“Yeah, but that’s easy to figure. People are more vulnerable late at night. Whoever it is had that advantage. I won’t let him keep it. It was months between calls, and if he’s not getting anything out of it, I think whoever it is will stop.”

“If they don’t?”

“I’ll tell you. I swear it.”

“The calls weren’t the only thing you didn’t tell me about.”

“It’s a little awkward for a daughter to tell her father about the guy she’s involved with. You’ve met him now, talked to him now, you must know what a good person Noah is.”

Saying nothing for a moment, Aidan just tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair.

Then relented.

“He seems to be. He can also have actual conversations, seems to know what he wants in life, has a work ethic. I still want to beat him off with a stick.”

“Dad!” She snorted out a laugh. “Come on.”

“That’ll ease off. Maybe.” He turned to her then. “I didn’t ask him because there were a lot of other things to ask. How long have you been seeing him?”

“A couple of months.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“It feels like it. I know being with him makes me happy. He got me back into dance class, something I’d forgotten I really enjoy. He’s not why I’m taking the classes at NYU, but I think I built up the confidence to try that because, well, because of the normal. It’s nice to have the normal.”

Watching her face, he nodded, then looked out over the city. “It was hard for me to let you come to New York. It’s not hard for me to say you were right. It’s been good for you.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t miss you, and Grandpa. And Consuela. I miss the gardens, and the pool. Boy, I really miss the pool. But . . .”

She rose, walked to the wall. “I love walking wherever I want, meeting friends for coffee, or going to a club. Going into a shop for jeans or shoes, whatever. Now and then somebody will give me a look, or even say I look familiar. But nobody really pays attention.”

“Your movie comes out soon. That could change things.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I hope not too much or for very long. Either way, I don’t feel as, I guess it’s vulnerable.” She turned back to him, smiled. “I’ve toughened up.”

Charlotte had it all. She’d bagged a gloriously rich, indulgent fiancé who believed her the most charming, delightful woman in the world. Sex wasn’t a problem—despite his age, he actually had some style there. Plus, the trade-off was well worth it.

She lived in the biggest mansion in Holmby Hills, all fifty-five thousand square feet, with its marble walls, twenty bedrooms, ballroom, two dining rooms—the larger boasted a custom-made zebra-wood table for eighty—its hundred-seat movie theater. She had her own beauty salon, a dressing room suite attached to two rooms of closets, and a third dedicated to her shoes.

Her jewelry, and Conrad indulged her, resided in a vault.

More than six acres held a serpentine swimming pool, clay tennis courts, a two-level garage with elevator, formal gardens, six fountains—one that now centered on a statue made in her image—a putting green, and a small park with a koi pond.

She had a staff of thirty at her beck, including her own social secretary, two personal maids, a driver, a dresser, a nutritionist who planned her daily meals.

She had a media specialist under contract whose job it was to pitch and plant stories, to make certain she was photographed at every event she attended.

Of course, she had access to her choice of three private jets, the mansion on the Kona coast of Hawaii, the Tuscan villa, a castle in Luxembourg, and the manor house in England’s Lake District. Not to mention the three-hundred-foot superyacht.

On Conrad’s arm, she had entrée into the top levels of society, not only in Hollywood but anywhere.

He bought the rights to the script she personally selected, and would produce what she saw as her blockbuster return in a starring role that would, at last, bring her the fame and adoration she deserved.

It wasn’t enough. Not when she sat in bed with her breakfast tray—Greek yogurt with berries and ground flaxseed, a one-egg spinach omelet, a single slice of sprouted grain toast with almond butter—and watched that two-bit director Steven McCoy drone on and on about Cate and her stupid movie on the Today show.

“It’s very much an ensemble movie, a story of family, but Olive’s the heart of it. Caitlyn Sullivan brought that heart. She was a joy to direct, professional, prepared. The Sullivan work ethic, well, it’s legendary for a reason. She’s carrying that through to the next generation.”

“Bunch of bullshit.”

She burned inside, burned so hot the fire pushed tears out of her eyes as they went to a clip.

And there was Cate, young, fresh, beautiful.

Bad enough, Charlotte thought, bad enough the damn trailer was all over the place, the reviews rolling out like slaps in her face.

She could fix that, she thought.

She picked up her phone. She’d see how the little bitch who’d cost her seven years liked the kind of press she could pay for.

The tabloids hit the day Change of Scene went into full release. Headlines shouting CAITLYN’S LOVE NEST and SEX IN THE CITY screamed from newsstands all over the city. Photos of the apartment building in Hell’s Kitchen, of Cate and Noah caught in a kiss outside the stage door dominated the front page. Interviews with neighbors inside the articles reported on wild parties, speculations of underage drinking and drugs. Details of Noah’s life, his family, sprawled through the column inches.

“I’m sorry.” She stood with him in Lily’s living room—or she stood, he paced.

“They went to my mom’s house. They got Tasha—I dated her for like five minutes two years ago—to say I cheated on her. I didn’t. They’re saying I use drugs—no, they don’t actually say it, just hint at it. My mom’s a wreck.”

She said nothing as he paced, as he ranted. What could she say?

“They’re hinting I got into Mame because of you. I didn’t even know you when I auditioned. How you’re turning down offers because I’m jealous, and you’re, like, what, under my thumb.”

When he ran out of steam, she said the only thing she could. Again. “I’m so sorry, Noah.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face. “It’s not your fault. It’s just . . . they make everything ugly.”

“I know. It won’t last. It’s all timed because of the movie. That’s what Lily thinks, and I think she’s right. I know it’s awful, but it won’t last.”

He looked at her then. “It’s easier for you to say that. Yeah, I’m sorry, too, and I know it’s screwing with you as much as me. But it’s Hollywood shit, Cate. You’re used to it.”

Everything inside her shrank. “Do you want to break up with me?”

“No. Jesus, no.” Finally he went to her, pulled her in. “I don’t want that. I just . . . I don’t know how to handle this. I don’t know how the hell you do.”

“It won’t last,” she said again. But she was very much afraid her interlude of quiet had ended.