Page 8 of Gold Rush

“How dare he?!” she continues, the words peppered with feigned outrage. “How dare she?! What a slut.”

The insult is carefully chosen. Because Rory Kensington—perfect, poised, unaffected Rory Kensington—would object to a demeaning slur being used to describe anyone, even if anyone is on her knees in front of my pants-less boyfriend.

I’m so tired of acting perfect and poised and unaffected. It’s exhausting. Stifling.

What would Mallory do if I agreed? If I flung her phone across the room? If I broke the ceramic bowl, filled with lumpy oatmeal I made just before she knocked on my front door to show me a video I wish I could scrub from my brain?

I don’t know because I stay silent, the quiet kitchen amplifying the loud groan before Carson encourages the woman blowing him with words I had no clue were part of his vocabulary.

Our relationship wasn’t perfect. We never acted how Wren and Sawyer did at dinner with my parents on Saturday night. Or how my parents interact for that matter.

Not everyone finds that, I assured myself.

Eight billion people on this planet means the odds of meeting the one person who’s meant to be your other half are minuscule. My soulmate, if I theoretically have one, could live in Kyoto. Could have died in a freak accident as a child. Could have married someone else last week.

Carson checked all the boxes—responsible, respectful, steady job, supportive family—so I committed. Carson encouraged law school; he didn’t ask why a billionaire would bother working. He told me he wanted to get married, that kids were part of his future plan. More checks.

I accepted we would never be a cheesy couple that finished each other’s sentences. That I would never feel giddy when he walked into a room or when he texted me.

More shocking than the video playing on Mallory’s phone—the video that’s apparently plastered all over the internet? Carson didn’t accept what was missing. He looked elsewhere for what was absent from our stable, predictable relationship—a betrayal I’d never considered him capable of. It’s a terrifying form of vertigo—something I thought was solid and substantial suddenly turning transparent.

There’s a pause, as the video ends abruptly, and then it starts on a loop again.

I shut off Mallory’s phone and shove it across the quartz countertop. My kitchen is spotless, same as the rest of my brand-new apartment. I wanted everything to be perfect for my first day of work, and I hate coming home to a mess.

Mallory tucks her phone away with a sympathetic tut, studying me closely. “You must be devastated.”

Am I? I don’t feel devastated. I’m humiliated—spectacularly unfair since I’m not the one with a sex tape circulating. Mostly, I’m disappointed. Defeated. I thought I was on the precipice of getting everything I’d ever wanted. I have the degree and the dream job. All I still need to do is pass the bar exam to become a fully licensed attorney. Carson was supposed to propose later this summer since I’d told him I didn’t want to get engaged until after law school.

“Thank you for letting me know,” I state.

It’s the wrong thing to say, but I don’t know what the right words are. I’m not grateful to Mallory for coming here to broadcast my boyfriend’s infidelity. But it’s not her fault either. Not her fault Carson cheated and not her fault someone uploaded a video of it happening. It’s not the brunette’s fault either. Whether or not she knew Carson was in a relationship, the blame lies solely on one person—the man I expected to spend the rest of my life with.

The sheer size of the betrayal is stunning, suffocating, a weight that feels impossible to escape.

“Of course,” Mallory coos. “I know you aren’t on social media; I would never want you to be blindsided. More blindsided, I mean. What-what are you going to do?”

Serious effort went into her being the one to break this news. We know enough of the same people that it wouldn’t have been that difficult for her to find out the address of my new apartment. But I chose it because it’s close to my office, not the Upper East Side, where Mallory lives.

She came all this way for the exclusive scoop of my reaction. I’m determined for it to be a disappointing one. If I break anything, I’ll be the one who has to fix it.

I force a smile. “It’s over.”

Oddly, those two words lift a little weight. I can’t forgive Carson. We won’t move past this. There’s an immediate closure inherent in that.

Mallory nods, sympathy bleeding across her face. “Carson is such a fool. I mean, you’re a Kensington.”

A Kensington. That’s my sole appeal to most people—a member of a family they’re intrigued by. Nothing about me is remarkable. Just my last name and the status it signifies.

The Albrights are well-off because of generational wealth repeatedly inherited. Carson’s approximate net worth equals the interest my trust fund earns daily. The asset everyone is aware I have—money—wasn’t wealth Carson had himself. Even that incentive wasn’t enough to keep his pants zipped. A fresh wave of humiliation washes over me.

“I have to get to work, Mallory.”

She nods. “Good for you. I’d be staying home and adding some alcohol to that.” She gestures to my untouched coffee. “If you need anything, you can always call.”

I muster a smile. “Thanks.”

Maybe Mallory means it. But it feels like a reference to my few friends. I’m better with books than people. Skilled at small talk, yet terrible with vulnerability or intimacy. An iceberg—pristine and remote.