We’re entertaining guests. A short while ago, Diana arrived at my grandmother’s house with her granddaughter, Victoria, in tow. Only a few years older than me, Victoria is everything my grandmother would love me to become. On paper, we share many of the same qualities: boarding school bred, Ivy League educated, worldly, sophisticated, polished—but Victoria exudes confidence. Where she goes, the world follows. She’s always right in the thick of things at the parties and soirees we attend, running the show, whereas I’m so often hanging on the fringes. Our paths rarely cross, though she’s nice enough on occasions like this when we’re forced into each other’s company because of our grandmothers.

For the last fifteen minutes, Victoria has been chatting away, regaling us with stories of her life recently. A silly mishap with a London milliner. A horrible blind date she endured with a Swedish shipping heir. An “amazing” spiritual workshop she just finished in Bali. Her friend, Kate Hudson, invited her to attend.

I listen and sip my tea, nodding when appropriate, trying and failing to give a damn.

Perhaps she can sense the fact that she’s losing me because she leans in and waggles her brows. “Oh! I can’t be-lieve I haven’t told you this yet—do you know who I saw last night?”

A pregnant pause follows, and I realize I’m supposed to actually guess.

“K-Kate Hudson?”

She rolls her eyes. “No, silly. Emmett was at Number 9 Park with a lovely blonde. I was sitting just one table over from them, but I didn’t catch his companion’s name. Maybe you know her? She was on the taller side, and I feel like I’ve seen her around town lately. She was slender, with short hair. She had this great vintage Chanel bag that I almost asked her about. Anyway, is she a friend of yours?”

I shake my head.

She is definitely not a friend.

Her smile falls, and a faint blush colors the tops of her cheeks as she looks toward her grandmother for backup. “Ah, well. I’m sure they’re only acquaintances. You know how it is…”

What she means to say is among the upper crust, it’s not uncommon for men and women to step out of their marriages, or in this case, their fake engagements. Usually, it’s done with discretion, but not always. There are no paparazzi to capture scandalous moments—we’re too discreet for that—but gossipmongers like Victoria take it upon themselves to source every salacious detail so they can spread the news like wildfire.

She’s hardly the first to inform me of Emmett’s comings and goings. Over the last few weeks, it seems to be all anyone wants to talk to me about.

He was with a gorgeous woman at the Somerset Club last night.

There was a woman on his arm at the Boston Public Library auction.

I thought I saw him with someone outside Sorellinas yesterday evening, but perhaps I was mistaken…

Though I wish I could grow a thick callous around my heart, it proves impossible not to feel wounded. Each story is as painful as the last. Emmett seems intent on parading around town with as many women as he can manage, and I’m sure it doesn’t stop there. I press on my wounds by imagining him taking them home at the end of the night, crawling up and over them just like he did to me on the pier in Italy…his mouth slanting over theirs, his heavy body caging them in against the bed…