Page 126 of False God

That sentiment does nothing to improve my financial predicament. But it does make me feel a little better—for the first time in days. It might not be with medicine, but there’s a lot I’m trying to save.

Ada delivers a steaming plate of chicken in front of me, and I twist around to thank her.

She gives me a flirty smile in response that, once again, prompts no reaction from me.

“I’ll let you enjoy that,” Dr. Evans says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Just wanted to say a quick hello. It was good to see you, Charles.”

“You too, Dr. Evans,” I tell him.

He reaches into his trouser pocket, retrieving a business card that he hands to me. “My friends call me Devon. And theycall, if they ever want to talk.”

I nod, taking the card. “Thanks Dr.—I mean, Devon.”

“For whatever it’s worth, Charles, I think you’d make an excellent doctor.” He smiles, then heads back toward his wife.

He’s only the second person to say that to me, and it means almost as much as it did the first time.

30

Kensington Consolidated’s annual gala is being held at one of the fancy hotels downtown. The venue and date change from year to year, ensuring there’s plenty of speculation about both in New York society, along with who will score a coveted invitation.

I’d rather be somewhere else.

Outdoors at the very least. It’s stuffy inside, even with the air-conditioning blasting, and already crowded, with more people continuing to pour through the ballroom doors. They look around the decorated space with wide eyes and awed expressions.

Mom and Aunt Hannah took charge of selecting the location and coordinating decor. Their combined tastes are evident in the elegant floral arrangements and the patterns of lights projected on the walls. String lights hang in loose drapes from the ceiling, creating a soft ambiance.

I smooth the front of my black silk dress, ensuring it’s falling flat over the lace-edged slip underneath. I bought it for this event, and I knew it was perfect as soon as I saw it. It’s decoratedby a painted skyline of the city, the Statue of Liberty standing proud in the center. It feels like I’m wearing a literal work of art.

A uniformed waiter offers me one of the evening’s custom cocktails—a Kensington Sour.

I take one, gulping half before I hear my name.

Asher’s wife, Sophie, is winding her way through the crowd toward me. She’s my godmother. She and Mom have been friends since meeting in business school.

I hug Sophie back tightly when she reaches me, then answer all of her excited questions about how my summer has been so far. She demands to see photos of Claremont Park and Chloe’s wedding,oohing andaahing over the few I have on my phone.

We get interrupted after about ten minutes. The woman wants to talk to me, not Sophie. She smiles good-naturedly as I make polite inquiries about the woman’s kids and recent trip to Bern, well acquainted with the snobbery at these types of events.

I don’t work at Kensington Consolidated, but this event isn’t about the company. Not really. It’s about the brand—the interest in my family that I can’t escape. I know it’s about to expand since Uncle Oliver is announcing my dad’s new role tonight. More eyes will be on us than ever before, and it makes me want to leave for my next project as soon as possible. Flee the noise and find some quiet away from the Kensington legacy.

I talk to seven more people before spotting Bridget standing by one of the columns and excusing myself to rush over to her.

She giggles as I squeeze her tight. “A moment with New York’s princess? Lucky me.”

I roll my eyes as I release her. “Your dress is super cute.”

“Thanks. I love yours too.”

“Have you seen Fran or Tripp?” I ask.

Cal and Hugo arrived around the same time I did, but I haven’t seen our other friends. Jasper is in Atlanta on a work trip.

“Not yet.” Bridget sips her Kensington Sour. “You didn’t tell me Charlie was coming.”

My body freezes as my gaze darts around, scanning faces, until I find him. Talking to Tripp’s dad, John, near the French doors that lead out onto the balcony.

Wearing a tuxedo, looking every inch the dignified aristocrat, is Charlie. In New York.

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