Page 41 of Scandal
There is one empty seat.Just one.
My mother sees us approaching and rises to greet us.
“Good evening, darling,” she says with that perfect, toothy grin. The delicate beadwork of her burgundy gown shimmers under the lights as she leans forward to kiss my cheeks, ignoring Mercury completely. “You look lovely.”
“As do you,” I say through gritted teeth and then turn to my date. “You remember Mercury?”
Her eyes dart to the table as her smile falters.
“Yes, of course.” Her reply is curt, yet cordial. “Mac, why don’t you show Miss Creed to her?—”
“Mercury and I are sitting together, are we not?”
My mother gives Mac a withering glare. “Did Cormac not explain the situation to you?”
Mac is usually calm and collected in public, but for a moment, I see a crack in his unshakable exterior. “My lady, I?—”
“I told him I would prefer it if you explained,” I say, covering for him. After all, he’s been doing it for me for decades.
Her eyes flick to Mercury, her famous smile slipping once again. She hates drawing unwanted attention to herself. Leaning forward to speak as softly as possible, she says, “Your father and I thought it might be wise for you to be on your own tonight.”
“Why?”
She opens her mouth to answer, hesitates, then says softly, “After we learned a bit more about your…companionand her family?—”
“What the hell is wrong with the Creeds?” I whisper, but the ire in my voice is unmistakable. I squeeze Mercury’s hand.
“Her father represents a long list of Hollywood bad boys.” I refrain from reminding her I happen to be one of those “bad boys” she’s referring to. “One of her brothers had a child out of wedlock, and her sister serves beer at the family bar.”
None of this is news to me. “And?”
“And we wanted to give you the chance to reconsider.”
Reconsider what? Then her gaze shifts to the woman in the open seat. Isobel.
They’d introduced her to me last night, along with several others. She’s everything my mother promised—beautiful, polite, and well-educated.
But I am not interested. I wasn’t then, and I definitely am not now.
“There’s nothing to consider,” I tell her quietly, then loud enough for everyone to hear, I say. “Mercury and I are here together. So I’m going to take her out on the dance floor, and when I return, I expect this seating arrangement issue will be taken care of. Yes?”
My mother looks at me as if she doesn’t know whether to slap me or applaud. I’ve never spoken to her like this.
I’ve yelled, sure, and we’ve had spats over the years. I was a rebellious teenager who formed a band with my rich friends—practically her worst nightmare. But for me to be so decisive and tactful is a new dynamic. If I’m forced to inherit my father’s title, she’d better start getting used to it.
I don’t wait for a response. I turn to Mercury and extend my hand. “Shall we?”
She nods, a mixture of surprise and amusement crossing her pretty pink lips as she takes it, and we head to the dance floor.
“I’m sorry.” Only a few couples are dancing. The string quartet is playing a waltz, and I pray to God I didn’t just set her up for embarrassment. “That was forward. I should have asked if you wished to dance.”
She faces me as we reach the center of the dance floor, and I slide my hand around her waist. “I love to dance,” she says simply. “And hearing you talk back to your mom was pretty epic. It kind of reminded me of that time in LA when Zara’s ex showed up backstage. Although he never mentioned the part about you being a viscount.”
“That guy was a fucking prick,” I mutter, remembering the day Zara’s ex-husband got his father, a senator, to buy him a backstage pass to our show so he could harass and slut-shame her in front of the band, the crew, and all of Hendrix’s family.
And I wasn’t having any of it.
So he decided to go after me instead.
