Aubrey

"I don't care if she's in surgery, let me talk to her!"

Portia was almost pleading on her phone, and Portia Hilfiger never pleaded. Not that Aubrey cared. Everything else in her peripheral seemed distant, even intensely unreal. Neither the biting cold weather nor the deafening sounds of New York traffic could touch on the cruel images seared in her head.

"We're really doing this again?!" Portia cried in frustration. "Chloe Beale, goddamnit! B-E-A-L-E…"

In the bedroom, barely half an hour ago: the smooth planes of a man's back faced them, muscles rippling as he drove his hips forward again and again.

"Please, this is very important."

Concealed from them, another body; only the legs were visible as they hooked around the man's waist.

"Tell her this is about her best friend –"

And then the horrible realization that she recognized the back of the man's head, the neatly-trimmed dark blonde hair.

She used to spend hours running her hands through that hair.

"– something very bad has happened."

The nausea came with no warning. Aubrey only had time to brace herself on the nearest wall before she desperately hurled the contents of her stomach into the pavement.


Laurence Avery Clark. They had met in their second year at Harvard. Aubrey initially dismissed him as another attractive, loaded stuck-up dandy with a ridiculous collection of Ralph Lauren. And the impression stuck until their first class together, Advanced International Human Rights, where he delivered a counter-argument so empathetic and impressive the professor gave him a free pass on the next exam.

Aubrey had kindly revised her impression to 'attractive dandy' after that.

"Posen."

She looked up from her bag. The bell had just rung, and amidst the flurry of people leaving the auditorium was Laurence, with his tousled crop of dirty-blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He was the last person she expected to see. They have never really interacted before, aside from casual nods whenever they ran into each other at the library; even now Aubrey struggled to remember his name.

"Clark, right? How can I help you?"

"We're having a party tonight at Landsowne."

She waited, but Laurence seemed to be done talking. "When people say that, it is usually followed with an invitation."

Laurence chuckled. "Right. You're right. Well, would you like to come? It's the recruitment party for the Harvard Legal Aid Bureau."

"I thought HLAB only recruits 1L students."

"Yeah, but any current law student can apply for a summer fellowship. And sometimes we pick Harvard 2Ls from the interns to join Legal Aid for good come fall."

"So you're already recruiting me for the summer fellowship?" Aubrey raised her eyebrow. "Don't you guys usually hold a year-end recruitment party for that?"

"Yeah, well…" Laurence ran a hand through his hair, and Aubrey was amused that she was already starting to make this normally-laidback sophomore nervous. "We kind of just really want you to join the bureau."

"Why?"

"Uh, because topping Harvard Law Review's editorial competition tends to makes everyone want you?" His eyes shone enthusiastically as he talked, and Aubrey was flattered. "I mean, I can't be the first organization to recruit you."

"Not really."

"So are you coming?" he asked. "The first part mostly sucks – we just elected our student board of directors, so our new president is giving an acceptance speech, and it's a real snooze fest. But the second part is free food and drinks and some really smart people…a lot of them are cute, if you're into that," he grinned.

"Alright. I'm sold." She smiled at him, gathered her things and stood. "By the way, who succeeded Elena Guzman as HLAB president? Was it Laurence…"

"Avery Clark? Yeah." His grin grew wider. "This is strange. I don't normally refer to myself in third person."

"Oh!" It was Aubrey's turn to be embarrassed. "I'm sorry. Professors are always calling us by our surnames, and this is the first time we've…"

"It's cool. To make it official, I'm Laurence. Laurence Avery Clark." He put out his hand, and Aubrey shook it.

"Aubrey Danielle Posen."

"I know." He grinned again. "I looked you up. It was hard not to."


Two months into working with him at HLAB, she grudgingly told him he would make for a brilliant lawyer. He returned the compliment, albeit with more enthusiasm, and then asked her out.

Being with him was easier than anything else Aubrey has ever had in the past. While she found him somewhat inexperienced he was compassionate and caring, and he sought to learn her with admirable tenacity until he could make her come in his sleep. Beyond his charming boyish exterior was a levelheaded man who always took responsibility for his actions. He easily matched her intelligence and determination, and over time she could no longer deny how much she had grown to love him.

It took another year for Aubrey to realize Laurence's connection to the Clark-Rockefeller family of New York. He took special care to conceal that part of himself, he explained, because people almost always treated him differently after learning his family ties with the banking clan. She did not. With her own tumultuous family history she understood his reservation. He, in turn, respected her refusal to discuss hers.

Aubrey could still remember the day of their engagement with astounding clarity. It was a Thursday, two months before graduation, after a particularly trying mock trial exam. They lay naked in bed. He stroked the length of her back intimately; she found herself sinking into a heavy stupor, the aftermath of sex and mental exhaustion.

"Mother called this morning."

"Has no one ever told you not to mention your mother in bed?" Then Aubrey turned to face him, and found his expression completely serious. "Well?"

"She's having a difficult time. My brother-in-law Nick somehow found a loophole that lets him take control of Athena's Chase shares, and now he's trying to buy out my mom's stock. Our family lawyer's health has taken a turn for the worse…"

"First-world problems, huh?"

"You make light of it, but I don't think I can escape the whole thing anymore." He sighed. "As soon as graduation is over, I am returning to New York."

She stroked his face, but said nothing.

"I don't know why I even bothered with law. Banking was always where I was headed anyway." He massaged his temple dejectedly. "I should just suck it up. Be a man and all that bullshit."

