Chapter 37

Becki is in her room, which used to be Nicole's room. God, it took Paul long enough to finally give Becki this ensuite. She was in one of the guest bedrooms before, can you believe it? For years. Blah blah Nicole's childhood home, blah blah been her room since she was born, blah blah no reason to upend the whole household blah.

It wasn't until Nicole graduated from high school that Paul saw the light and put Becki in the ensuite instead, shuttling Nicole down to a basement room where the bitch belonged from the start.

Despite what Nicole might think, Becki is not jealous of her. Never has been. Becki's just annoyed by Nicole, by her "oh, my poor dead mom" routine, by her little goody-two-shoes routine.

Everybody always liked Nicole better than Becki: teachers, friends, even Paul seemed to like her better sometimes. Nicole didn't deserve it. She's never done anything to deserve it. She just swans around life acting holier-than-thou, all because she's got a dead mom and a pretty face and a rich dad and got into med school insanely young

Such bullshit. Becki's the only one who has ever seen through her little act, at least until she went to prison and the little house of cards fell.

I mean, yeah, Becki knows Nicole didn't actually have anything to do with the drugs. But she still deserved to go to prison, just for being so freaking fake, and so stupid. Becki would never be dumb enough to take the fall for some guy.

Nicole got what she's always deserved, and now it's Becki's time to shine.

Becki finishes the last curl of her hair and flicks off the flat iron, setting it aside on the antique vanity table that apparently used to belong to Nicole's mother. God, she really bitched and moaned when Becki claimed it, but it doesn't fit in that basement room, does it? And Nicole wasn't using it, anyway.

A few blots of her lipstick later, Becki is ready to head out the door. She grabs her purse from the foot of the bed and is about to turn out the overhead lights when her phone starts buzzing from the depths of her handbag.

"Who the hell is this now?" Becki mutters, rooting through her bag to find her phone. Probably Muff, calling to say she'll be late getting to the club. Muff is always late; Becki doesn't even know why they bother saving her a seat at their booked tables anymore. She never pays her share of the drinks bill, either.

Becki digs her phone out from the bottom of the bag – gross, crumbs? She needs to get a new bag, maybe an excuse for a Saks shopping trip this weekend – and answers the call.

"Becki?" a voice snaps over the line at her.

Damn, it's Charles. Now what? Becki glances at her wall clock. She's going to be late to the club if he holds her up too long with his whiny crap, and then she'll be the new Muff.

"Charles," she says, trying to keep her voice pleasant. She still needs Charles; she can't let him know how much he's pissing her off lately. "What's up?"

"What's up?" Charles sounds borderline hysterical with fury. "What's up? What's up, Becki, is that I just had an extremely unpleasant confrontation with Marcus a few days ago, and he's refused to step down from the line of succession."

What the hell does that have to do with her, Becki wonders in irritation. The line of succession bullshit is Charles's job, not Becki's.

"And?" she asks, when he doesn't elaborate.

"And," Charles says in an over-the-top, sarcastically condescending tone, "you are not doing your goddamn job. You are supposed to be seducing him and getting him on your side. You'll have a lot more influence over him if you're his mate, more than I could ever have."

"Charles, I've tried," Becki says, accidentally letting the irritation slip into her tone at last. "You've seen me try, multiple times. At the wedding, at that shitty party, and about half a dozen other times that you haven't been there for.

"It's not like I can just swan into the mansion whenever the hell I want and corner the guy. He's hard to pin down, and he's not showing any interest. What do you want me to do, kidnap him and hold him hostage?"

Truth be told, Becki is losing interest in Marcus. He's too much like Nicole – all upright and noble and goody-goody. Becki doubts if he's ever cracked a genuine smile, let alone had any actual fun in his life.

"If nothing else works, then yes, maybe that's what we'll have to do," Charles hisses. "But first, you need to actually get your shit together and give this a real try. He's on a date with Lydia tonight, and I know he's not interested in her at all. It's a prime time for you to step in."

