She smiled tightly, but said nothing as we landed next to Lynette and Lottie and a horde of reporters. Lottie seemed surprised to see me, and that made my chest ache more. She was expecting to be left here.
Alone.
To face a horde of vultures.
“Good to see you’ve finally joined us, Grayson,” Lynette said with a smile.
I gave her my best fake grin. I thought I hated Lottie, but it was nothing compared to what I feel for her mother.
Visceral.
Everyone stood around Lottie on her chaise, talking to various reporters with easy and rehearsed smiles. While Lynette and my mother crooned about the baby, Arthur talked about what it meant for the vision of Du Lac and Crowne Industries. My sister, still hungover from the night before, leaned against her fiancé as he looked at his phone.
The Christmas tree hadn’t been taken down yet, the smell of pine overpowering. Behind it, the gilded floor-to-ceiling windows displayed an icy beach.
My mother had planned this long before Josephine died—this seemingly candid family photo op. Everyone was here, everyone save the one person who should be.
“Oh, the Crowne family bassinet!” My mother said to some question a reporter asked. “It’s an antique that dates back to our noble ancestors in England.” My mother sounded drunk at the idea, eyes rosy.
“How in the hell is that still safe?” Gemma blurted, looking up from her phone.
“Well it housed you just fine, Gemma…”
“I think it’s the size of an avocado,” Lottie whispered to another question.
Lottie looked…off. I tried to muster that decency that existed somewhere inside me. When she spoke, her words were barely above a whisper. She reminded me of an old doll whose cracks had been repainted too many times.
I should hate Lottie for everything she’d done. For forcing me into a pregnancy she had no right to, but I just felt…an ache. A twist. Deep in my chest. Every fuck-up, from beginning to end, had been collaborative.
For the first time in months, I looked outside of myself.
Outside of Snitch.
And I looked at Lottie, one-fourth of this fucked up equation.
“Lottie, are you feeling well?” I asked, low so no one could hear us.
She waved me off. “I’m fine, Grayson.”
“Grayson! Lottie!” some paparazzo called.
Lottie turned to them automatically.
I turned to them. “You’ll wait.”
I gripped Lottie’s chin, dragging her gaze back to mine. I didn’t know what to say to her. What I could say. She didn’t deserve this. We were both fucking trapped.
“They’re such a sweet couple,” someone in the crowd whispered.
“Look at how he dotes on her.”
Her face collapsed as if reading my thoughts. I could physically see every muscle cave in. But all she said was a soft, “We have a show to put on.”
She turned back to the cameras, and something inside me snapped. I grasped her wrist, pulling her off the chaise and pushing aside cameras.
“Grayson…” My mother warned in her saccharine tone.
I ignored her—I ignored Lynette calling after us, too, and dragged both Lottie and myself through the party, until we were alone on the terrace.