"You are a man. Taking a completely different path from your family proves that."

"Yes, but as it turns out I can't just abandon them like that. People have this enormous expectation of the Avery-Clarks. With my sister outwitted by Nick, I'm the only one who can keep our remaining assets with JPMorgan and Chase…" He shook his head. "Christ, listen to me. I already sound like an asshole."

"As long as you're this self-aware, you are not. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know." He sighed again. "But I have to take control of the Western Hemisphere group, or higher. It's where Nick holds court right now."

"I'm sorry. I wish things could be easier."

He looked at her, his expression even more drained than before. The mere mention of his family always gave him that look. The dark circles underneath his eyes bothered her. He was usually so refined, and she could tell this troubled him more than anything law school could ever throw at them.

"Come with me."

She was taken aback. "To New York?"

"Boston is wonderful, and I know you've already got a job lined up downtown. It's too much to even ask…"

He suddenly sat up, casting the sheets off as he reached for something in his bedside drawer. When he turned to face Aubrey, he had a small jewelry box in his hand.

Aubrey's heart beat faster when his trembling fingers opened it to reveal a diamond ring.

"Oh my god. Laurence..."

"I was going to wait until farewell dinner, but this is the moment I want to remember for the rest of my life." His voice was thick with emotion when he spoke the next words. "I could no longer recall a time when you weren't there to complete me. If you will consider making space in your future for New York…for me…then please come with me. Marry me."

She didn't even think. "Yes." She pulled Laurence to her, kissing him deeply. "Yes," she murmured against his lips. "I'll marry you. I'll follow you anywhere."

This brought tears to his eyes. "Bree, you just made me the happiest man in the world."

"And I the happiest woman. Laurence, I love you."

"I love you too."


Aubrey had no reason to regret the impulsive decision. While she had grown to consider Boston as her hometown New York was simply incomparable, with its diversity and color and unexpected kindnesses of its otherwise-jaded people. She found her own curious nature sated – even overwhelmed – by the endless possibilities at every turn.

Her job at Bristol and Cahill was predictably exhausting. The law firm specialized in employment and labor, their practice mostly composed of big business and community involvement cases. But while Aubrey and her fellow associates worked almost fifty hours a week their efforts and opinions were highly workplace was also competitive and less bureaucratic than previous firms she interned with.

Another upside was Chloe, who lived two hours away now instead of seven. Being able to hang out with her inherently-positive best friend helped Aubrey adapt quicker than she thought possible. She even loved the loft Laurence found for her in Brooklyn. It was a converted nineteenth-century firehouse, and while it was smaller than the apartment they shared in Boston, she felt happily ensconced in its cosy exposed-brick walls.

On weekdays Laurence lived at Beekman Place, the Clarks' family home in Manhattan. His elderly mother Helena lived alone there and he worried about her. Aubrey was initially unhappy about this arrangement, but understood. He made up for it by spending weekends with her in Brooklyn; he would often joke that she was both his fiancée and mistress.

Three months in, within that charming apartment, Aubrey saw the first sign of trouble.

"What do you mean, no one knows we're engaged?"

Laurence cradled his head in his hands. "I haven't told my family. I haven't told anyone. Mother would have very harsh words to say if she learned I put myself before the company…"

"Then why did you ask me to marry you, fully knowing your mother wouldn't approve?"

"Because I wanted to. Because I love you."

"Bullshit! You did because you were being selfish."

Laurence winced. He hated it when she swore. "You wanted it too."

"I did, with the implicit understanding that it wasn't going to be hidden away like some juvenile shotgun engagement. We are grownups, for God's sake!"

"We are not hiding! I don't care if everyone else knows. Just not –"

"Is this why we are living in Brooklyn? So your mom would never see us together?"

"No! You know how expensive rents are downtown. If you would only let me pay half your rent, we could easily –"

"You are lying."

He tried to reach for her but she furiously spurned him, sitting as far away from him as possible. Laurence's shoulders sagged.

"That is part of the reason, yes," he admitted. "But there are other factors too – the price of rent downtown, the cramped living spaces…"

"So where does your mother think you disappear to on weekends?"

"I told her I have a potential business venture for Chase in Brooklyn."

"You disappoint me," she spat bitterly, drawing a certain satisfaction at watching his face fall. It hardly measured up to the betrayal she felt at the moment.

"This is why I didn't want to tell you."

"True, because the perfect moment would have been at our rehearsal dinner. What the fuck, Laurence?"

"Can we please remain civil? I assure you, I am suffering just as much. You know I love you. But I don't need to explain again how fragile my mother is at the moment. Telling her about our engagement will only upset her. I have to ease her into it…"

"Have you started?"

He shook his head unhappily.

"Does she even know you have a girlfriend?"

He shook his head again, and Aubrey wanted to slap him. "You'd better have an excellent explanation, Laurence, because right now I have half a mind to break up with you."

"Bree, please. I will eventually tell all the people I can trust, but Mother will be the last. I have a business plan. If it succeeds, her approval would no longer matter. She'll owe me. And I'll be free to do as I wish."

"And how long is that going to take?"

"A year."

"A year?!"

"I know it's taking longer than we expected. You have to understand. I am trying to rally my cousins to back my bid for the Western Hemisphere group, but not all of them could see I make for a better businessman than Nick."

She took a deep breath. "And then?"

