“All right,” Elizabeth says, knotting her hands in front of herself. “You two are going to be in charge of making sure none of the technology breaks down. Frankie, you’re good with computers, right?”

“Sure,” I say, mostly for the sake of being agreeable. I wouldn’t say I’m good with computers, just... fine with them.

“Point me toward the bar, as usual,” Alistair says, a grin on his face.

Yesterday I heard him grousing to someone about how, this year, Lizzie had roped him into helping with the gala last-minute. He didn’t exactly say it, but it was obvious that he thought this kind of thing was beneath him. Women’s work.

While men’s working is what, drinking scotch? That part was unclear.

“Allie, you promised,” Elizabeth says, her lips forming an exaggerated pout.

“And you promised you’d stop calling me that.”

Elizabeth bats her eyelashes at her older brother, then smiles, just a little too coyly for a smile at her brother.

“Come on, you like it.”

The side of his mouth hitches up, smiling back at her. I look away, because while there’s nothing exactly wrong here, these two can be a little weird sometimes. Slight Flowers in the Attic vibes.

Very slight, but really, any is too much.

“What do you want me to help with?”

She smirks. I swear she does, even though that prissy little smile only lasts half a second while she flicks her gaze to, then tilts her head prettily at her brother.

“I need you to keep track of the audiovisual aspects,” she says. “Particularly because the man who was supposed to be running all this claims to have bronchitis, so I had to get someone else last minute and I’m sure the two of you can guess how many people in Shelton are qualified to hook up sound equipment.”

“You know I’m not one of them, right?” I ask as she turns and begins walking through the main ballroom. The gala is being held at the Hotel Pentshire, in Brougham, a building that dates to Victorian times where the rooms begin at three hundred pounds per night.

I have no idea who’s coming to Brougham and spending that kind of money. It’s charming, but I wouldn’t think a fancy hotel could survive here. Not that I know much about fancy hotels.

Elizabeth just laughs.

“Of course I know you’re unqualified,” she says, and she sounds a little too happy about it. “But you’ve at least gone to university, which gives you an edge over most of the rabble around here.”

One of the men setting up chairs looks at her. She smiles at him dismissively.

How does she find a new way to be the absolute worst every single day? I think.

Elizabeth leads up through the ballroom doors, briefly through a hallway, then opens something that looks like a nondescript closet.

Standing in the middle of a tangle of cords is Liam, scowling down at something in his hands. Elizabeth clears her throat.

“Liam, this is my brother Alistair and his fiancée Françoise. They’ll be running point for me on audio tonight,” she says.

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, I think.

My heart jumps to my throat. I think it’s trying to strangle me, because at least if I make a scene and faint, I won’t have to deal with whatever Elizabeth is trying to do.

I wish I’d never lied to her. I wish I’d actually gone to the bathroom instead of getting a drink. I wish I’d gotten a single shot instead of a double, I wish I’d just come clean with her about going to the pub sometimes.

“Pleasure,” Alistair says, sticking his hand out and nodding. Liam shakes it, nodding back.

Say something that isn’t dumb, I think. Elizabeth’s eyes are on me, ugly ice chips in her pinched face, and before I even open my mouth I know that whatever I say is going to be the wrong thing.

“Hi again,” I say, holding out my hand to Liam. “We keep running into each other, huh?”

“Funny,” he says.

Elizabeth laughs and puts one hand on my shoulder.

“You’re absolutely right! You know, I thought he looked familiar but you’re the man she was chatting up at the bar earlier this week, aren’t you?”

She’s smiling again, always fucking smiling, but it’s savage.

Alistair looks over at me, eyebrows raised, and Liam’s gaze flicks from Elizabeth to me. I laugh right back at her.

“I did recognize him and say hello,” I say to Elizabeth, raising one eyebrow. “If that’s what you mean?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, one hand on her chest. “You two did look rather chummier than that, but what do I know?”

I shrug. I try to make it look lighthearted, but my blood’s boiling. Half at Elizabeth for being Queen Bitch of Women-Who-Suck-Land, half at myself for being an idiot sometimes.

“Though you know, Liam, I could have sworn you said that you knew Françoise here from the flower shop but then the woman who owns the Hound’s Ears said she was your boss when I was trying to find someone to do A/V for tonight! I must just be confused.”

She bats her eyes. I start wishing for a fissure to open in the ground and swallow me whole.

But Liam just shrugs.

“Two jobs,” he says. “Hard times, got to make ends meet, you know?”

“I’m sure,” Elizabeth says. I wonder if she’s ever had a job. I think the answer is no. “Well, anyway, glad I could re-acquaint you! Liam, if you’re needing anything, talk to Alistair and Françoise.”

“Will do,” he nods.

“All right,” Elizabeth says, turning back to us and walking out of the A/V closet. “Enough of that, I’ve also table setting cards that need to be numbered, and I can’t find anyone else to do it right now...”

I swear there’s an evil glint in her eye.

* * *

I put the final number on a seating card, then toss the calligraphy pen onto the table, lean back in the chair, and rub my eyes. Then I remember that I’m wearing ten layers of mascara, and I freeze.

You’d think that for someone visually and artistically inclined, I’d be better at calligraphy. I’m shit at it. My handwriting is terrible anyway, and trying to make it fancy with a weirdly shaped pen?

These could look a lot better. Elizabeth’s going to be pissed, but there’s no way she expected better of me, right?

This is what she gets for practically telling Alistair that she thinks Liam and I are fucking, I think to myself, looking at my shoddy work.

