A lump formed in her throat. “It’s not just about that.”
“Marriage isn’t about love? That’s new to me.”
His voice was uncommonly stern. Corinne concentrated on the white plate on which the sandwich sat. She did love Dixon, but was that enough? Was it the kind of love you could build a life around? Was it a forever kind of love? “It’s complicated.” She laughed, a little bitterly. “I mean, obviously,” she said, looking around.
Will paced back toward the stove. “I just don’t get it. If you love him, why are you here?”
“I know. It’s just . . .” She sighed and gazed out the window. “This would wreck my family.” She thought about her father’s choked voice earlier. I’m proud of you. “And it’s who I am too,” she added. “This is what I’m supposed to do. This is the person I’m supposed to marry.”
Will’s eyebrows arched. “It’s not the Dark Ages, Corinne. Marriages aren’t arranged anymore.” Will crossed his arms over his chest. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
Silence passed between them. Corinne looked away first. “No,” she lied, the secret swimming inside her. She wanted to tell him, but how would she start? I was pregnant that summer. We have a baby out there somewhere. You’re a father.
He moved closer. “Don’t you want to live an honest life? Don’t you want what you do and feel to be real?”
She hunched her shoulders, trying to hide. “I can’t give you the answer you want right now. I need more time.”
“You don’t have that much more time.”
Something in the kitchen crashed. It was only after the plate lay in pieces on the floor that Corinne realized that Will had shattered it. He stood there, his chest heaving, his shoulders and biceps and chest muscles prominent and powerful.
Corinne shot to her feet. “You’re scaring me,” she told him, suddenly unnerved.
Will looked back at her, his jaw hard. “Why can’t you understand that you’re not the only one with emotions?” His voice cracked. “That you’re not the only person in this equation?”
“You’re making me sound so selfish.” She turned into the entryway, blinking back tears as she looked for her discarded shoes. “Is that what you think?”
Will didn’t answer. Corinne unearthed her Jimmy Choo kitten heels and started to put them on, her throat tight. She couldn’t fit her heel into the strap, so she let it flap free, as messy and undone as she felt. “I’m going,” she mumbled.
Will started to walk her to the door, but Corinne marched a few paces ahead, refusing to look back at him. Will cleared his throat. “Corinne, stop. I’m sorry. I want to be with you. I think you want to be with me. It should be that simple.”
Corinne stopped and turned. He stood in the doorway, a tortured look on his face. “Well, it’s not,” she whispered, and started down the stairs.
17
After an interview at the New York CNN studios, Aster returned to her tiny cubicle at Saybrook’s, staring at a massive binder on her desk that listed all the Saybrook’s stones still in company storage. The binder was categorized by color and then by carat and other features, like where the diamond was found and whether it was cut. Elizabeth had asked her to input all of the information and upload the images to a cloud server, whatever the hell that meant. But Aster needed a moment to breathe. She’d managed to hold it together during the interview itself—actually, she thought, she’d done a pretty fantastic job—but talking about Poppy must have affected her more than she realized. Afterward, she’d started crying on the way to the bathroom. She ducked into a stall and quietly sobbed for a minute, then carefully redid the thick, caked-on TV makeup before saying her good-byes and leaving the studio. Aster knew better than to let anyone see her cry.
Her phone buzzed, and she looked down. New post on the Blessed and the Cursed, read the message. Mitch had helped her sign up for these alerts a few weeks ago. Maybe it was masochistic to watch as someone aired the Saybrooks’ dirty laundry all over the Internet, but Aster figured it was better to know what was being said than to be blindsided.
She took a deep breath to steel herself, then tapped the link. Sure enough, a new post had loaded. Two pictures were positioned side by side on the screen. On the left was a shot of a sheet-covered figure lying on a busy Manhattan sidewalk, a lock of blond hair peeking out from underneath the tarp, an elegant snakeskin pump emerging from another corner. Aster drew in a breath. Poppy.
The other photo was of Natasha lying in a hospital bed. Tubes protruded from her nose. Dark, curly hair framed her oval face, and an eerie smile played around her lips. Aster’s mouth dropped open. How had someone gotten close enough to take a picture of Natasha?