"And then hopefully I get voted CFO." Laurence stepped closer and knelt before Aubrey, in a second attempt to appease her. "Then I will take you to dinner with Mother, and you're so lovely she will have no choice but to adore you..." He kissed her hands as his own stroked up the side of her legs, rising high enough to drag the material of her skirt upwards. She tried to reject him by twisting her body away. He merely retaliated by slipping his hands underneath her blouse. "Six months after that we'll be married in the Hamptons…anywhere you want," he corrected with a smile, when Aubrey managed to gather a shred of mental fortitude to raise her eyebrow. It didn't last long.

"Did you think you're the only one hurting from the fact that no one knows you're mine?" He parted her legs and breathed the words in a trail, marking a hot path on her inner thigh with his lips. Through half-closed eyes she saw the bulge straining against the front of his slacks. It took all her willpower not to massage it with her bare foot. "Do you know how badly I want to make you Mrs. Aubrey Posen-Clark?"

"That's enough, Laurence," she gasped, unable to control her body from responding under his attentions. "You're devious. But I am still mad."

"I never meant to deceive you," he said, pulling back and looking up at her seriously. "I'm sorry. I admit to being selfish. But only because I can't ever imagine life without you."

"A year," she repeated.

"A year. Your patience is all I ask."

Aubrey sighed. "It's not ideal, but I will try and understand."

"Thank you," he breathed in relief.

"And this is the last time you lie or hide something from me."

"Okay."

"I mean it. I did not move two hundred miles away from Boston just to be toyed with."

"I would never do that. Do you still believe in me?"

She took his face in her hands, the answer coming to her easily. "I do."

"Will you let me make it up to you?"

"How?"

He inched his hands underneath her skirt again. She rolled her eyes. Still, she couldn't resist a laugh when he pushed his face between her legs.


By her eighth month in New York Aubrey had been introduced as fiancée to select important figures in Laurence's circle: his older sister Athena Avery-Clark, his best friends William Winthrop and Portia Hilfiger, and some close friends from his time at Dalton School.

All of them had varying degrees of immense wealth, privilege or fame. Little by little, she understood Laurence's apprehension at how their engagement would sit with his mother. He and his family lived in an elite sophisticated bubble, the richest of Manhattan and possibly half the world. With everyone practically catering to the Clark-Rockefellers, Laurence could have any of the pedigreed princesses, supermodels, heiresses, actresses, politicians and businesswomen who regularly walked through Beekman Place – the one place in Laurence's life Aubrey had never set foot in.

Aubrey was mostly unfazed. She could tell the pensive Athena was impressed by her wit, William found her delightful enough to invite her to tea often, and Portia simply adored her. The chatty fashion heiress loved to take her shopping and let her take her pick of New York's best parties any evening. Whenever Aubrey walked into one of them, with or without Laurence next to her, she confidently held her own.

That is, until she met Arabella Seymour.


Like any other couple, Aubrey and Laurence had their traditions. The best was their occasional weekend trips to Montauk. The Long Island beach town was Laurence's favorite place: he had been surfing there since childhood with his Dalton friends, and it was one of the first places he brought Aubrey to when he picked up his life again in New York.

Aubrey lived for these weekends. The local surfers treated Laurence as one of their own, and every morning he would be on the waves while Aubrey lounged at shore with drinks and a good book. After a long lunch they would ride horses at William's family ranch or go hiking at the beach trails. More often than not they would end up back at the Clarks' beach house, where Laurence would undress her carefully, kiss her until she turned to putty in his hands, and make love to her over and over until they lost awareness of time.

One calm Saturday Laurence got ready to paddle out to sea. Aubrey watched him putting on his wetsuit, her own body still sweetly heavy from the previous night's activities. He was, as always, a sight to behold – blonde locks messed up by the early morning breeze, his lean chiseled torso bared to the sun. When his bright blue eyes caught hers he winked roguishly and grinned.

And then all she could think of was the night ahead of them. The way he would slowly rock in and out of her. She would wrap her legs around his waist, sometimes even around his shoulders. And it would be their unspoken cue to start racing for an orgasm that drew closer and closer as they moved together in perfect rhythm. He would say her name in a long, guttural groan against her neck when they came.

He'd whisper 'Mrs. Clark' in her ear afterwards, and it never failed to make her smile.

Her reverie was interrupted by a squeal. "Laurence!" A dark-haired girl, also clad in a wetsuit, was approaching them from the opposite side of the beach. Laurence's face lit up in recognition.

"Arry!" He held out his arms and the other girl practically ran straight to him. He lifted her off the sand, their mingled laughter echoing in the cliffs around them. "I didn't know you were in New York!"

"I dropped by Beekman Place and your mum said you were here," the girl responded. Aubrey did not miss the fact that she kept her arms entwined around Laurence's neck. "Aunt Helena looks well, so Maddy and I moved on to the Hamptons. Then Maddy's boyfriend joined her last week…I've been traveling alone since." She glanced at Aubrey, and Laurence finally noticed.

"This is my fiancée Aubrey Posen." Laurence took her hand, which did not give her a shred of comfort. "Bree, this is Arabella Seymour. She's my cousin from London."

"Hello." She gave Aubrey a kiss on both cheeks. "Oh, aren't you lovely! Laurence, I can't believe your mum never mentioned your engagement!"

Aubrey had never met anyone who oozed such tremendous aura, with the probable exception of Stacie Conrad. But Arabella was a notch above: coquettish but cool, brazen but teasingly so. She was also sensually attractive, with her dark curls, green eyes and a strikingly statuesque figure.

