He thought about Emily and the other sugar babies who had so gracefully accepted his payoffs. But he’d known Natalie was different. He’d been drawn to her passion, her authenticity, her lack of sophistication. And the girl had loved him, truly loved him. He should have known she would not go easily.

But then, abruptly, the harassment stopped.

He’d been right to ignore her overtures. Natalie had come to her senses, realized he wasn’t going to engage. She’d probably moved on, replaced him with a new sugar daddy. Gabe could relax now, focus on Violet. He no longer had to worry about Natalie showing up at his apartment or his office; about her approaching his daughter. Thank god. It was truly fucked-up that his relief was peppered with disappointment.

Pressing the puree button on the blender, he watched the kale, bananas, blueberries, and chia seeds turn into a pleasing green mush. He needed to keep his energy up, his mind sharp, his focus on his family. It was Sunday; he would go to the gym and then get a massage. Violet had gone into the city for the weekend, but she’d be back for their usual Sunday dinner. And he would be waiting.

Celeste walked into the kitchen then. “Want a smoothie?” he asked. She needed the cancer-fighting antioxidants. His wife was the picture of health since her disease had gone into remission, and he had a vested interest in keeping her that way. Violet couldn’t handle another crisis.

“Yes, please.” His wife perched on a barstool and accepted the green concoction. As she brought it to her lips, he leaned in, his elbows on the counter.

“We need to talk to Violet tonight. About Honduras.”

Celeste set down the glass. “She’s really excited about it.”

“Well, she can’t go,” he stated. “She’s too fragile. She’s too unstable.”

“She’s eighteen, Gabe. We can’t forbid it.”

“We can, and we will,” he snapped, righting himself. “I’m not letting my daughter travel to a fucking third-world country while she’s cutting and burning her arms and legs.”

His wife flinched slightly in the face of his anger. But then she sighed. “You’re right . . . But we can’t tell her now. It’s almost her graduation. We’re hosting the pool party.”

“After that then,” Gabe said. “We’ll tell her she can go to Honduras when she’s more stable and more mature.” He took a drink of his smoothie. “When she’s finished her degree.”

Celeste’s eyes narrowed slightly. Was Gabe really using Violet’s mental-health issues to push her into college? He was, but he wasn’t about to admit it to his wife. If she called him on it, he was ready. He would inform her that he was in charge now; he had to be, because Celeste had failed as a mother. She was too soft, too indulgent, too weak. Their daughter was a disaster: moody, fragile, directionless. . . . And it was all Celeste’s fault.

But his partner simply said, “Okay.” She knew better than to take him on. Celeste took her smoothie and padded out of the room.