That shouldn’t even be possible.

“Mother, honestly, there has to be a mistake. I bid five thousand right after you bid forty-five hundred, and I knew you would bid again.”

Father is even scowling at me. “We bid ten thousand as the final bid, but you somehow bid—and have—twenty-one thousand dollars for a villa trip? It’s even in all odd numbers like you prefer, don’t try and deny it. You must be using some of your trust money. We know you don’t make that working for the government.”

My parents have no idea what I make between my job with the FBI, and the additional speaking and consulting I do. Not that I would make enough to justify twenty thousand dollars for a week in the south of France, but still. Rude.

I shake my head. “This has to be a mistake. I didn’t bid that much. Father, I promise. I’ll go see what the organizers say.”

“There wouldn’t be an error in the system, it’s not possible,” Swarmy Stuart Lockwood chimes in. I turn to assess the man and the pride on his face is obnoxiously evident.

“Lockwood Technologies handled the bidding system tonight as a premier sponsor. We wouldn’t allow for mistakes,” he brags to the table but leans closer to me. “We are very thorough in all endeavors.” And the creep has the audacity to wink at me.

Ew. And hell no.

I lean back and cross my arms. “Then how do you explain what happened, Stu?”

Stuart puts his arm around the back of my chair and leans closer to speak into my ear. I’m tempted to cover my nose, not because he smells bad, but because his cologne is so strong it’s making my eyes water.

“I don’t know. I guess it would need to be someone with insider access to the system if your claims were legitimate, and the list of people with that ability and power is very small. I would know, I’m on it.” The asshole winks at me, again, as though he is charming. “It’s not that complicated on the back end to switch a few things around, but again, no one that has access would do that without cause. But for what it’s worth, I think it’s a great look for you to finally step out from your parents’ shadows. No one likes a meek little wallflower.” He runs his finger down my arm, and I grab it—firmly.

I want to break it.

But I don’t. So, I guess there goes my Christmas miracle for the year.

“Get your hands off me, you douche pimple. Please tell me you are smart enough not to admit to a crime such as identity theft and fraud to a federal agent. I would be remiss if I didn’t recommend you speak to a member of your likely very busy legal team, Stuart.”