Page 29 of The Ring
My mum exhales heavily in frustration after not getting the support she wanted from West.
“Tristan.”
Fuck.Why does she have to bring out my full name? But it does grab my attention, which I suppose is her point.
“Cornelia is lovely and all,” she continues, “but are you really going to let your relationship with Nate be ruined over some girl?”
My jaw tightens. I look at West, and even he looks bothered. Everyone who has ever known Cornelia knows she is not justsome girl. She is the type of woman who, if she had lived a few centuries ago, would have had men duelling for her favour and kings selling their kingdoms for her hand.
“She’s not justsome girl,” I say, sounding more whiny than I’d like.
“I know.” She gives me a look filled with compassion. It wasn’t long ago I asked for the family ring for her. “But Nate is your family, and you have to forgive him. That’s what family does.”
“I won’t.”
“You have to,” she replies, sounding almost desperate. Why does this matter so much to her? And since when did family matter so much to her? She barely talks to her own parents.
I’m getting frustrated. I always knew my father preferred Nate over me, but I never thought my mother did, too. If she wants things fixed so badly, she should be at Nate’s—he’sthe one who fucked up, not me. I didn’t sleep with the love of his life.
“I don’t have to, and I don’t want to,” I say firmly. She opens her mouth to respond. I don’t want to continue this pointless discussion. At last, it seems I’m finally getting some good karma—I was owed some after the last few days—because before she can reply, a strange smell wafts through the room.
My mother’s face contorts at the smell. “Is something burning?”
“Fuck, the pastries!” West exclaims, dashing to the kitchen.
Chapter 15
Cornelia
“Maybe she can do a sit-down interview or a spread with a magazine,” suggests Miriam, one of my family’s publicists.
“It has to be something classy. That sounds soHollywood,” my grandmother says, the last word laced with special disdain.
There are many things you can say about Odette Joan Monroe-Nodrick: she’s my father’s mother, she has short grey hair, she’s rich, she’s a widow, and she still thinks we live in the 1900s. But one thing youcan’tsay is that she’s easy to please.
She lives in Bath most of the time, or in her literal castle an hour and a half away from London, which she constantly points out was once home to some queen. She also has a house on Kensington Palace Gardens, but she rarely stays there or in London. It’s the house my father grew up in, and when his husband, my grandfather, died, she moved out. Too many painful memories, I guess.
After the news about what happened with TJ and Nate reached her, she cameto fix what happened,as she put it—like there’s any fixing this. But, of course, she meant publicly. I’mpretty sure I could kill someone, and she wouldn’t care as long as the press didn’t find out.
“How about she models for some brand?” the publicist throws the idea out there.
My grandmother’s nose wrinkled in disgust, probably recalling when I modelled a few years ago. She hated it. I didn’t like it much either, but I won’t admit it to her.
“It has to be something regal, demure, and subtle enough that it doesn’t look like we’re doing PR control.”
“We can throw a party or a soiree of some sort, take a few pictures with all the parties involved, leak them to the press, and show there’s no bad blood—and that the whole situation was taken out of context without actually saying anything.”
“Finally, an acceptable idea,” my grandmother replies.
I push myself from the couch in the living room, where I’d been lying face up dramatically after my grandmother turned down the fifth idea Miriam gave her. “Of course, what we need is more parties,” I say sarcastically.
“Cornelia,” Anthony, who has been a spectator up to this point, finally speaks just to scold me. He’s a bit scared of my grandmother. She can be pretty intimidating. And to intimidate Anthony, that’s saying something.
I sigh and turn to my grandmother. “Sorry.”
“You should be. We’re fixing your mess.”
I fight the urge to snap back. I already have a lot to deal with; I don’t need to add more to the pile.
