The Billionaire's Reluctant Partner.

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out like it left a bad taste in her mouth. "I just got off the phone with Clarice Whitmore," she said, as if I knew-or cared-who that was. "She asked if the rumors were true." I leaned one hip against the counter, pressing my fingers to my temple. "What rumors?" "That you botched the Kensington wedding," she hissed. "That you-you-were the reason it turned into a public disaster. And now they're saying you've been blacklisted from three of the major venues in the city." I didn't answer. Because none of it was a rumor. "It's bad enough that you embarrassed yourself," Vivian continued, voice rising, "but to drag our name through the dirt again? Naomi, have you no sense of duty?" There it was. Not concern. Not support. Not even curiosity about whether I was okay. Just that ever-present obsession with appearances. With reputation. I exhaled slowly. "It wasn't my fault. The groom's mistress showed up with a pregnancy test. That wasn't in the schedule." "That's not the point," My mother snapped. "The point is you're supposed to be a professional, and yet your name is now synonymous with scandal. Again." I closed my eyes. Again. I knew what she meant. Five years ago, I walked away from Killian Royce-the golden boy of New York's elite, heir to a media empire, and my mother's prized connection to wealth and influence. She never forgave me for that. She hadn't even asked why I'd left. Just looked at me like I'd spit in her champagne. "You had one job," she said now, cold and cutting. "Secure your future. Secure our legacy. And you walked away. From him. From all of it." "Have you ever tried to know why I left, mother?" I heaved a sigh, feeling extremely drainedmn Because in reality, no one had cared... Not even my own mother. "Please spare me the feminist martyr act, Naomi. I've heard it all before. You left a man women would kill to marry. You had access-power. And now look at you. Scrambling to keep a business afloat like some... desperate intern." The words hit, but not in the way she thought. They didn't cut deep. They scraped. Because I'd heard them my whole life. "Thank you for the unsolicited pep talk," I said dryly, reaching for the glass of water I'd meant to get earlier. "Anything else?" "Yes," she said sharply. "Fix this." A bitter laugh escaped me before I could help it. "And how exactly do you suggest I do that? Wave a wand? Pray to the PR gods?" "Don't get snide with me. You know damn well what you need to do. Reinvent your brand. Find a new angle. Pull yourself together before you ruin my standing completely." And there it was. My standing. I wasn't even her daughter in that sentence. I was an accessory. An extension of her image. "I see," I murmured. "So this isn't about me." "It never is, Naomi," she said, and her honesty was a punch wrapped in i