Page 31 of Best In Class
I know the weight of legacy. Even if mine came from nothing but hard work and hustle, it’s still heavy as hell.
“How’s Jenn?” I ask after his mother.
Lev shrugs, a tired gesture. “Some days are better than others. She has good help.” He pauses. “Luna’s done. She’s walked away. And I don’t blame her. Watching Mama fade…it’s a different kind of grief. Not sharp, not loud. Just constant. Like a slow leak in your gut.”
We sit with that. The kind of silence only old friends can carry without needing to fill.
“Luna once told me she got tired of being disappointed by Mama,” Lev says after a beat. “She said it was like going to a bookstore and asking for flowers. It didn’t matter how many times she asked—she wasn’t going to find what wasn’t there. Mama just couldn’t be the mother we needed. Or the one we hoped she’d become.”
I’d sensed that the day Luna told me she’d cut them both off—her father and her mother. It wasn’t cruelty. It was survival.
“You know you’re family to me, right?” Lev says after a long pause.
I look over. “Yeah. Same.”
He nods. “Even if you are trying to steal my sister’s heart again.”
I grin, but my voice is serious. “Not trying to steal it. Just hoping she remembers it’s already mine.”
Lev lifts his glass. “To miracles, then.”
“To redemption,” I correct, and we clink glasses.
The evening lingers, slow and warm.
No pretenses. No pressure.
Just two brothers, bound by more than blood, trying to hold their worlds together, one glass of wine at a time.
CHAPTER 8
Luna
He asked me first. I turned him down. So, really, I have no reason to bitch about how Camy is clinging to Dom like static at the overly gilded Forsyth Legacy Ball.
I lied to Dom and told him I had a date…andtechnically, I do—if you count Stella, whom I dragged here as my plus-one. Noah’s traveling, and she had dreams of spending her evening tending her garden or reading in her gazebo. But friendship made demands, and she relented—grudgingly, and with very little grace.
The only reason I’m at this pompous event is that two of my clients are here, and Nina ordered, “Go network.”
I hate this kind of thing. It’s overrun with Savannah’s elite, all gathered to sip champagne and pretend they’re changing the world with overpriced silent auctions and crocodile tears.
In the things I don’t hate about this thing…Dom looks good.
He always looks good, but in a tux…yummy!
Camy looks good, I’ll give her that—albeit reluctantly. Her long blonde hair is artfully tousled, her fire-engine red lipstick is still flawless. Mine disappeared after the first glass of champagne and a round of canapés.
Camy’s wearing high heels; I’m in sensible flats, even though they’re Chanel.
She’s poured into a shiny Versace number that clings to every curve like it was designed with only her in mind. I, on the other hand, am in a cream Armani silk dress—simple, understated, elegant. It drapes over me like a whisper, skimming the body without announcing it. It’s not a sexpot outfit, but it looks good. Classy.
Wasn’t it Oscar de la Renta who said, “Armani dresses the wife, Versace dresses the mistress”? Maybe it was Anna Wintour? Either way, the sentiment seems apropos tonight.
Next time, maybe I can bring the heat. Perhaps some Versace, or go completely off-center with Gaultier. Gucci could work, too—chaotic, good with a killer heel?
I know the game. I just don’t always feel the need to play it. Or even remember to do so.
For example, Iwasgoing to wear some dangly earrings, but I forgot so I still have my small diamond studs.
