“Mama!” Mercedes giggles, but then she stops when she sees her mother’s uneven steps and glassy eyes. Braden turns his back in disgust and marches off into his room as I pull Jessica into hers.

“They hate me,” she says as she drops down onto her bed. I quietly put down her many shopping bags and place my own by the door. I turn on the lights but use the dimmer switch to keep them low.

I refuse to reassure her about her children. Mercedes may not hate her yet, but if Jessica keeps this up, her daughter will get there.

Jessica is staring up at the ceiling. Her skin, which she pampers with expensive products and body scrubs, appears to have a slightly bluish tint.

“Jessica, you might want to throw up,” I advise.

“Why on earth would I want to do that?”

Reluctantly I sit down on the side of the bed and reach to take her arm. She tries to pull away, but she’s so out of it she can’t manage to do it. I press my finger against the inside of her wrist. “Your pulse seems a little weak. I think you might have alcohol poisoning. Really, you should throw up.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” she slurs. “You want to see me on my knees, completely helpless and incapacitated while you take him from me.”

“Mrs. Gable,” I say, unable to hide my exasperation, “why on earth would anyone want to take your husband? And why are you so worried about losing him?”

“You think he’ll just let me walk away?” she mumbles, her eyes falling closed. “My God you’re an idiot. A stupid little whore.”

I bite down on my lip. I’m not sure how to handle this. Part of me thinks I should be careful, even subtle, but Jessica is too drunk for subtle, and although I don’t know if she’ll remember brunch or not, I’ll be shocked if she remembers this.

“Mrs. Gable,” I say softly, “do you think he’d hurt you if you tried to leave?”

“You’re a whore,” she whispers back and breaks into a fit of drunken giggles.

I sigh; at least when Lander accused me of something similar he called me a courtesan. You have to respect a man who can phrase his insults so elegantly.

“What if there was a way for you to leave safely?” I ask. “What if you could start a brand-new life without him?”

Slowly, and with effort, she turns her head and looks up at me. Her eyes are unfocused but the desperation there is crystal clear. “Help me,” she whispers.

I open my mouth to respond when I hear the front door open and some quiet, urgent words exchanged in the hallway before the door to the bedroom is swung open and Travis stands before us.

“Bell, I need to talk to you,” he says coolly.