Page 66 of Cashmere Ruin

“Ohh! Can I see the scar?”

“Where’s the father?”

The barrage of questions makes the teacups tremble on their plates. It’s like that scene inJurassicPark, but worse, because at least for the people in the movie, there’s justonesharp-toothed reptile they have to deal with.

Me? I’ve got two on either side.

“Yes, I’m still working withMr. Turner,” I answer Nora with a tight smile before turning to the twins. “No, I didn’t get a C-section, so there are no scars to be seen.”

“Bummer,” Kate says.

“I wish I could’ve been there,” Diana sighs.

“And the father?” Anne presses with her usual smirk. “Who is he? Why isn’t he here?”

My smile grows tighter. “He’s a businessman. He’s busy.”

It’s a half-truth, but it’s all I can offer. I can’t very well say,I tried to tell him and he kept finding better uses for my mouth, can I?

“A businessman,” Nora echoes with interest. “What kind of business?”

The kind that feeds cemeteries.“He owns a hotel chain. Actually, he’s the CEO as well.”

“The CEO,” Diana coos.

“Sounds expensive,” Kate giggles.

“It’s just like a fairytale,” Anne sighs dreamily. “Isn’t that right, Mother?”

“Yes, it is quite… hard to believe.”

I have to play that line back in my head three times. Because either I’m going deaf, or Nora just went there. “As in, I made it up?”

“Dear, dear!” Nora laughs nervously. “No need to be so defensive, April. We were just… wondering, that’s all.”

“Speak for yourself.” Anne flips her hair back. “I was calling it romantic.”

That burst of attitude seems to catch Nora off-guard. “I see.”

It’s so good to watch, I almost feel a burst of affection for my estranged hellbeast of a sister. “Thank you, Anne.”

“So where’s the ring?”

I freeze. “Where’s the… what?”

“Your wedding ring,” Anne drawls. “Or at least an engagement one? Where is it? I’d think a CEO has money for that.”

“The ring? I…” Suddenly, the words won’t come. I’m fumbling for no good reason, four pairs of hungry eyes on mine. Well, five, but Dominic’s stare is fixed on his teacup, as if I’m not even there. “I…”

“It’s okay,” Anne says, all conspiratorial. She draws close on the sofa and takes hold of my hand. “You’re just not that kind of couple, right?”

There’s something in the way she says it that makes my heart sink. “What kind of couple would that be?” I ask, cold sweat running down my back. Because suddenly, all I can think about isthose kinds of couples: the kind that wasn’t careful or the kind that doesn’t care; the kind that has no money or the kind where it changes hands every night, always in the same direction.

And then the one that terrifies me most of all:the kind that doesn’t love each other.

Anne seems taken aback by my question, but after a beat, she shrugs it off. “Just, like, not traditional. That’s all I meant.”

“Right,” I echo. “We definitely aren’t that.”

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