I frown, because that type of beauty is too much for this place. Yet it’s not enough for the world that she lives in.
Allison Elliot-Carr. Daughter of Richard Elliot, owner and CEO of one of the largest investment banks in the world. Her husband, Evan Carr, is a trust-fund baby from an influential, political family, and Allison’s father’s golden boy. He’s also a pretty boy, a philandering bastard with no qualms about fucking anything in Manolos from Miami to Manhattan. Of course, that tidbit of information is not publicized. It’s my job to know these things. To get inside their heads. To expose their darkest secrets and make them confront them with unrelenting honesty.
Allison purses her lips and shakes her head, her mouth curling into a sardonic smile. “You like this, don’t you? Humiliating us? Making us feel flawed and defective? As if we are the cause of our less-than-perfect marriages? We’re responsible for the way the tabloids rip us to shreds? You don’t know me. You don’t know any of us. Yet you think you can help us? Please. I call that bullshit.”
I set down my silverware and dab my mouth with a linen napkin before giving her a knowing smirk. “Bullshit?”
“Yeah, complete bullshit. I mean, who the hell do you think you are?”
A smile slowly spreads my lips. I imagine licking my chops as a lion would before devouring a graceful, delicate gazelle. “I am Justice Drake,” I state smugly without apology. It’s a promise and an omen, gift-wrapped in two little words.
“Well, Justice Drake . . . you, my friend, are a bullshit artist. You know nothing about our situations. There’s no magic, cure-all remedy for our marriages. But you wouldn’t know that because you don’t know a damn thing about us. You’re not a part of our world. Hell, you probably do your research on Page Six or TMZ.” With a wave of Thoroughbred arrogance, she settles back into her chair and sips her red wine, her blue, doe eyes trained on my impassive features.
Mimicking her actions, I ease back into my own seat and steeple my fingers under my chin, elbows propped on the arms of the high-backed chair. A beat passes as my gaze delves into hers, unearthing traces of pain, embarrassment, and anger—feelings she’s been taught to hide in the face of the public. Still, no amount of MAC or Maybelline can mask the undeniable hell etched into her ivory skin.
“Allison Elliot-Carr, wife of Evan Winston Carr and daughter to Richard and Melinda Elliot. Graduated from Columbia with a degree in business and finance in 2009, though your true passion is philanthropy, and you spend your free time working with various charities and nonprofits. You pledged Kappa Delta Nu sophomore year, where you met Evan, a senior, legacy member, and president of your brother fraternity. You were exclusive to Evan throughout college, and during Christmas of 2008, he proposed in front of both your families at your parents’ winter estate in Aspen. You were wed the following summer in New York City and honeymooned in the Caribbean. You hate spiders and scary movies, and think sweater vests should be outlawed. You can’t function without Starbucks, have a borderline unhealthy addiction to Friends reruns, and you eat ice cream daily. Mint chocolate chip is your current drug of choice, I believe. And according to the tabloids, your husband is sleeping with your best friend, and charming the panties off half of the Upper East Side. Plus you two haven’t fucked in months. But that’s just a little something I didn’t pick up from Page Six.” I lift an amused brow and lean forward, taking in her horrified expression. “Shall I go on?”
The deafening silence swells and becomes uncomfortably dense, painfully pressing into my temples and crushing my skull, serving as punishment for my questionable conscience’s failure to intervene. Allison’s eyes mist with tears, transforming into an endless blue ocean of hurt. I don’t care. I shouldn’t care.
“Well,” she croaks, her mouth dry and her wineglass empty. “Congratulations, asshole. You know how to navigate Wikipedia.” And as graceful as the elegant gazelle she was bred to be, she slides her chair back and stands, head held high, and glides out of the room.
I go back to enjoying my meal while the rest of the table stares vacantly at the space that once briefly housed Allison’s retreating back. One down, only ten more to go. She isn’t the first, and she won’t be the last.
“Make her stay,” a meek voice barely whispers. Lorinda. The prim and proper housewife who’s more concerned with being dignified than where her husband puts his dick.
“Why should I?”
“Because she needs you. We all need you.” Several heads nod in agreement around the table. “Maybe her more than anyone else.”
More nods. Even a few cosigning murmurs.
I exhale a resigning breath, knowing exactly what I’m about to do, though it goes against every principle I’ve learned to live by for the past six years.
Never get emotionally vested in a client.
Never pressure or persuade them; it has to be their choice.
And never, ever apologize for my unconventional technique, as cruel or brash as it may seem.
The door to Allison’s suite is slightly ajar, but I knock anyway, letting it creak open to reveal her petite frame. “What do you want?” she snaps, refusing to look up from the suitcase she’s furiously stuffing with clothes.
I step inside, not bothering to wait for an invitation, and close the door. “Going somewhere?”
“Home. This was a mistake.”
“That’s funny. I never pegged you for a quitter.”
“Really?” she asks sardonically, casting an angry glare through thick, wet lashes. “Because you know everything about me, right? You know my entire life story. Height, weight, Social Security number . . . hell, do you have my gynecologist on speed dial?”
“Don’t be absurd.” I smirk with a wave of my hand. “You know there’s no way in hell I could ever learn a woman’s true weight.”
Allison raises her gaze from her Louis Vuitton luggage and shakes her head, dismissing me and my dry attempt at humor. But before she can turn away, the tiniest hint of a smile reveals itself at the corner of her mouth.
I move closer, close enough to smell the Chanel dabbed behind her ears. “Mrs. Carr, it is my job to make your business my business. In order to best serve my clients, full disclosure is key. There is no room for dirty little secrets here. We’ve all got them, and trust me, yours pale in comparison to most. And believe it or not, no one in that dining room is here to judge your situation. They’re all too worried about their own reasons for being here.
“With that said, I apologize if you felt my brand of honesty was too potent for you. It was callous of me. Still, that’s no reason to throw in the towel. Not when we’ve hardly scratched the surface.”
She barks out a forced laugh and looks away toward the window. A sea of glittering stars dot the blackened sky, lighting a path toward a full moon. The paleness of night floods the room, bathing her fair complexion in the glow of diamonds and sorrow.
“You said I was exclusive,” she says just above a whisper, her voice distant yet melodic enough to echo in my head.
“Excuse me?”
She turns to me, eyes painted in angst. “You said I was exclusive to him in college. Not we. As if I was faithful while he was not.”
She isn’t angry, or surprised, or even embarrassed. She’s stuck somewhere between jaded and indifferent. In perpetual limbo, writhing in the space between being hurt beyond words and too fed up to give a fuck anymore.