Sunday Brunch at the Maxwell Estate was a blood sport disguised as a meal.
The back lawn was manicured to within an inch of its life. Tables were set with white linens and crystal. The elite of New York society were there-senators, bankers, socialites.
Floy was there, wearing a pink dress that Darcie recognized. It was hers. Floy was sipping champagne, acting like she owned the place.
Darcie took a deep breath.
"Ready, Fleet?" Darcie asked.
She pushed his wheelchair out onto the terrace. It wasn't just a wheelchair; it was a mobile ICU, complete with a portable ventilator and a heart monitor discreetly built into the frame. Standing near the french doors, looking like part of the security detail, was Jeremiah Bailey, a former Army medic who had served with Fleet. Darcie had found his name in Fleet's old files and hired him herself. He was the only one she trusted.
It was his first public appearance since the accident.
The chatter stopped instantly. The silence was heavy, respectful, and terrified.
Fleet sat in the high-tech chair, head supported by a brace, eyes covered by dark aviator sunglasses Darcie had put on him. He looked like a fallen king.
Darcie was wearing a deep navy velvet dress that matched his suit. They looked like a unit.
She parked him at the head of the main table. She fussed with the blanket over his knees, smoothing it out.
"Oh, look at her," a dowager whispered loudly. "She really loves him."
Floy sashayed over, holding her glass.
"Hey, sis," she said loudly. "Isn't it a bit morbid to bring a corpse to brunch? People are trying to eat."
Darcie didn't flinch. She picked up a glass of water.
"Fleet built this empire, Floy," Darcie said, her voice carrying over the lawn. "Without him, you wouldn't be drinking that champagne. You'd be drinking moonshine in a trailer."
A few people chuckled.
Gwendolyn stepped in. "Darcie, dear. We appreciate your... dedication. But this is a high-society event. It's about pedigree."
She signaled a waiter. He placed a glass of orange juice in front of Darcie, while everyone else had vintage Dom Pérignon.
"Children drink juice," Gwendolyn smiled sweetly.
Darcie picked up the juice. She dipped a small, sterile sponge swab into the glass of water on the table, then gently moistened Fleet's lips. It was a standard procedure for intubated patients, but in this context, it looked like an act of profound intimacy.
"Pedigree?" Darcie asked. "Interesting choice of words, Gwen. Considering you were the second wife. The secretary, wasn't it?"
Gwendolyn stiffened.
"I am the first wife," Darcie said. "And the current matriarch. So, technically..."
Darcie pushed Gwendolyn's purse off the chair next to Fleet.
"I sit here."
Darcie sat down.
Fleet heard the gasp from the crowd, the rustle of her dress as she took the seat of power. She'd just physically displaced Gwendolyn. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to roar with it.
Hugh, emboldened by alcohol, leaned across the table. "He looks like a giant baby. Does he need a bib, Auntie?"
Darcie picked up a steak knife. She didn't look at Hugh. She looked at the steak on her plate.
Scrape.
The serrated blade screeched against the fine china. It was a horrible sound that made everyone wince.
"Hugh," Darcie said calmly. "If you insult your uncle one more time, I will release the photos of you from the hotel room. The unedited ones."
Hugh turned beet red. He shut his mouth.
Suddenly, the heart monitor on Fleet's chair started beeping. Beep-beep-beep.
"Oh my god, is he dying?" someone gasped.
Darcie looked at the monitor. Heart rate 110.
She looked at Fleet's hand under the blanket. His fist was clenched. Actually clenched.
He was furious. Not at Darcie. At Hugh. The disrespect. A primal urge to stand up and break the boy's nose surged through him.
Darcie put her hand over his fist. She squeezed hard.
"It's okay, darling," Darcie said, loud enough for him to hear but soft enough to sound intimate. "I've got this. Calm down."
She rubbed his knuckles with her thumb.
Her touch. It was the anchor again for him, grounding him. The red rage receded, replaced by the focused sensation of her skin against his.
The beeping slowed. Beep... beep... beep.
Darcie looked up at the table of stunned guests.
"Fleet finds the conversation boring," Darcie announced. "We're leaving."
She unlocked the brakes and wheeled him away, leaving Gwendolyn and Hugh staring at their backs.