"Don't worry. I'm less likely to spill the beans than Portia, she can be rather daft," Arabella was saying; Aubrey grew increasingly uneasy with her for reasons she could hardly explain. But then again she was very fond of Portia, and so that must be it – and she didn't miss the way Laurence barely blinked at the insult either, which was deeply uncharacteristic of her usually-upright fiancé.

She was startled when Arabella grabbed her arm enthusiastically. "Tell me all about it! Laurence and I practically grew up together – I bet I could interest you with stories about his wilder days, hm?"

"Now, now, Arry, don't embarrass me," Laurence laughed.

"Oh, there is so much to tell! Did you know Laurence taught me how to swim here?"

"I forgot about that! We practically discovered Camp Hero!"

"Remember the locals won't let us in at first? The pecking order here was really established before we came."

"It still is. And you know people can only surf here until eleven a.m. now? Fishermen get the area afterwards so you'd have to move to Ditch Plains in the afternoon. It's a travesty."

Arabella looked at her watch. "We should get going, then! Aubrey, you don't surf?"

"Nah, she stays on shore to watch me," Laurence smirked. "Come on. I just about perfected my aerial."

"Rubbish!"

"No, really. I still have to grab the board though."

"That's wicked. Speaking of – I finally got my handshaped Dick Brewer board!"

"No fucking way! I thought he only makes boards for big-wave dudes now."

"That's true. I paid a bloody absurd amount of quid so he'd design one for me. We hung out at his shop in Kauai while he made it. He traced the pattern by pencil and carved the balsa wood all by himself…it was transcendental watching him work, I tell you."

"Sweet. Can I have a go?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Should I be worried?" Aubrey teased Laurence, as they watched Arabella's form receding into the water.

Laurence smiled at her. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek, although she could tell he was still distracted. "She's my cousin."


Aubrey didn't like the way Laurence ploughed into her that night – hard and fast, a change of pace she normally would have welcomed if he wasn't rushing to finish right away. But he was callous to her pleasure as he unapologetically rammed in and out to complete his own. He came with a cry and collapsed on top of her, panting heavily; despite his overheated body covering every inch of hers, she felt cold.

"What's got into you?"

He didn't look up from nuzzling her breasts. "I don't know."


"What do you know about Arabella?"

Portia Hilfiger rolled her eyes as she zipped the back of Aubrey's dress. The sweet-faced brunette was a couple of years younger than her, but possessed more worldliness and grace than anyone else Aubrey knew. Portia was a social butterfly with charm, ambition and sarcasm to match. Of all of Laurence's friends she was Aubrey's favorite.

That day they were at Portia's condo to help her choose an outfit for a charity event. Aubrey couldn't understand how Portia roped Chloe into it, much more how she cajoled them into trying on the clothes themselves. But Aubrey suspected it had something to do with their distraction: Portia rattled off a hundred enthralling stories about everything, from her new dri-fit line with Uniqlo to that time she puked on David Gandy's shoes.

"She's a total Sloaney," Portia scoffed. "And a total skank."

"What's a Sloaney?" Chloe asked.

"You know, loaded British gentry. Went to Queen's Gate, dated the entire Exeter polo team, has a nickname fit for frilly pet dogs, woefully anti-intellectualist…" Chloe winced at the harsh description, but Portia only laughed. "Oh, Chloe. I forget how nice you are sometimes. Arry does have a saving grace: she's not just a poseur. Her family is legitimate upper-class. Like, her grandpa used to play polo with Princess D." She turned to Aubrey. "Unfortunately she's more of that viper, Camilla. Laurence introduced you? When?"

"A couple of weeks ago."

"At Long Island? Was she all, 'oh, Laurence and I grew up together! He taught me to swim! Aunt Helena loves me!'?"

"Spot-on."

Portia tutted. "Before Laurence left for Harvard, Arabella would occasionally come down here in the summer. They'd traipse to Montauk then move their way to Ruggles or even Maine…god knows what they do there but it's guaranteed you won't see them 'til the end of summer break. Doesn't matter if we already made plans for Nantucket or Caribbean or Paris, oh, when Arry comes around she's got Laurence wrapped around her finger. He had an argument with Will one time because we refused to take her on our sailing trip to Vermont. We previously agreed it was best friends only, and Will flipped out at the thought of having Arry on his yacht for ten straight days…but who wouldn't?"

Aubrey glanced at Chloe, unsettled. The latter nodded at her imperceptibly, trying to comfort her.

"Should I be worried?"

"Oh, no!" Portia exclaimed, looking at both of them in the full-length mirror. "There is nothing to worry about. Laurence adores you! I wasn't implying anything, Bree, I swear. I'm not a fan of Arabella, so I do tend to get carried away. She is such a tramp...oh, I'm doing it again. Oh, dear. I am hopeless."

"Portia, that does not reassure me at all."

"They're cousins." Portia couldn't quite meet her eye. "I wouldn't think much of it."


Portia's fiancé William Leslie Winthrop was much more reticent. His father served as the current consul general in Belfast, and despite having lived in New York for most of his life, the young doctor retained the same discretion as his British family.

They were at his home having tea – an occasion Aubrey used to look forward to – when she sprung the question about Arabella. William's face creased briefly.

"Laurence is very fond of her."

"I've heard."

"He ditches us and everything else whenever she is in town. How do you know her?"

"We ran into her during our Montauk trip."

"Ah. I think Laurence can best answer that question. I barely know her."

