“They said that we’re hired and that they loved the Real Bodies presentation you made for Swan Soaps.” Jillian plonked next to me, grabbing one of my pillows and hugging it to her chest. “They want a three-month trial run, but they signed the contract and paid the advance. They’ll go over the fine print tomorrow. It’s a huge opportunity, Ari. Stuffed is the biggest reusable-diaper company in the world.”
I cooed and gushed over Jillian nailing this client, but my heart wasn’t in it. It was still bleeding all over Christian Miller’s limestone office floor.
Jillian bumped her shoulder against mine. “Are you going to tell me what happened? Because we both know the allergies were just an excuse so I could talk about the deal.”
There was no point keeping secrets from Jillian. She had the instincts of an FBI agent and the ability to smell bullshit from continents away.
“Dad’s case is going to court.”
“You’re kidding me.” She reared her head back, her mouth dropping into an O shape.
“I wish I was.”
“Oh, honey.” Jillian rolled out of my bed and returned a few minutes later with two glasses of red wine. She toed off her heels and discarded them in the hallway. “Promise me one thing—don’t overthink this. They have nothing on your dad. You said so yourself. We’ll spin PR gold around this case and make him look like the angel Daddy Conrad really is.” She handed me one of the glasses, which I noticed could double as a bucket and was completely full.
I took a sip, blinking at an invisible spot on my wall.
“Should I be looking into this more?” I grumbled, mainly to myself. “I mean, if you strip away the fact that this man is my dad, the allegations against him are pretty gross.”
Jillian shook her head vehemently. “Hello, I grew up with you, remember? Been to your house every day since junior high. I know Conrad. He’s the guy who takes you to the Cloisters every month, who gave his secretary a yearlong paid vacation when she gave birth. Hello? Who cares what Amanda Gispen says?”
I wanted to take every word Jillian had said and ink it into my flesh.
“If Amanda lied—why would she go all the way to court?” I played devil’s advocate.
“Because he turned her down? Because they had a thing and he broke things off?” Jillian offered. “There could be a hundred different reasons. People perpetuate drama all the time. Amanda can say whatever she wants.”
“Under oath?” I took another sip of my wine. “She could face jail time if she gets caught.”
“She could, but it’s unlikely. I just don’t see this thing having legs, Ari.” Jillian offered me a comforting smile. “He’ll be fine.”
I nibbled on the side of my lip, my thoughts ping-ponging from Christian’s hate-filled eyes to Dad’s expression, full of pain, embarrassment, and disbelief.
“Side note—I can’t stand the lawyer who represents Amanda Gispen.”
“Lawyers aren’t exactly known as the professional world’s Labradors.” Jillian gave me a pitying, you-should-know-better look.
“Yeah, but this one takes the seven-tier shit cake, Jilly.”
“Who is it?” Jillian bumped her toes against mine over the duvet, the way Nicky used to do when we were kids, reading books under my library desk. A wistful smile touched my lips. Oh, Nicky.
I remembered the day I’d called Dad’s personal PI and asked him to look Nicky up. To see if he was okay. It was the first call I made after I turned eighteen. I paid the PI with the money I’d saved over the summer selling tourist paraphernalia.
Nicholai is dead, Arya.
The revelation was followed by denial, anger, tears, and a mini breakdown. You know, to wrap it all up in a nice bow. The PI explained to me that this was the nature of the beast. That kids like Nicky often fell through the system’s cracks. That he’d probably died of an overdose or in a knife fight or as a result of a DUI. But I’d known Nicholai well, and he hadn’t been some punk who was up to no good. It was hard to believe he was no longer sharing the same slice of baby-blue sky I lived under.
“Just the most infuriating man on planet Earth,” I groaned into my drink.
“Does the most infuriating man on planet Earth have a name?” Jillian probed.
“A generic one,” I huffed. “Christian Miller. Or what I prefer to call him—Lucifer incarnate.”
Jillian sprayed the red wine all over my tweed dress and duvet, choking on a laugh.
“Say that again?”
“I prefer to call him Luc—”
“Yeah, I got that part. What’s his name?”
“Christian Miller,” I repeated, annoyed. “Thanks for staining my Egyptian cotton sheets, by the way. You’re a pal.”
Jillian stood up and dashed out to the living room and returned clutching a glossy magazine I did not recognize, because contrary to Christian’s belief, I did not read any gossip or fashion magazines (not that there was anything wrong with doing that).