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the pain—and then, disgusted with myself, I hurl my other arm back and toss my phone across the room. It shatters from the impact, an explosion of plastic and glass, a smorgasbord of sharp edges now glittering on the floor, tempting and teasing me.
    I rise, but I am not heading toward those shards. I will not touch them, not even to sweep them away. They are too tempting, and despite the fact that I’ve grown stronger in my months with Damien, I do not trust myself. Not now. Not with Elizabeth Fairchild just two floors below, waiting like a spider to draw me in, wrap me up, and suck the life right out of me.
    Shit
.
    My mother.
    The woman who locked me in a dark, windowless room as a child so that I had no choice but to get my beauty sleep. Who controlled what I ate so meticulously that I didn’t make the acquaintance of a carb until college.
    The woman whose image of feminine perfection was so expertly pounded into her daughters’ heads that my sister committed suicide when her husband left her, because she’d clearly failed at being a wife.
    The woman who said that I was a fool to stay with Damien. That once you passed the ten-million-dollar mark one man is pretty much like another, and I should move on to one who came with less baggage.
    The woman who said that I’d ruined the family name by posing for a nude portrait.
    The woman who’d called me a whore.
    I didn’t want to see her. More than that, I wasn’t sure I
could
see her and manage to stay centered.
    I needed Damien—I
wanted
Damien. He was my strength, my anchor.
    But he wasn’t in town and my mother was downstairs. And while I knew that one phone call would have him returning within the hour, I couldn’t bring myself to go to the kitchen, pick up the house phone, and make that call.
    I could do this on my own—I had to.
    And with Damien’s voice in my head, I knew that I’d survive.
    At least, I hoped I would.
    “Well, look at you!” My mother rises from the white sofa, then smoothes her linen skirt before coming toward me, her arms out to enfold me in a hug that is capped off by her trademark air kiss. “I was beginning to think you were going to leave me down here all alone.” She speaks lightly, but I can hear the indictment in her words—I left her unattended, and broke one of the cardinal rules from the Elizabeth Fairchild Guide to Playing Hostess.
    I say nothing, just stand stiffly in her embrace. A moment passes, and I decide to make an effort. I awkwardly put my arms around her and give her a small squeeze. “Mother,” I say, and then stop. Honestly, what more is there to say?
    “Married,” she says, and there is actually a wistful tone in her voice. For a moment, I wonder about her motive for coming. Is she here because she honestly wants to celebrate my marriage? I’m not quite able to wrap my head around the possibility, and yet I can’t help the tiny flame of hope that flickers inside me.
    She steps back and looks me up and down. I’ve taken the time to shower and change and put on my makeup, and I know exactly what she sees as she looks at me. My blond hair is still short, though it has grown out since I took scissors to it and violently whacked off large chunks after the last time I saw her. I like this new shoulder-length style. Not only is it nice not to have the weight of all that hair, but the curls are bouncier and frame my face in a way that I like.
    I’m wearing a simple linen skirt that hits just above my knees and a peach sweater over a white button-down. My feet are in my favorite pair of strappy sandals. The three-inch heels are wildly impractical for an afternoon of running wedding errands, but these are the shoes I was wearing the night I met Damien at Evelyn’s party so many months ago, and as I stood in my closet a few moments before, I was certain I’d need the extra bit of magical shoe confidence they impart if I was going to survive my mother.
    The truth is, I know that I look good. It’s not possible