Manny had never liked Gabe, had always found him superior and condescending. Even at their recent dinner party, he’d muttered, “You still deserve better,” when Celeste had hugged him goodbye.

She knew that now.

It had been a huge favor to ask, but she’d asked it. Manny, assuming it was Celeste who had pulled the trigger, whose life and freedom were at stake, had complied. He had doctored his report to say that Gabe had been killed by a nine-millimeter Beretta, the same gun owned by Natalie Murphy. The sugar baby would go down for her daddy’s murder. It was just. It was karma.

But Celeste’s anger at Natalie Murphy had dissipated—time, distance, and guilt softening the hate, blurring its edges. When Oleg had made a stopover in France (Celeste had bought the driver and his cousin plane tickets to Europe; it was the least she could do), they’d spent several evenings talking over wine, soft cheese, and crusty bread. Oleg, so kind, so good-hearted, had conveyed Nat’s troubled childhood, her lack of a father figure, her alcohol abuse. So Celeste had flown back to New York and made her victim-impact statement. She’d set the girl free.

And now, she had given Natalie the ultimate gift. The knowledge of her innocence.

Oleg cleared his throat and then spoke. “How long will you stay, Celeste?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied honestly.

“Will Violet be joining you?”

“No. She’s studying. She’s applying to the Université Paris Descartes for the fall semester.”

“She’s doing so much better. I’m glad to hear it.”

“Me, too.” Her daughter’s progress had given Celeste a new lease on life. She leaned forward then. “You don’t have to drive back tonight, do you?” Her pulse quickened, and she felt suddenly shy. “It’s so late. We could have a drink. And I have so many spare rooms. . . .”

She didn’t want to be alone in the big farmhouse she’d shared with her husband and daughter, where they’d pretended to be perfect, happy, normal. And she wanted to spend more time with Oleg, to explore the intense bond they shared. The big man had been there for her like no one ever had. Could a romance blossom from a murder cover-up? From shared secrets and lies? She wasn’t sure, but she wanted to find out. And that made her hopeful.

Gabe Turnmill had damaged them all: Celeste, Violet, and Natalie. But he had not destroyed them.

“I can stay,” Oleg said, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

“Great.” She smiled back. “I’m happy.”

And, in that moment, despite it all, she was.

Acknowledgments

I have long been fascinated by sugar arrangements. I’d see young women out with much older men and wonder about the dynamics of their relationships. I remember being young and broke. How easy was it for these girls to slip into this lifestyle? How did it make them feel? And what were the myriad ways it could go wrong? I decided to write a novel about this world. I read articles and interviews. I watched some reality programs. Armed with this cursory knowledge, I began to write.