C18, PT. 3

“You got this for me?”

There was an odd note in his voice that made her want to open the door and throw herself into traffic.

“For Christmas.” She fiddled with her wedding ring, wriggling it to the edge of her finger and tipping it back and forth before swirling it back down. “I thought it would make your commute a little more peaceful.” She felt sick with shame. “I should have asked if you already had one or wanted something else…” She gestured to the front seats. “They thought you may want to install bulletproof glass. We wanted to check with you first.”

The silence was like nails on a chalkboard.

“I wasn’t expecting this.”

She couldn’t tell from his tone what he meant by that, and she wasn’t going to look at him to find out. “If you prefer something else…”

“We’ll talk about this later.”

So much for a grand, romantic gesture. She should have known better than to buy him a Rolls-Royce. The man bought jets on a whim. If he wanted a car where he could hold her hand in the back seat, he could have one delivered within the hour. She should have stuck to a tie and briefcase. That would have been less revealing than this sappy, expensive gift.

She stared out the window, but didn’t register the view. All she could think about was the commotion their appearance would cause. Everyone already thought the worst of her because she cheated on Ford with Roth, and now she was living up to her reputation by showing up in a risqué gown to show off brands that no self-respecting society wife would have. But she wasn’t a real wife, was she?

She slumped in the buttery seat and closed her eyes. She was going to kill Daiyu. Had her friend created the dramatic open back to show her tattoos on purpose? Daiyu had remarked on them during one of her wedding gown fittings. Daiyu was a true maverick who loved causing a stir. She just wished it wasn’t at her expense. But, it was too late now, and if Roth wasn’t concerned, she shouldn’t be either. But she was. After they parted, she would still have to deal with society and wanted to be taken seriously like her sisters, not labeled as a slut.

Her eyes opened as Mo turned from Madison onto E 83rd. They were nearing the Trentham Mansion, a historic landmark. How many times had she admired the Beaux-Arts building and wondered about the grand interior? Though the Trentham’s threw an annual ball for a rumored three hundred plus guests every year for nearly a century, not one picture had ever been published in the press or on the internet. Anyone lucky enough to be invited wouldn’t dare violate their strict no photo policy.

Despite her dilemma, curiosity and anticipation bubbled to the surface. It was odd that out of all the prominent families her father had them study, one of New York’s oldest and wealthiest hadn’t been included. The Hennessy’s had amassed an impressive fortune within three generations, but the Trentham’s were seven generations deep and helped shape the city into what it was today. Although the Trentham name was synonymous with New York, she wouldn’t be able to identify a single family member. The Trentham’s were notoriously private and reclusive, a far cry from her father, who loved the spotlight.

 According to the hasty Google search she did in between appointments, the Trentham’s consisted of their patriarch, Sullivan, who was a little older than her father, and his surviving children, Nathaniel and Charlotte. A grandchild was noted, but there were no other details, not even a name. The family was shrouded in mystery. On their website, Nathaniel was listed as the principal owner of the Trentham Organization while his sister ran their foundation, which supported numerous charitable causes. Unfortunately, the reason the Trentham’s made headlines was because of the countless tragedies that plagued them. Many speculated the family was cursed and paying for the sins of their forefathers.

She glanced at Roth and wasn’t surprised he was on his phone. A week ago, she would have reached out to him for reassurance. Instead, she gripped her clutch with trembling fingers. The one and only time they had circulated in society was the night they met. She never imagined they would make their official debut as a couple at the Trentham Ball. Tonight, she was living out a lifelong dream, but like most dreams that came true, it was nothing like what she imagined.

As the Rolls-Royce slowed in front of the Trentham Mansion, she nervously fingered her curls. Johan didn’t need to get out to open her door, since there was a man on the sidewalk waiting to do just that. She took his gloved hand and blinked when he said, “Good evening, Mrs. Roth. We’re delighted to have you.”

It was a good thing he had a hold of her because she was so startled by him knowing who she was that she almost slipped.

“Thank you,” she said as she gained her feet.

The man smiled at Roth, who appeared at her side. “Mr. Roth.”

Roth nodded as the man bowed to excuse himself and rushed to greet someone who pulled up in an SUV. She ignored the activity around them and the deafening sound of an ambulance as it careened down Fifth Avenue, and looked up. The eight-story brick and limestone Trentham Mansion was magnificent. Tonight, every single window was lit up for the festivities. Security in long black overcoats and earpieces lined the steps, while men in white directed traffic and rushed to ensure the esteemed guests didn’t slip as they stepped onto the heated sidewalk.

Roth grasped her hand and led her to the guarded double doors. Did he have to hand over an invitation or give his name so they could check it off a list? Roth didn’t slow as they climbed the steps. To her surprise, security gave way and inclined their heads respectfully as if they knew him. Even as she wondered how that was possible, she stepped into an entrance hall that transported her to a different era.

**This is a raw draft of Bitter Confessions. Please do not share or distribute.

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