{ 38 }
LOREN HALE
“I can’t believe you’re fucking engaged,” Ryke tells me.
We stretch by the small koi pond at the edge of our property, trying our best to run without nearing the wrought iron gates. Paparazzi camp on the street, peering through the gate that does little in terms of privacy. Rose already called a landscaper to plant tall hedges, but they won’t be finished for a whole month.
“In a scandal management perspective, marriage is the clear solution,” Connor says. He stretches his quads on the ground.
“Yes because now people will think Lily’s an adulterer and not just cheating on her college boyfriend,” Ryke retorts.
Connor stares him down. “Society believes marriage shows commitment, a stronger bond.” He stands to his feet. “Not to mention gossip mongers eat up a good love story. And what’s better than love uniting a sex addict and an alcoholic?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in New York right now?” Ryke snaps back, surrendering the fight. Everyone has an opinion about the engagement, but the only one that matters to me is Lily’s. “I thought Rose was running around with her fucking head off her shoulders.”
All of our family’s companies have been hit financially from the scandal, but unlike Fizzle and Hale Co., Calloway Couture is a young business already on shaky ground. The blow toppled it over. The menswear line that she’s been slaving over for months—the one I briefly modeled for—is being reviewed for Fashion Week. Even Connor said that the likelihood of the line surviving is slim to none. So she’s going to be pulled from the show, two department stores just dropped her, and she had to let go her assistants, including Lily. Rose won’t tap into her trust fund to pay her employees, and she’s losing money too quickly to keep them.
“She called and told me not to come,” Connor admits. “She doesn’t want me to be in the way.”
“Is Sebastian there?” I ask. I can see that scheming motherfucker trying to whisper his awful opinions about Connor into Rose’s ear. With the slow annihilation of her company weighing on her, she must be vulnerable.
“He’s been helping her with the line. I’m sure he’s there. Why do you ask?”
I should tell Connor that Sebastian is not fond of him, but he probably already picked up those signals. I should definitely mention how Sebastian is most likely plotting a way to cut him out of Rose’s life. But Lily still needs those tests. “No reason,” I say with a shrug.
He stares at me for a long moment, disbelieving, but he doesn’t prod further. We start walking back towards the house, our shoes crunching the stones on the path.
“Speaking of Calloway girls,” Connor says, “I read that Daisy is doing a spread in Vogue. Is that true?” After Lily and I talked with the lawyers, Daisy went to stay at her parent’s house again. Her modeling career catapulted because of the scandal. Magazines and photographers are lining up to book her for five-page spreads, labeling her as a “sex symbol” in ads that transform the sixteen-year-old into a man’s wet fantasy. They call her a young Brooke Shields, but comparing her to another teen icon doesn’t settle my stomach. And my blood is on boil, angry that anyone is willing to exploit that girl.
What’s worse, her own mother booked her the jobs. But it’s not my place to stick up for Daisy. I often wonder whose it is. Poppy has taken sanctuary at her small house in Philly, trying to protect her three-year-old daughter from the paparazzi. Rose is frazzled enough with her fashion line, and Lily and I are just trying to keep our heads on straight.
So who’s protecting Daisy?
Her parents sure as hell aren’t.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I haven’t talked to her in a while.”
“She’s doing it,” Ryke says. “She says it’s tasteful or whatever.” He shakes his head, disgruntled by the situation. “She was a high fashion model and overnight she became a fucking supermodel, and instead of sheltering her from the media, her fucking mother is pushing her into it. I think I hate that woman.”
“You and me both,” I say, “and since when are you talking to Daisy?”
He gives me a glare. “Don’t fucking get onto me about that shit,” he snaps. “She needs a friend.”
“You know, I heard about that recession of sixteen-year-old girls,” Connor says. “It must be difficult for her to find a friend her own age.”
I smile and Ryke glowers. “Fuck off, Connor,” he snaps. “You know what all her prep school friends are doing? They keep asking her if she’s a sex addict too. As if it’s genetic. She needs someone who knows Lily, who fucking understands what’s going on.”