"Oh, we've talked about her," Aubrey lied airily. "We're going to Montauk with her at the end of the month. I am in charge of planning, and I was hoping to do something nice for Arabella while we're there…something that would also surprise Laurence, so please don't mention it to him."

He smiled. "I see. That's very kind of you, Aubrey. I wish you luck."

He wasn't going to say more, so Aubrey tried a different tack. "I'm really at a loss here, Will. I tried asking Portia, and it turns out she has very strong opinions on Arabella…so I thought I'd be better off asking you," she ended with an apologetic laugh.

William sighed.

"She and Arabella has this long-standing row. I honestly don't care for her so much, either. She can be very exhausting…we avoid her as much as possible."

"But Laurence didn't mind that?"

He nodded. "They have been close since childhood. Helena – Laurence's mum – she is very fond of the Seymour side of the family. Whenever they were in New York Laurence and Athena were tasked with entertaining Arry, along with her sister Maddy. Eventually Arry would just visit by herself, and Laurence would show her around."

"What do they do?"

"They surf."

Aubrey remained silent, waiting for him to say more.

"Amongst other things," he eventually tacked on.

"What things?"

The reticent doctor sighed again. "Drinking. Snorting. Self-indulgent things…but this was during our time at Dalton. Laurence has outgrown it."

"Should I be worried?" It had become somewhat of a refrain these past few weeks, mostly to Chloe, and Aubrey was starting to hate herself for asking.

William's answer was not the comfort she had hoped for. "I don't think so." He cleared his throat and tried again for a more diplomatic answer, as he was often prone to do when speaking of delicate matters. "They're cousins. I am sure there is nothing to worry about."


"I could just be inferring things," Aubrey confided to Chloe. They were at the redhead's house, drunk on margaritas and bingeing on Chloe's Netflix selection. Laurence canceled on her last minute – he had to pull a bunch of all-nighters at work over the weekend.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I could just be seeing and hearing the things that validate my jealousy. It's irrational, when I think about it. Laurence and Arabella are cousins."

"So in layman's terms, you're being crazy."

"As much as I hate to admit it, yes." Aubrey leaned on her best friend's shoulder, and Chloe put an arm around her. "It doesn't help that she's everywhere. You know how you'd meet someone and afterwards you run into them all the time? I saw her in all the events I've gone to last month. I swear she was even at the Bristol and Cahill anniversary party."

"Maybe you're bisexual and you're falling in love with her."

Aubrey snorted. "Shut up. Seriously, what is wrong with me? It's not like I've ever seen them do anything suspicious. And every time I meet her she has some baron or rockstar hanging off her arm."

"Not to validate your crazy, but there is such a thing as 'female intuition'."

"That's ridiculous. The fact that it's called 'intuition' means it's not supported by any empirical data…" Chloe shook her head at Aubrey, often a signal to indicate she's getting carried away, and she abruptly stopped. "Well, whatever it is, I just can't let it go. Help me! This is getting out of hand."

"Again, not to validate your crazy, but I've never seen you this jealous in, like…" Chloe mulled for a moment, "…ever. Not even when your ex tried to kiss Unicycle at your birthday party in Myrtle Beach. Who was that guy again?"

"Oliver." Aubrey chuckled, forgetting her worries for a moment. "He's officially gay now."

"And there was Economics Major Guy. Third year. You were pretty sure he was hooking up with that slutty club promoter…"

"That's Charles. I wanted to scalp that club promoter, but ultimately decided he wasn't worth it."

"Oooh, that guy you dated from your hometown then! The Christian dude who gave you the tacky promise bracelet and swore he will always love you, and then impregnated your high school best friend a month into college?"

"Jacob. Oh my god, Chlo, how are you so bad with names? You're training to be a surgeon!"

"I know, right? Can you believe they let me cut up twenty-ounce babies?"

"Maybe you should rephrase that…"

Chloe bounced on the couch, suddenly excited. "Ooh, wait. I have seen you get jealous!"

"What?" Aubrey prided herself on being the emotionally-stable half when it came to romantic relationships, so this was a surprise. "When?"

"Fourth year."

"But I wasn't dating anyone in fourth…" the redhead's sly grin made Aubrey realize who she was pertaining to, and she rolled her eyes. "Oh, not this again."

"Admit it. You were super jealous whenever I hung out with Beca!"

"No."

"Bree, you were really concerned that I'd trade you up for Beca even when I kept telling you I just wanted to date her. Come on!" She unsteadily reached for Aubrey's jaw, trying to simulate speech by forcing it open and closed. "Say it. I. Was. Jealous."

Even six years later Aubrey hadn't had the heart to correct her oblivious best friend. But she'd rather jump from the Empire State Building rather than retroactively hurt Chloe with the fact that once upon a time, she somehow found something attractive about Beca Mitchell. "I was jealous," Aubrey finally deadpanned. It wasn't a lie.

The effect on Chloe was amusing to watch: her face opened into a radiant smile, and she leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Eww, your lips are cold."

"I love you too, Bree." Her warm blue eyes reminded Aubrey of Laurence again; her face must have crumpled or something, because Chloe pushed another glass of margarita in her hand. "More of this, then. So what is it with this Arabella woman? Did she touch Laurence in some weird way or something?"

Aubrey thought about it. "There's something about their closeness," she finally concluded. "It's just…too intimate. Remember how Cynthia Rose would sometimes just put her arms around Denise during Bella practice, all cool and casual? And how they would always stand and talk way too close to each other?"

"But I do that to you all the time."

"Only because you're an anomaly."

Chloe laughed. "So Laurence and Arabella used to be lovers?"

