Page 12 of One Wealthy Wedding

“Sure.” She snorts. “Second understudy. Bartender in what has to be Manhattan’s worst bar.” She cocks her head at the sticky floor and the dim lighting.

“Lead bartender,” I remind her. “And this is how it starts.” I’ve told her this a hundred times. “Don’t sell yourself short. Understudy to the lead in one of the biggest plays on Broadway right now.”

“You’d rather die than see a play,” she responds, but she’s smiling.

“That I would,” I agree. “But I’ll totally go see yours. Blair Wang, lead actress or whatever you dorks call it.” I grin at her. “You’re an inspiration.”

She snorts, but she seems lighter as we work our way through the bucket of limes. Daryl, our barback, breezes in at 4:29, right before the bar opens. He’s a backup dancer that Blair knows from her shows, and his personality is a one-eighty from his appearance. He’s six foot four and blond with an eyebrow ring, but he’s got the sweetest personality and a breathy voice. Blair calls him her son.

“What’s up, babes? Ready to make some money?” Daryl stows his bag with ours and goes to the basement door, where we keep the kegs and extra liquor.

“Yeah, a whole ninety dollars in tips,” I mutter, and Blair laughs. The Sunday customers when there’s no game are cheap, and they never order food.

“You need help with your stuff tomorrow?” she asks.

“That would be great.” I shoot my friend a grateful smile. “I shoved everything into two suitcases, but taking the train with them last time was brutal. I’ll bring you the last bottle of wine from the townhouse in exchange.”

“I still can’t believe you’re losing it,” she says. By it, she means the lovely old townhouse my grandma owned, where I’ve been living for the past six months.

“I know. My dad’s sending my cousin to do his dirty work. He’ll be there at nine a.m. sharp to kick me out.”

“Assholes,” Blair responds.

“Amen.”

“Maybe you can totally wreck the inside as payback. Cause them a few thousand dollars’ worth of damage. See how they like it.”

Blair’s ruthlessness warms me. “Nah. Most of the interior is original. My grandma lived there when she was our age. She married my grandfather scandalously late in life. She used to throw parties there in her twenties. I found ashtrays piled in the closet when I moved in.” I smile at the memory of discovering my grandma’s old jewelry and dried-up perfume bottles mixed in with art deco ashtrays.

“And she’s the one who required you to be married to inherit?” Blair sounds skeptical.

“Believe me, if I could go back and ask her one thing, it would be that.” Grandma Peterson was intense in life, but kind, but I still don’t know what to make of the marriage requirement in her will.

“It just seems so out of character.” Blair frowns. She met Grandma Peterson once while she was in the retirement home. She hated it there. I remember her complaining to Blair about the wine they served.

“I know. She always seemed so modern to me. Ahead of her time. But she really loved my grandpa. He died when I was young, but I remember her having a happy marriage.”

“So she decided to force you into one? That makes no sense.”

“It doesn’t make sense to me either. I looked for a diary or a note before I left, but I didn’t find anything. I can’t even go back to Rockwood to check her house on the property.” My grandma died 359 days ago. Her will was read shortly after. And I was forced out of the family estate at Rockwood 175 days later.

“I just can’t believe it. It’s like the 1700s all over again.” Blair shakes her head as she screws the top back onto our cheapest tequila.

“I know.” I mirror her motions with a bottle of bourbon. I’m going to reek of liquor when this is done. “You know what the worst part is?”

“Other than your family disowning you, taking all your money and your inheritance, and putting you out on the street?” Blair raises a brow, and I make a face.

“Other than all that. Peterson International was supposed to be my legacy. It was my mom’s family company. The townhouse was my grandma’s. My father has ruined everything else about our family. Those were the last two good things left.”

Isn’t that so like a man? To come stampeding in, plant his flag, and proceed to decimate everything? Peterson International is the company my mom’s grandfather started. I can’t save it from my father, as much as I want to.

“I would love to see you show him up.” Blair grabs another tequila bottle. “Success is the best revenge. You can have any job you want after you get your degree.”

“I don’t want just any job. I want Peterson International.”

“I still don’t understand that.” She slides me a look. “You really want to work with your father and his business partners. Isn’t one of their sons still there? The one your dad tried to marry you to?”

“Yeah. Arnold Worth the Fourth.” Blair snorts. Arnold’s name is stupid. My dad did try to marry me to Arnold, and I ran as fast as I could in the other direction. Arnold is petty, cruel, and completely under my father’s control. “I wouldn’t be working with them. If I took control, my first actions as CEO would be firing my father and all his cronies. I’d hire back the women they let go after the harassment complaints, and I’d institute six months of paid maternity leave.”

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