Page 90 of All Twerk, No Play

“The governor couldn’t make it that early, so I changed it until noon,” Beverly said, forcing a razor-thin smile that looked deranged. “Whoops, forgot to tell you.”

Victoria’s jaw clenched so tightly that I worried about her dental bill.

Trying to lighten the mood, I said, “Good, we can sleep in.”

Victoria started towards the staircase until Beverly said, “Chef is waiting in the kitchen to discuss your menu selections.”

Victoria paused, suspicious. “Now?”

“You always complain about carbs.”

Victoria adjusted her blazer. “I have celiac’s disease, Beverly. Gluten makes me sick.”

Her gaze lingered on Victoria’s hips. “It wouldn’t hurt you to stick with salad.”

I leaned in to murmur, “You need the protein for your strength. Salad alone will make you like endive: weak and bitter.”

Beverly rang a bell—seriously, a bell?—and a man in a slate-gray suit arrived, face as expressive as the marble floors.

“Miss Sinclair,” he welcomed her with a nod.

“Alton, it’s Ms. Blackstone.”

I huffed a laugh, wanting to add an ‘If you’re nasty,’ and her lip twitched. The sound drew the butler’s attention, inspecting me like a used car whose tag just said ‘cheap.’

“Alton will show you to the guest wing,” Beverly told me in an obvious dismissal.

“There was no mention of an additional guest. I didn’t prepare a second room.”

“Eric will stay with me,” Victoria replied. Her fingers brushed my arm, like she wanted to say something, then she disappeared down the corridor. The butler led me upstairs, past dozens of portraits hung on the long hallway, some of Richard posing with politicians and tech billionaires, more beside Beverly in designer dresses, looking waifish and miserable. One photo of a younger Victoria at a graduation ceremony, her ex-husband’s possessive grip around her waist like her accomplishment was his to claim.

“I’ve served this family for fifteen years,” Alton said, “Every guest for tomorrow’s event has been vetted thoroughly.”

“Okay?” I said politely.

“As her bodyguard, I assume you’ve been briefed by the security detail.”

“Why do you think she needs a bodyguard?”

“A woman like Vickie invites trouble,” he muttered. He stopped in front of a heavy door with a plaque that read ‘The Nixon Suite,’ and I entered a series of rooms way bigger than my apartment. The sitting area reeked of old money, like the cushions had absorbed generations of overpriced cologne and racist opinions. Above the fireplace was a framed photo of Richard with the former president.

When Victoria hadn’t arrived after a few minutes, I considered tracking her down, but worried I’d get lost in the labyrinth and end up as a human sacrifice. I opened French doors onto the balcony, overlooking white tablecloths fluttering over a three-tiered deck. The Long Island Sound shimmered at the edge of the estate, but the soothing ocean waves did nothing to calm the dread pooling in my stomach.

A muffled shout echoed from my left. I didn’t think, just ran to find Victoria. Because no matter why the butler thought I was here, I knew why I came: to protect Victoria, whether she wanted me to or not.

"Cosmic Love," Florence + the Machine

Victoria

“Chef?”Icalled,butfrom the look of the dimly lit kitchen, sterile enough to host an autopsy, Chef had left hours ago. I poked my head into the scullery kitchen, knowing he often prepped vegetables there.

“Chef’s not here." That shitty British lilt turned my veins to ice.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Dad said he was in France.

But when I spun around, there he stood: SpencerFuckingLarsson. Time stuttered as my chaotic past smashed into my ordered present, stomach churning at his familiar Chanel Egoïste cologne.

His lean body wore the hell out of a chambray shirt and chinos. His dirty blond hair sported silver streaks that made him look infuriatingly distinguished, and those sea-glass green eyes crinkled at the corners, reveling in my discomfort as he leaned casually in the doorframe.

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