Tyra raises a brow as if I’ve somehow offended her.
“I’m sorry,” I say, holding my neck as if it’s paining me. “It’s allergies.”
“Right.” Tyra looks at her husband.
“Kimmy was just telling us about her time in Kenya,” Grandfather says. “We’d love to hear stories about what you’ve been up to.”
My heart leaps in my chest as my lips part to tell them about my life—about the beautiful Bartholomew Gardens and photographing a music star Kelvin McCoy’s baby today. And the movie that Wade and I watched last night and how I made a Barefoot Contessa chicken recipe and it tasted almost like my mother’s.
But as I take in their faces—cold and aloof, I realize that the offer was rhetorical. They don’t really want to hear what I’ve been up to. They want to move the conversation along.
Besides, how can roasted chicken compete with Kenya?
I lift my chin and steady my breath, hoping I can talk past the lump in my throat.
“Where did you go in Kenya?” I ask Kimberly.
Her grin is smug. “The Massai Mara National Reserve. It was beyond wonderful. It’s not quite as amazing as Mykonos, but definitely in my top five.”
My top five includes New Orleans, Sedona, and Nashville. We are not the same.
“I’ve heard Mykonos is beautiful,” I say politely.
The room falls silent. The stillness scratches at me, clawing at my soul, and I need to fill it with something. Anything. Anything is better than thinking that they are watching and judging me.
Tyra and Kimberly look at Grandfather expectantly. It’s a pointed move that says loud and clear that something is about to happen.
Something I’m afraid I won’t like.
The room grows bigger. The three of them sit on one side like a pride of lions before me. I slide down into my seat and prepare for whatever is about to hit me.
I ignore the burn across the bridge of my nose and stiffen my shoulders.
My instincts say to run, to catch flight, because I know that this situation is about to be for my survival, and fighting for my life isn’t going to work out well.
Thoughts fly through my mind, shuffling across like snowfall in a blackout.
My mom’s face. The smell of her mother’s meatloaf. Rusti’s laugh and Cleo’s annoying little bark that I would give my left arm to be hearing instead of this right now.
And Wade. The smell of his Tom Ford cologne. The feel of his hand caressing me while I sleep. His smile while I dance to Post Malone while we cook dinner, and the safety of his arms when I’m feeling a particular way and he somehow understands it.
When I’m feeling like this.
Alone. So, incredibly alone.
“So, Dara, darling,” Grandfather says, each word paced. “I wanted to bring you here tonight to discuss with you some big family news that will be announced in the coming days.”
“Okay.”
He sits up in his chair. “I have decided to make a bid for president.”
President. President of what?
Oh.
President of the United States.
Although we’re sitting at the same height, Tyra still looks down at me as if I’m a plebian. And maybe I am. Maybe I’m the scum on the bottom of her red-bottomed heels. I certainly don’t have a string of pearls around my neck or a diamond bracelet that has to be hard to lug around all day.
But I am not beneath her. No. Fuck that.
I turn my attention solely on my grandfather.
“That’s exciting,” I say, measuring my response.
“It is. It is indeed. We were hoping that you would attend the press conference with us in Atlanta next week. On Thursday, I believe.”
What?
I’m still trying to figure out what any of this has to do with me when Kimberly speaks.
“Yes,” she says, smiling ruefully. “We would hate for the media to harass you if you aren’t there.”
“And why would they harass me?”
“Because …” Kimberly bats her lashes. “How would it look for the family if news breaks that Curt Bowery has a granddaughter that’s a bastard?”
“Kimmy.” Grandfather admonishes her with a scowl. “That’s not what we mean.”
But it is what he means. I can see it on his face.
I acknowledge that I have a biological child, Dara Alden. I choose with a sound mind and in front of the witnesses named below to exempt her from this document.
My breaths can’t quite get enough oxygen to my brain. Every thought takes a few seconds too long to process. My mouth goes dry.
Grandfather scoots to the edge of his chair and rests his elbows on his knees.
“The media are vultures, darling,” he says. “They are going to pick through my life with a fine-tooth comb and expose any unsavory pieces that they can find.”
Tears dot my eyes. “And that’s me, right? I’m the unsavory piece.”
Kimberly’s shoulders shrug, but I don’t acknowledge it.
I can’t.
Oh, my God.
I’m too in shock to process the entirety of this conversation. I’m too blindsided to react.
He doesn’t want me here. He doesn’t want me in his life.
“That’s not what I mean, Dara,” he says, his words firm. “You are a delightful young lady who we are just getting to know. And I think it behooves everyone involved if you join us from the beginning so that we may show a united front. It leaves little for anyone to investigate.”
My body is eerily still.
“You mean that you want to show a united front so that people don’t realize that you have a granddaughter that you’ve never bothered to get to know,” I say.
My words are as firm as his. I lock eyes with Curt and wait for him to react. I learned this from Wade—how to be strong and not bend to someone’s will.
Wade. Why didn’t I just let you come?
Curt sighs. “We are getting to know each other now. I’m building you a house, for heaven’s sake.”
No, you’re buying me off.
I stand. They all flinch, surprised by my sudden movement. I stand above them.
“Bless your hearts,” I say.
Tyra rolls her eyes. It makes me chuckle angrily.
“You’ve made a lot of money over the years, so you’re clearly not an idiot,” I say, looking at Curt. “But let me explain something to you.”
His jaw sets.
“If you wanted to get to know me, you would’ve called. Texted. Invited me to dinner—and did it yourself. Not through your assistant,” I say. “Building me a house is not getting to know me. It’s manipulation. You’re trying to put me in a situation where I can’t say anything bad about you to the press.”
“Dara—” he booms.
“Dara Alden. That’s my name. Not Bowery. I have never been a Bowery, and it’s clear I never will be.”
Curt stands. “While I appreciate your backbone, I do think it might be best for you to sleep on this before you make decisions that you can’t take back.”
“Your son already did that.”
He narrows his eyes. I narrow mine right back.
“I’m not indebted to you. I don’t want anything from you. To be clear—I won’t accept anything from you whether it’s dinner tonight or a house ever.”