The thought makes my face warm. We’re not, obviously. I haven’t even thought about it.

I’ve been very carefully not thinking about it, as a matter of fact. Even though I’m certain that every single married person on planet earth has, at some point, visualized someone besides their spouse in the nude and it doesn’t mean a single thing, I haven’t thought about Liam that way.

Because it could be dangerous. Because I find myself drawn to Liam in a way I’m almost never drawn to people, despite myself, and I’m a grown woman who’s chosen her choices and I didn’t choose Liam. Everyone gets tempted sometimes. We’re human.

It’s what you do about temptation that counts.

I forget about my mascara and rub my eyes again, because I can’t believe that this gala hasn’t even started yet and I already feel like I’ve fucked up massively. I know I should just come clean to Alistair, tell him that sometimes I go to the Hound’s Ears for an escape from his family, but I should have told him that a week ago.

Telling him now looks like damage control, like an excuse, probably because that’s what it is.

I exhale, stand, leave the tiny side room where I’ve been numbering cards and head back toward the ballroom, peeking through a door. Elizabeth’s inside, bossing around two men wearing chef’s hats, her back to me.

The bar’s between us. It looks like it’s set up already, so I bite my lip, open the door the rest of the way as carefully as I can, and slip through.

“Is it too early to get a drink?” I ask.

“Not at all,” the bartender, a young woman with a low ponytail, says. “What’ll it be?”

“Two double scotches on the rocks,” says Alistair’s voice behind me.

Something grips my stomach, but I force myself to turn around, smiling at him. I was just going to get a glass of wine, but scotch will also do nicely.

“God, I need a drink,” he says. “I do love Lizzie, but it’s not as if she’s got anything important to do with her life. This way she gets to boss people around, have a dress up, feel like she’s the king of something before she gets back to the grind of looking for a proper society husband.”

The bartender sets two glasses on the bar, pours scotch into them.

Just tell him you’ve been going to the pub sometimes, it’s not a big deal.

“What’s she been having you do?”

“What’s she not been having me do?” he scoffs. “I spent half an hour holding a garland up against the wall while she decided whether she liked it there or not. She didn’t, by the way, and my arms are about ready to fall off for naught.”

The bartender slides the glasses across, and Alistair hands one to me, holds his in the air.

“To my dear, monstrous sister,” he says merrily. “May this night soon be over.”

We drink. I down at least half my fancy, expensive scotch in one go. I haven’t eaten since lunch, and instantly, I can feel it warming my stomach, fuzzing out into my veins, and I feel better.

Now. Tell him now.

“Has the bloke from the flower shop been bothering you?” Alistair asks suddenly.

I stare at him. Blink. I can’t fucking think of the right answer, the alcohol in my system instantly making me an even worse liar than I already am.

“Bloke from the flower shop?”

“The one with the mass of cables in the back.”

I tilt my head, putting on a show of trying very hard to remember what he’s talking about.

“She said something about seeing you two talking at a pub?”

My heart kicks at my ribcage, chest constricting, and I let out a mechanical, fake laugh.

Tell him. TELL HIM.

“Oh, the other morning when I couldn’t sleep I went out to get flowers for your mother for being so lovely and letting me stay with you for two whole weeks and he was the one working the counter and we chatted a bit,” I say. “And then when I saw him in Brougham during our girls’ day out it only seemed polite to say hi again, you know?”

I lied again. Shit.

Alistair frowns.

“Isn’t he a bit tattooed to work at a flower shop?” he asks.

I take another swig of the scotch, like maybe this time it’ll make me a better liar.

“Do flower shops have tattoo requirements?”

“Not that I’m aware. Just seems strange is all.”

Alistair looks at me. I look back at him, and I take another long drink from my scotch to cover the fact that now I’ve lied about Liam twice. I’ve failed completely to come clean to Alistair or his sister about who Liam is or how I know him, only digging this stupid hole deeper every time I open my mouth.

But I still don’t say anything. With every second that passes I screw myself over a little more, probably, but I can’t force myself to do the right thing and just tell Alistair.

“Allie!” comes Elizabeth’s voice from across the ballroom, and Alistair rolls his eyes.

“Yes, Lizzie?” he calls.

“Can you come over here? It’s about to start and I’ve still not decided on the tree topper...”

He drains his scotch, sets it on the bar. I do likewise.

“Have fun,” I say.

“Right,” he mutters, and heads away.

“Refill?” asks the bartender, and I touch the bar with one hand, rocking back slightly on my heels. The rest of the scotch has dulled the regret I feel over still not telling Alistair the truth, made me less panicked about him finding out.

“Could I just get a glass of merlot?” I ask.

I know it’s not a good idea to drink too much before the gala even starts. I haven’t had more than one drink a night since Elizabeth caught me drinking midday, because I know you shouldn’t use alcohol to deal with your problems.

But God, it feels like the best way sometimes. It feels wonderful right now to not care that I’ve just lied to my fiancé about another man, and besides, I’m not using it as a permanent fix to this.

Just for now. Just for tonight. Obviously this ship has sailed, the gala’s starting soon, and I can’t start a fight with Alistair moments beforehand, right?

The bartender slides the glass over the bar, and I take it, thanking her. Half of it’s gone before I even realize it, everything gone even fuzzier.

Lady Catherine, Alistair’s mother, walks by. She looks at me with that bitchy face of hers, and I smile back, a big hey-how-ya-doin’ smile, just to annoy her. She nods and looks away, back to her posh friend who probably couldn’t make herself a grilled cheese sandwich if her life depended on it.

Yeah, this gala is gonna be great.