"I don't know. But the way they are when they're together doesn't just stem from a close childhood or whatever."

"So…like Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin in 'It's Complicated'?"

"Yes!" In her excitement at Chloe nailing it Aubrey almost spilled some margarita in her lap. "Yes, that exactly. It has intent."

"Okay. But you have to admit Portia's intel on Arabella may have added to your paranoia too. Did you try asking her fiancé?"

"William's answer wasn't reassuring either – he actually insinuated that Laurence and Arabella used to do coke."

"…wow. Laurence doesn't seem the type to have it in him."

"I know." Aubrey massaged her temple – she was never good at drinking, and the third glass was fogging her brain. "I should just drop it. Honestly, have you seen the way Laurence looks at me sometimes? He's a wonderful man, dependable, incredibly witty, self-possessed. So far I haven't done or said anything he wasn't able to match. I have nothing to complain about."

"You've been saying that since last week, and yet you wouldn't let it go." Chloe fell deep in thought. "Tell you what," she finally said. "I'll go meet this woman, and then I'll tell you if you're just being a crazy ho."

"Thank you. That would be such a relief." Aubrey sighed and leaned on her arm again. "Now that I think about it, are you sure you're a decent judge of character? You did date Tom DeMarco…"

"And you never let me forget it." Chloe shook her off good-naturedly. "Can you blame me? He played soccer, so he had incredible hip muscles."

"I thought as much, if the screams in your bedroom whenever he visited our old apartment were anything to go by."

"He was also really good in the shower…"

"I did not need to know that."


"What are we doing tomorrow?"

They were in the apartment, having just come back from dinner. Laurence had loosened his tie. Aubrey leaned on his chest, having kicked off her heels and stretched her legs on the couch.

"I actually have to get back to the city early, baby." The arm that cradled Aubrey tensed for a moment. "Have to go to this Dalton alumni lunch. I'd take you, but these things are exclusive – not to mention they're boring and stretch 'til midnight…"

"It's alright." It wasn't, but lately Laurence had been so busy that she was surprised he was staying over at all. She knew better than to make him feel bad about it. Laurence himself reminded her that his one-year deadline was looming, and he needed to cover all his bases in the company before going head to head with his brother-in-law. "You deserve the break."

His responding smile is tired. "It's more of a business engagement, actually. Some schoolmates from Goldman-Sachs are attending. I need their advice on what can effectively drive down Nick's stocks at –"

"No more business talk, please." She fingered the stubble on his chin with a pang. With everything that was happening lately, he no longer even bothered to shave. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too." His arms tightened around her. "I'm sorry, Bree. There are just too many things left to be done."

"Promise me it's all for me," she found herself saying. She had tried so hard to push thoughts of Arabella out of her mind, but his increasing unavailability over the past weeks were not helping. If Aubrey wasn't the only one…god, she loved him too much.

"Of course, baby. It's all for us."

And she wanted to believe him so badly.


Twelve hours later, she caught the lie: not only did Portia invite her to the same lunch, she even begged her to bring Chloe.

Even worse, the first person Aubrey spotted when they entered the swanky Madison restaurant was Arabella Seymour. Of course. Portia, who was scanning the room for William, saw her too.

"What is that wench doing here?" she muttered in distaste.

William approached, greeting them warmly until he encountered his fiancée's sour expression. "What's wrong?" He followed Portia's gaze. "Oh."

"Laurence brought her?" Aubrey asked them, trying not to sound as faint as she felt.

"I am going to murder him." Portia stomped as stately as she could to the center of the room. William nodded to them apologetically and followed. Next to Aubrey, Chloe tried to make sense of what happened.

"Arabella is here? Which one?"

"Look at the bar. She's in the black dress with white collars."

Chloe caught a glimpse and gasped.

"You didn't tell me you were talking about Arabella Seymour."

"Who else have I been talking about all January?"

"No, I mean I know her name is Arabella, but I didn't know it was the Arabella Seymour." Aubrey stared at her, unable to comprehend the context. "Okay. Don't panic, but she's an actress."

"…you have got to be fucking kidding."

"No. She's mostly in foreign art house films – she had a Cannes entry last year with the yummy silver fox guy in Black Swan."

"Vincent Cassel." Aubrey flagged down a passing server with glasses of liquor; she took a sip of wine, and then just went ahead and drained the glass in frustration. "Great, now I am up against an actress!"

"Bree. Bree, slow down." Chloe squeezed her hand. "Nothing's happened yet, okay? We talked about this. I'm checking her out so we can put an end to your crazy once and for all, remember? Now breathe."

"What am I supposed to think? Laurence said this was exclusive to Dalton alumni only, and now it turns out he brought her –"

"You don't know that," Chloe snapped firmly. "For all we know, she could be here with someone else." She turned back to Arabella's direction and gasped again, this time in dismay.

Laurence, dapper as usual in a white button-down shirt and tan jacket, was walking towards Arabella. She tugged at the lapel of his jacket until he sat and then whispered something in his ear. Their laughter was barely audible from the other side of the room where Aubrey stood, but she did not miss the way Arabella's hand crept up to Laurence's, the way she stared at him with open coquettishness. The way her other hand settled easily on his thigh, smoothly rubbing up and down on the expensive material of his jeans.

Laurence reciprocated to all of it by simply brushing the hair out of Arabella's eyes.

"Aubrey," Chloe warned tersely. She hardly realized she was moving forward until hearing her name; all hopes of misunderstanding she had before were instantly replaced by white-hot anger. Chloe caught up to her, prying the empty wineglass from her steel grip.

