the soles of her Louboutins, Charlotte angled herself toward the photographer. She had her hair styled in a loosely braided knot at her neck to show off the teardrop diamonds at her ears.
Her lips—plumped by her latest injection and as red as her dress—curved. But regally, she thought, with a hint of sadness.
Inside, she felt glee. It was about damn time she got solid press for herself, instead of for being the wife of an old man who could buy her a fucking country.
Which he would, had she asked. Conrad remained just that besotted. So anyone, any goddamn critic who claimed she couldn’t act her way into a high school talent show could shove it.
The asshole lawyer had finally paid off. He just had to die to do it.
And not tabloids this time, but real press. She’d done the Los Angeles Times, the New York Times. When cable news came knocking, she opened the door.
Or the servants did.
Now, finally, the cover of People, and a four-page spread.
Sure, a lot of it meant playing the devoted wife, the reformed socialite, but now, at last, sitting in the sweeping parlor, the white marble fireplace simmering, the soaring Christmas tree—done in white and gold and shimmering crystal—dressed (intentionally) like a flame, she got down to the real business.
“Charles’s death—the police say murder—is so shocking. I’m still shaken by it. Anyone who knew him must be. I remember, so clearly, his strength and support at the lowest point of my life.”
She looked away, a hand to her throat as the reporter asked questions.
“I’m sorry. I was lost in the past. No, I’m afraid we didn’t really stay in touch. I had to do my penance, of course, and Charles helped me understand that. I did ask his advice on how to adjust when I’d paid my debt.
“What did he advise?” Charlotte repeated to give herself time to make something up. “To give myself time, to forgive myself. He was so supportive, so wise.”
On a quiet sigh, she touched a fingertip just under the corner of her eye as if to catch a tear.
“When I came back to Los Angeles, I wanted only to try to reconnect with my daughter, to find a way to earn Caitlyn’s forgiveness. I hoped she’d find it in her heart to give me a second chance, to be her mother again.”
Turning her head so the lights caught the diamonds, Charlotte put on that sad, brave smile. “I still hope, especially during the holidays, or on her birthday. I had to turn her rejection into my own strength. Rebuilding my life, my career. Wouldn’t there be a chance she could see that, and consider forgiving?”
Leaning forward just a little, as if sharing a confidence, she added the slightest tremor to her voice. “I worry about her. I was deceived by men, used by them. I allowed myself to become so subservient I made the most terrible decision a woman, a mother, can make. She—my daughter—I’m afraid she’s walking that same path.”
Keeping the sad smile in place, Charlotte nodded at the reporter, used the response as her cue.
“How? Caitlyn’s broken relationship with Justin Harlowe is just the latest, isn’t it? Everything I hear makes it sound as if she’s repeating my mistakes. Wanting too much, demanding too much, expecting—on one hand—a man to fill that void, and on the other allowing herself to be walked over because of that desperate need for love.
“If I hadn’t found Conrad, learned to trust his kindness and his loving heart, I don’t know what would have become of me. I can only hope that my daughter finds someone as loving to help her find her true self, her inner strength. Someone who might help her find that forgiveness.”
As a flourish, Charlotte gestured up. “Do you see the angel on top of the tree? That’s Caitlyn, my angel. One day I hope she’ll wing her way back to me.”
And scene, Charlotte thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rather than push through it, Cate simply blocked out the noise. She kept the news, especially entertainment news, turned off. If she sat down with her tablet or computer to research, she restricted her use to the research or personal interests. No deviation, no giving in to the tug to check—just for a minute—on what someone said, wrote, blogged about.
She had her work and, through the holidays, a lot of family to keep her busy.
Before she knew it, the holidays slid toward February.
February always ushered in a period of bad dreams. Maybe, she could