Page 139 of Tragic (Lark Cove 3)

But that was an hour ago, before I’d read the article.

Now I was dealing with the aftermath of another classic Sofia mistake. It never got easier to hear that I’d let down my father. It always hurt to read one of my sister’s condemning texts.

Seriously? Could you at least try not to embarrass us?

It stung, though the pain was just a dull ache compared to my own agonizing humiliation. The words the reporter had used to describe me were cruel. Reading them had been like taking a lash to my skin.

Instead of stylish, she’d called me superficial and gaudy.

Instead of charming, she’d called me naïve and phony.

Instead of witty, she’d called me flighty.

Clearly, the woman had mixed up notes between interviews. That, or my self-image was off a touch.

“Sofia.” Daddy sighed, his disappointment seeping through the phone. “I’ll see if there is anything we can do, but since you didn’t run this by me first, I doubt we’ll be able to pull a retraction.”

“O-okay.” I hiccupped. “I’m s-sorry.”

“I know you are. But next time you’re asked to give an interview, I think you’d better have one of our lawyers come along too.”

So basically, Daddy thought I needed a babysitter to speak. My sobs returned full force, and I barely heard him say his good-bye before hanging up.

I tossed my phone onto the carpet next to me and my ten magazines then buried my face in my hands.

Everything was ruined. The reporter had been thorough in her portrayal of my life. She had found every unflattering detail and put them front and center in the article.

She’d written about both of my failed marriages and how I’d rushed into each, only dating my former husbands briefly before walking down the aisle in multimillion-dollar ceremonies.

She’d made sure to tell the world that I’d never had a job, and rather than dedicating my time to my family’s charitable foundation, I spent my days shopping for new clothes and handbags.

She’d even interviewed my ex-boyfriend Jay to exploit the nasty details of our breakup. We’d been together for almost five years but had never married. I’d thought I was being smart, not hurrying into another marriage. Turns out, matrimony would have been better.

My ex-husbands had both signed confidentiality agreements as a condition of our divorce settlements. If the reporter had called them, they’d been forced to stay tight-lipped. But not Jay.

He’d told her I threw tantrums worse than a two-year-old when I didn’t get my way and that I hadn’t been supportive of his career.

Lies.

Jay hadn’t loved me, he’d loved my trust fund. He’d been determined to win the World Series of Poker—except he wasn’t good at poker. When I’d stopped covering his tournament fees, he’d picked a fight with me.

My tantrum had been me shouting at him in one of the dressing rooms at Bloomingdale’s. He’d barged in on me, demanding I give him money. When I’d refused, he’d threatened to tell the tabloids I’d cheated on him with his scumbag manager. Again, another lie. But I’d lost it all the same and security had been called to escort us both out of the store.

The reporter had zeroed in on the fight and security escort.

Her feature read more like an exposé, and her words had tainted Malcom’s beautiful photograph on the cover.

But at least I wasn’t alone. The reporter had ripped the other four socialites in her feature to shreds too. The five of us were a joke. A drain on society. We weren’t princesses in five royal American families. We were silly women parading around a city of intellect and culture, infecting it with our shallow existences.

A part of me wished my father were more vindictive. Or at least more protective of his baby girl. He could easily buy NY Scene and ruin that reporter’s career.

Except he wouldn’t do that. Because she hadn’t really told a lie, had she?

That reporter had sat across from me on my cream couch in this very room, smiling and sipping a cappuccino while asking me her questions and taking notes.

I’d told her how I’d gotten an interior design degree from an art institute in Manhattan, but by the time I’d graduated, I’d hated interior design. I’d told her I’d been unlucky in love, sparing her the details that were none of her or anyone else’s business. I’d told her my preference for Fendi over Gucci. When she’d asked what accomplishment I was most proud of, I’d told her it was finding Carrie, my personal chef.

I’d told her about me.