“Aster Saybrook Is Out of Control,” read the headline.
Aster felt the blood drain from her face. This wasn’t the first time that she’d been featured on that stupid website, but this was the first time her father had called her out on it. She felt for her phone. Had Clarissa sent the Badawi picture? Backstabbing bitch.
Her father sighed. “You ruined your sister’s fitting. For her wedding dress. And this business at the club—come on, Aster. You’re better than that.”
Aster blinked hard. “Better than what?”
Her father just stared at her. She searched his face for a sign of her dad there, of the man who used to carry her on his shoulders and tell her that everything would be okay. All she saw reflected there was disappointment.
“Deanna can handle it. She can get those photos taken down,” Aster tried next. Deanna was the family’s publicist; she could make almost anything go away.
Mason shook his head. “I don’t want Deanna to handle it—that’s not the point. You need to learn some responsibility.” He had another puff. “It’s time you got a job. I’ve talked to HR, and they’re finding an assistant position for you in one of the departments.”
“A job?” Aster sputtered.
Mason stared at her. “You start next Wednesday.”
“As in a week from now?” Aster shrieked. “You had no right to do that!”
“I have every right. I’m the one who pays your bills.” Mason stood, the discussion clearly over. “You’ve got to grow up sometime, Aster. And that time is now.”
Spots formed in front of Aster’s eyes. “What department am I working in?” she asked. Not Corinne’s; please don’t let me be working for Corinne.
“I don’t know—HR is handling it,” Mason replied. “And frankly, I don’t care.”
Aster headed toward the door, feeling tears in her eyes. She turned back so that her father could see her crying, but he just stared at her stonily. That trick didn’t work on him anymore.
She envisioned going to work at Saybrook’s, getting bossed around and gossiped about because of her last name. For a moment, Aster thought of revealing her father for the liar he really was—running back into that dining room and announcing what she’d discovered about him five years ago. But then the anger deflated from her like air leaving a balloon. Telling the truth about Mason wouldn’t solve anything.
“Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll take your stupid job. But I’m warning you, I’m going to suck at it.”
She walked out of the office, down the hall, and to the front door without even saying good-bye to anyone. Why should she? They were probably snickering about her in the dining room. Or doing the proper-person alternative to snickering, whatever the hell that was. Tut-tutting. Tongue-clucking. God, she hated all of them.
A job. Jesus. She hailed a cab and gave the driver her downtown address, then leaned against the window and closed her eyes. For the first time, it felt as if the family curse was real. Because starting next week, Aster would be living it.
5
The following evening after work, Corinne got out of a cab on the corner of West Tenth and Bleecker in the West Village. Spring had sprung all over the city. The trees were fragrant with new cherry blossoms, everyone had pots of flowers on their stoops, an old Gwen Stefani song, which always reminded her of cruising around Meriweather in the vintage Jaguar convertible they kept there, wafted out of an open window a few stories above. As she stepped daintily onto the curb, careful not to scuff her python and suede pumps, she tucked her phone between her ear and shoulder.
“I don’t think Aster knows what hit her,” Poppy said on the other end of the line. “I mean, Corinne, she is really freaking out.”