“Wish me luck, Bliss,” Elizabeth muttered, after she’d showered and changed.
She and Bliss were not moving to New Jersey. Elizabeth would not, could not, do it. She would never survive working at Scott Bridal. She didn’t know how Jenna did it, day in and day out. Then again, Jenna was a saint. Elizabeth had never met anyone nearly as patient as her elder sister. Maybe that was her secret to surviving the family business. Elizabeth, on the other hand, didn’t have the stomach for it. She couldn’t show her face in the state of New Jersey without her mother sticking a veil on her head. Since she’d moved to Manhattan, she and Bliss had settled into a nice, peaceful routine. Entire days passed where no one around her uttered the name Vera Wang. It was like heaven.
She held on to the fragile certainty that everything would work out as she headed uptown to the Barclay School. Situated in the posh Upper West Side, the private school had been responsible for educating the offspring of New York’s elite for over a century. When Elizabeth had first walked through the enormous carved doors into the lobby, which boasted a gilded replica of the school’s seal on the marble tile floor, she’d felt as though she could conquer the world, or at least the part that resided close to Central Park West. Now, as she walked through those same doors, her emotions were decidedly different.
Gone was the happy optimism she’d come to associate with the school. Her school, as she’d taken to calling it. Despite the fact that the students’ average weekly allowance was likely quadruple her monthly take-home pay, she’d always felt at home here.
Until the day she’d dared to give Grant Markham’s son a failing grade.
Since then, all hell had broken loose. And with the ensuing scandal came the unshakable feeling that Elizabeth was somehow less than adequate.
Subpar.
Tolerable.
The word echoed in her subconscious.
Damn you, Donovan Darcy.
“Elizabeth.” Mrs. Whitestone, the school secretary, greeted her with a stiff smile.
“Hi, Mrs. Whitestone. I’m here to pick up my things and perhaps have a word with Dr. Thurston.” Dr. Thurston. Just last week, Elizabeth had called the headmaster by his first name, Ed. “Is he in?”
“Yes, he is. Go on in. I believe he wants to have a word with you, as well.”
The tiniest amount of relief coursed through Elizabeth. The headmaster wanted a word with her. That sounded promising. Maybe, just maybe, her administrative leave would be cut short and she’d be back in the classroom before the day was over.
Ed’s door opened. “Elizabeth,” the headmaster boomed. “Please, come in.”
Any relief she felt vanished when he escorted her inside the office and took his place behind his desk. He looked rather red. And very, very serious. “I’m glad you stopped by. There are some new circumstances surrounding your suspension that we need to discuss.”
Elizabeth’s hands began to shake. She clasped them together so Ed wouldn’t notice. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m afraid this...situation...has grown complicated.”
Nothing like a little bribery to turn something as simple as a failing report card into a situation.
Although it wasn’t technically bribery. More like attempted bribery. She hadn’t for a moment considered accepting the five-figure check that Grant Markham had tossed at her during their parent-teacher conference.
Correction: checks. Plural.
The more she’d refused him, the more insistent he’d become. He’d written one check after another, as if the problem had been the amount of the bribe, rather than its inherent wrongness.
“How much?” he’d finally asked, leaning close, his breath hot against her skin. “Women like you—the ones who come from nothing—always have a price. Why don’t you save us both some time and tell me what it is?”
Those words had reached inside her, touching on her deepest insecurities. It was hard to grow up around the tulle and lace at Scott Bridal without sometimes feeling like an impoverished Cinderella among a whole world of entitled stepsisters. Their clientele were the sort who believed that a fat wallet could buy them anything. Truth be told, it usually did.
Women like you...the ones who come from nothing.
Stunned into silence, she’d been unable to do little more than watch in horror as Grant Markham had casually touched the inside of her wrist. His fingertips had crept upward, and his gaze had flicked ever so briefly to her breasts.
He hadn’t made an outright pass at her, but the implication had been clear. He could buy her silence. And he could buy her. The only thing standing in his way was the matter of compensation.
In retrospect, she probably shouldn’t have slapped him. Perhaps if she’d just walked away right there and then, she wouldn’t be in this mess. Maybe Grant Markham wouldn’t have gone to the headmaster. Maybe he wouldn’t have disputed his son’s grade and insisted Elizabeth be placed on administrative leave for a week while an independent auditor looked at her grade book.
Or maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference at all. Slap or no slap, he still hadn’t gotten his way.
Yet.
“I suppose things have become rather ugly.” Elizabeth nodded her agreement. “But as I told you before, Grant Markham wouldn’t take no for an answer. His behavior was most inappropriate. I hope...”
The headmaster held up a hand to stop her, just as Mr. Darcy had done in the show ring on Saturday. In this context, it wasn’t quite as infuriating. In fact, it was daunting.
Elizabeth obediently shut her mouth.
“There’s more to this than Joe Markham’s grade. Much more.”
Joe was a nickname. His full name was Grant Markham III. Why did rich people insist on using the same names over and over again?
Elizabeth wondered if Donovan Darcy came from a long line of Donovans. Then she gave her thigh a good, solid pinch. A punishment. Because really, what was she doing thinking about Mr. Darcy at a time like this? It was absurd.
She cleared her throat. “You don’t need to explain. I know Joe is the captain of the rugby team. His failing grade made him ineligible for the play-offs. People were upset. I realize that. But Grant Markham cannot expect me to change his son’s grade in exchange for money.”
Ed clasped his hands together on his desk and shook his head. “I’ve spoken with Mr. Markham. He’s aware of your accusations, and he disputes them. Quite vehemently.”
Of course he does. “I can’t say I’m surprised. I didn’t think he would admit that he tried to bribe me.”
Or that he’d hinted at an affair. She still hoped she’d only imagined that part.
“Actually, he says the money was your idea.” Ed’s voice was low. So low Elizabeth almost didn’t hear it.
“My idea?” It was a slap to the face, every bit as real as the one she’d given Grant Markham.
“Yes. Mr. Markham says you attempted to extort money from him in exchange for giving his son a passing grade.” He leveled his gaze at her. Worry lines creased his forehead, which appeared to be growing redder by the second. “He also mentioned a designer handbag.”
The Prada. Elizabeth was overcome with a sudden numbness. “That was a Christmas gift. You know how the parents around here are. The head of the athletic department was given season tickets to the Yankees for Christmas.”
Elizabeth