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given the almost bottomless coffers of her father’s company—there was no way she’d sell any more. Matter of fact, she should probably pick up the rest of the pieces first thing in the morning because no one was going to want to touch a piece they were going to have to return sooner rather than later. Though if Mitchell kept buying them back at a premium, the buyers might not be upset about it.
    But she would be. And so would Jean-Pierre. It was bad business all the way around. And given that Jean-Pierre knew who she was—knew who her father was—he wasn’t going to come near her with a ten-foot pole once Dad’s displeasure was known. No one wanted to get on Mitchell’s bad side. She was screwed. Stuck in this life she hated.
    â€œDessert?” her father asked, the first direct question since he’d shot down her dream.
    â€œNo. I’m not hungry.”
    He looked her over. More along the lines of sizing up a prize thoroughbred instead of a caring father wondering if something was wrong. “Yes, you are getting a little round in the face. That won’t photograph well. Try one of those diuretics my trainer gave me. It’ll thin you out before tonight.”
    She’d thought nothing could make her more dejected than her father dissing her career choice. She’d been wrong.
    â€œReally? You want me to have an eating disorder?”
    â€œStop being dramatic, Cassidy. I’ve seen your room service charges. You’ll never have an eating disorder. Which is why we’re having this discussion.” He laid his napkin on the table again and tapped her hand. “Use the diuretic. And be sure to have your makeup gal hollow out your cheeks.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Can I drop you anywhere?”
    Off a cliff. At an orphanage. How she wanted to tell him to shove it, but the reality was, without her custom furniture, she was still dependent on him for her income.
    She shouldn’t have taken that trip to the Riviera. And the one to Carnival. And the month in Fiji with her favorite designer’s summer line she’d bought out had also been completely irresponsible. If only she’d saved the money, she’d be that much closer to financial independence. But it’d all been Mitchell’s money and she hadn’t yet had her wake-up call.
    Then there was the huge chunk of change she’d dropped at the hospital—No. She wasn’t going to wish she’d never done that. That was the best money she’d ever spent.
    â€œCassidy? Time’s wasting and you know time is money.”
    So was taste and breeding and early rising and a whole host of other things her father held dear. Which would be why she wasn’t on that list. Her existence served one purpose and one purpose only for Mitchell: to serve as his hostess so he’d never have to marry again and give away half his fortune in alimony.
    â€œNo, I’ll grab a cab.”
    His eyebrow arched yet again as he stood. “Suit yourself.” He shuddered then straightened his tie and shook his head as he turned to leave the table. “A cab. I have a fleet of corporate cars and she wants a cab.”
    That was
exactly
the reason she wanted a cab. It was something her father couldn’t control and didn’t have a hand in. One of the few things in this town that didn’t bear the stink of Davenport money.
    She laughed at herself.
She’d
borne that stink and had done so willingly. Proudly worn it, actually. All until that fateful dinner when she’d met Franklin.
    She shook her head and stood as the waitress brought the bill. Typical. Mitchell had left her holding it. Luckily, she had an account at La Maison, so she charged it to that. Which Mitchell would end up paying anyway, so it was sort of poetic justice.
    She exited the restaurant and checked her phone. Fifty-one minutes since they’d entered. Fifty-one minutes in which her