"You want me to crash someone's date?" Becki asks, aghast. "Humiliate myself in public like some kind of lunatic stalker?"

"Yes, Becki, that's exactly what I want," Charles says. "You're not pulling your weight, and if you're not going to pull your weight, I see absolutely no reason to keep you on the cushy payroll. I'm texting you his location. Figure it out."

"Charles, I have plans tonight," Becki starts, but he cuts her off.

"To hell with your plans! This is serious. Shit is falling apart, and all you can do is spend my money on designer shit and drink yourself stupid every other night of the week on my dime.

"Well, sweetheart, the gravy train is about to permanently go off the rails if you don't start showing me some results. So get your ass over there and do something useful."

Charles hangs up without letting Becki get another word in. She glares furiously at her phone screen, tempted to throw the thing against the wall, but she takes a deep breath and centers herself. She's been taking meditation lessons recently, to help her find her zen.

Right. If this is so goddamn important, she'll guesses she'll just have to do it. She can't lose access to the unlimited credit card that Charles gave her after Nicole died. She's gotten too used to living the high life.

At least they're starting their date at a wine bar, Becki thinks as her cab pulls up to the door 45 minutes later. If they were at a restaurant, she'd flat-out refuse to go in, Charles be damned.

Becki's patience for being threatened with expulsion from an establishment is wearing thin. It's happened twice now, and she's not going to let it happen a third time. At least the wine bar is open to the public, without reservations.

She pays the driver and slips out of the car, adjusting her bodycon dress around her thighs where it's ridden up. She rummages in her bag for a compact to check her lipstick and hair, then tosses her head and marches confidently through the doors. She's got this.

Becki scans the room quickly, hoping to find Marcus and Lydia before she hovers uncertainly in the doorway for too long. She doesn't need people staring at her; this is supposed to be discreet. The last thing she needs is for some ugly scene to be splashed all over TikTok and the morning news.

Marcus and Lydia are sitting at a small, quiet table in the back, sipping glasses of wine and barely making eye contact. Becki knows how to play this. She saunters up to them casually, ready to act as if she's run into them by coincidence.

"Marcus!" she exclaims when she gets to their table. "Wow, fancy meeting you here. I had no idea you liked this place."

Marcus looks up at her with a frown. He doesn't look happy to see her, not at all, and he doesn't even respond. Damn. She tries again.

"You must be Lydia," she says, extending a hand to the pretty woman sitting across from Marcus. "I've heard so much about you from Charles. I'm a close family friend."

The woman nods at her politely but coolly, shaking her hand briefly before dropping it. An awkward silence settles.

"Um, so, what are you two drinking?" Becki asks. "I've never been here before, but it was recommended to me recently, so I thought I'd drop by on my way to the club…" she trails off at Marcus's frosty glare.

"Becki, it's nice to see you, but I'm afraid we're here on a date," Marcus says. "I'd ask you to sit down, but we're leaving shortly for the theater."

Becki falters, but decides to give it one more try.

"But your glasses are full!" she says brightly. "I'd never want to crash your date, but since all the other tables here are taken, perhaps…" she trails off again, only just noticing that Marcus and Lydia are sitting in the only two available seats at their table. Plus, she suddenly notices several free tables clearly open behind them.

Lydia is staring at her like she's a bug to be squashed, and Marcus looks like he's barely holding his temper.

"Miss Becki," he says. "I'm sure I don't mean to be rude, but my date and I are having a private conversation. If you will please excuse us."

Becki wants to sink through the floor. Despite her best efforts to keep this little conversation discreet, people nearby are starting to turn around and look at her with curiosity.

"Of course," she murmurs. "Please excuse me."

She heads to the farthest table away that she can find and orders a very large glass of Pinot Noir, which she drinks in about three gulps before signaling for her bill and scampering out the door, feeling the sting of humiliation the whole way.