"You see it too, right?" Aubrey asked through gritted teeth.

"I do." Chloe's mouth was set in a thin line. "I'm sorry, Bree. Let's get out of here."


"Miles promised he was gonna help me with the documents, so at least I've got that covered. I can't believe Athena survived this long without a personal financial advisor – I bet if I get my lawyer to look at her prenup agreement, it would say she has to hand everything to Nick in the event they get divorced. Seriously, it's like Professor Anaheim's first lesson in Taxation 101…"

Dinner in the city on a Tuesday night would have usually brightened Aubrey's mood, but her entire week after the Dalton lunch had been too hellish for her to enjoy anything else. The doubt, the punishing work hours, the everyday traffic, the testiness of Manhattan, the unnerving realization that so much of her life actually hinged on Laurence: it was getting to her.

And here was Laurence, prattling on like everything wasn't falling apart.

"Honey," she interrupted, pointedly. "I was with Portia at Madison last Saturday afternoon."

Laurence trailed off mid-sentence. Clearly he had underestimated her closeness with Portia and William. When he spoke again, however, his face was impassive.

"The Dalton alumni lunch?" And then, "I didn't see you there."

"Funny. You said it was exclusive, and yet I saw you with Arabella."

He barely blinked. "I only learned that when I got there," he retorted silkily, thumbing his tie. "Arabella came to visit Mom, so she was already in the area. I needed someone to charm the socks off the Goldman-Sachs boys so they'd reveal their trade secrets." He took her hand, sweeping his thumb across her knuckles, barely looking at the waiter who dropped off their entrees. "Why didn't you approach me, baby? It could have been you."

It came out biting and harsh, the opposite of what she intended.

"What is going on with you and Arabella?"

Laurence regarded her incredulously. "You can't be serious. She's my cousin."

"Then why doesn't she act like it?"

"What do you mean?"

"The touches, Laurence," she said exasperatedly – it's insulting, really, how he could possibly think she would never notice. "She's touching you all the damn time. Holding your hand, stroking your leg. That's too close for cousins, don't you think?"

His expression darkened. "What the hell are you implying?"

"I'm just telling you what I saw."

"Well, whatever it is you think you saw, you're wrong."

"Do you have a history with Arabella I should know about?"

"No, goddamnit!" People at the nearest tables glanced at them, jolted by the sudden loudness of his voice. "You think I'm stupid enough to have an affair with my cousin?" he hissed furiously. "I treat you like a queen, I bust my ass so you could marry me in a year, and you reciprocate by accusing me of incest. Are you trying to ruin everything we have ever worked for? Is that what you want?"

She pulled her hand back. "I'm not the one actively doing anything to cast doubt on our engagement," she stated coldly.

"Arabella and I have been close since childhood. You know that. What else do you want me to say?"

"Have you had any interactions with her that can be construed as intimate?"

"I can't believe we're still talking about this."

"I have to know."

Laurence pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. She taught me how to kiss."

Aubrey kept her neutral expression. "See? You never told me this before. When?"

"Sixth grade."

"And you've never done anything that can be called romantic or sexual ever since?"

"No."

"No one has ever said anything strange about your relationship with her?"

"Dammit, Bree. Do you really have to treat me like a criminal?"

"If you can honestly tell me no one else has ever commented on how you two act when you're together, I'll drop it."

"Fine. No one. You're the only one making all these outrageous accusations."

She sighed and searched his face warily for a few moments.

"Okay. Dropped."

"Good. Get this bullshit out of your head, Bree. I mean it."

She picked up her fork and knife, unable to remember when his words started sounding so hollow in her ears.


"You ditched me at Madison!"

Another weekend without Laurence – he was accompanying his mother to a funeral in the Bronx – and so Aubrey was spending an afternoon with Portia, who stared daggers at her over coffee and macarons.

She rearranged her face into an apologetic expression. "Chloe had a Chanel emergency," she said, phrasing the lie in the only way it would catch Portia's sympathy. "Did you end up murdering Laurence after all? Because when we had dinner last Tuesday he looked very much alive to me."

Portia rolled her eyes. "I would have, if I wasn't sidetracked by my ever-loving William – bless him and his manners. I swear he's the only reason I don't make Page Six every week. Anyway, we ran into Anderson, and by the time he was done charming us I couldn't find Laurence or Arabella anywhere."

Her tirade was interrupted by a chirp; her phone was ringing.

"Weird." She regarded it thoughtfully. "I hate to be impolite, but do you mind if I take this? Athena's never called me before."

"Sure."

She came back some time later with an agitated expression.

"We have to go."

Over years of rigorous Bella training Aubrey had accomplished the art of being graceful under pressure, so she only tilted her head at this new development. "What happened?"

"Emilia Hearst fucking happened." Portia led the way to the street, waving impatiently for a cab. Aware of the futility of her actions, Aubrey put her thumb and forefinger to her mouth and let out a commanding whistle. Two cabs jostled for their attention in a matter of seconds.

"How did you do that?"

"Breakfast at Tiffany's," Aubrey replied. "Where are we going? Who is Emilia Hearst?"

"Oh, that wretched old hag." Portia rolled her eyes. "Dead and still terrorizing the living, which is really all the Hearst Empire does, now that I think about it. Anyway, Athena is at the funeral with Aunt Helena, right? The Hearst family lawyer spoke with them. Apparently one of Emilia's final wishes is the return of a vintage diamond and ruby brooch Aunt Helena borrowed…in 1959!"

