Page 101 of My Best French Wedding

“Did she introduce you yet?” Corinne asked. “To her uncle.”

“No.”

“Huh.”

It was a loadedhuh. Walter swallowed the bait. “What?”

“People like that see someone like you or me as a pawn. We’re useful until we’re not. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess she had you doing the heavy lifting on your quote-unquote group project. Who actually wrote the story?”

“I did most of the writing,” Walter admitted.

Which was true, but not the whole picture! Hildy had been anequal partner, planning and researching, editing every line, not to mention taking point on the art and design. It was her freaking idea in the first place, though apparently that was nothing to brag about.

“And who gets the credit?” Corinne pressed.

“It was going to be a joint byline.”

“Damn.” Her roommate tutted as if Walter had revealed something scandalous. “She really made you her bitch. I guess that’s one way to launch a career you’re going to spend taking credit for other people’s work.”

Hildy waited for Walter to defend her. Heknewshe wasn’t a slacker. Making fun of her taste, and her talent, was bad enough. Talking shit about her work ethic was an outrage.

“She didn’t even need this program. Much less the fellowship.” It sounded like Walter was talking to himself, adding another black mark to the list of Hildy’s crimes.

Corinne huffed as if she felt his pain. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, and maybe she promised you some super sweet deal for being her ghostwriter, but I’d watch my back if I were you.”

“Why?”

“Better make sure she doesn’t cut you out. I don’t know about you, but I’m not here to let some trust funder use me. We may not have money, but we have brains and talent. And integrity.”

Hildy didn’t miss the unspoken implication: unlikeHildy.

What had Walter said earlier, about waiting to wake up from a dream? Somehow everything had turned upside down, and now Hildy was living a nightmare. When your favorite person gave voice to your worst fear, it was like having a full orchestra echo your inner soundtrack of self-doubt.

You don’t have what it takes. No one will ever like you for yourself. Everything about you is mediocre and forgettable.

“I won’t let that happen,” Walter said.

“You’re tougher than I thought.”

“You have to be, in this business.”

“Unless you have everything handed to you. Cigarette?” Corinne asked, like the two of them were best buds now.

Walter shook his head, already standing. “I need to take care of something.”

“Her stuff isn’t in our room. I wouldn’t be surprised if she already bailed. Probably had a cotillion to get to.”

“I don’t care where she is… or what she’s doing.” Walter’s voice was hard. “I’m going to make sure she can’t do any more damage.”

For the rest of her life, Hildy would associate the feeling of having her heart carved out with this exact moment: the roughness of brick under her hands, muggy air, aching quads from crouching for so long, cigarette stink—and the sound of being betrayed by someone she considered her friend, her colleague, her creative partner… and maybe more. Hildy had been brushed aside and underestimated before, but this was her first taste of scorn.

If she hadn’t heard it with her own ears, Hildy wouldn’t have believed Walter was capable of speaking with that kind of contempt—least of all abouther.

She waited until the door closed behind them to pick herself up off the ground. So much for her fairy tale.

The only Cinderella moment Hildy was going to get was running the hell away.

35Hildy