Aubrey fought the urge to roll her eyes. As a labor lawyer who toiled to resolve working-class struggles every day, this stretch for a piece of jewelry is just ludicrous. "Are you serious?"

"I know, right? Vampires, the lot of them."

"No. I mean, a brooch is causing this entire stir?"

"People take these snubs very seriously, Bree," Portia answered solemnly. "If Aunt Helena fails to return it, it's practically social suicide for the Clark-Rockefellers. And that brooch is worth millions of dollars. Of course it will cause a stir."

Aubrey gave up. "So where are we going?"

"Beekman Place."

Aubrey felt a disconcerting chill go up her spine. She was going to see Laurence's home for the first time. She had always imagined it going differently: weightlessly happy as he stood next to her, secure in the knowledge that they were only for each other.

"Does Laurence know I'm coming?"

"Oh my god, you're that couple?" Portia rolled her eyes. "Fine. Go call your boyfriend, clingy."

"No, I was just…" Aubrey shook her head – Portia probably wouldn't understand anyway. "He came with them to the Bronx. I'm sure he knows."

"Don't worry about it, okay? We won't take long."

"Why did you even take me?"

"Because I need a witness while I'm opening the family safe, so I can prove I'm not a pleb if something goes missing."

"Fair point."


The Clark penthouse was one of the most elegant homes Aubrey has ever seen: granite pillars, checked black-and-white floors, Parisian furniture in shades of white and cream. An extravagant gold and diamond chandelier hung from the ceiling.

Portia, however, did not let her linger long. "Come on," she said, pulling her along the spiral staircase to Helena Avery Clark's bedroom.


"I still can't find it," Portia groused an hour later, flopping face-down on the king-sized bed.

Neither could Aubrey. She had meticulously searched the contents of the safe, but going through the sizeable sheaf of documents, cash, and jewelry boxes for the third time yielded no brooch. Portia checked the other drawers and cabinets in the room with similar results.

"Well, call Athena and tell her."

"She's out of reach. Not like I'm dying for her to answer, anyway. She can be so intimidating." Portia sighed. "Do you ever get scared of Athena, Bree?"

Aubrey had never considered it before. Athena Avery Clark, as did her younger brother, had a lovely face – but the similarities end there. She cut a thin, visually-striking figure; her impassive blue eyes, alabaster skin, sharp high cheekbones and cropped silvery hair breathed the impression of an otherworldly Grecian sculpture come to life. And she lived the myth. While outwardly civil as most New York socialites are wont to be, Aubrey never shook off the feeling that Athena was merely a tourist – an ageless one at that – living in a different plane of existence from the rest of them. Her husband Nicholas Branson-Clark and her art gallery in Bedford were just necessary instruments to assimilate with mortals.

"No. But I see why you'd be."

"Lucky you. Even Nick found her so imposing he changed his name after they got married. She rarely ever asks me for anything, you know? I'd hate to disappoint her." Portia sighed again. "But you were right. It's a stupid brooch."

"With the number of homes their family own, it's probably just somewhere else," Aubrey tried to soothe her. "So what now?"

"Nick is supposed to come by in a couple of hours to pick up the brooch. I'll call him."

"You do that." Aubrey walked out to the hallway, a hushed yet welcome enclave from the stuffiness of the bedroom. She looked at the doors among the length of the corridor and idly wondered which one was Laurence's. Maybe she'd ask Portia later.

Portia joined her shortly. "He didn't even know what I was talking about! And Athena's still not answering."

"I'll call Laurence," Aubrey offered. She dialed and pressed the phone to her ear.

One ring.

Two rings.

She could swear she heard the ringing from her other ear too – a tinny echo that sounded less electronic than the one her phone emanated. She pulled the phone away. Next to her, Portia was frowning.

"Did you hear that?"

A muffled thud followed her question, and then, laughter. It was distant, but both of them heard it quite clearly. Aubrey looked at her phone. The call had been dropped.

"It's probably nothing," Portia said. But Aubrey was already moving towards the source of the sound: the bedroom at the furthermost end of the hallway, its door slightly ajar, allowing the light inside to spill out to the corridor.

"Bree!" Portia whispered urgently, gripping Aubrey's wrist. Her face was uncharacteristically pale. Aubrey merely shook her off, as though in a trance, and kept moving.

The door was only a couple of steps away. More sounds floated past them. A slow, rhythmic knocking. Voices.

Portia rounded on her, blocking the narrow gap, eyes wide with fear as she shook her head. And then, another sound: a stretched, ardent groan that Aubrey finally recognized all too well. But the phrasing is off, the cadence is wrong; her name had been replaced with something far more vulgar.

A-ra-bel-la.

Something inside her splintered, blasting all the air out of her lungs. Portia stepped aside. Aubrey pushed the door open with trembling fingers.


The roar of fucking bodies assaulted Aubrey's senses all at once.

She had a faint suspicion of what lay beyond the door, but nothing could have ever prepared her for the unbearable heat, the immense brightness flooding the room. The steamy smell of sex. Her eyes adjusted to the sudden light, and she wished they hadn't.

The naked figures on the cavernous bed did not hear her come in. So absorbed were they with each other, pounding with a dizzying speed Aubrey never thought possible, and only when Arabella pulled herself up by the man's neck did she notice they were not alone. Her mouth formed an O shape as she stared in shock.

Noticing her distraction, the man turned around.

Laurence.