The headline snagged my attention:

MONEY TRAIL COLDER THAN EVER

More than one year after his devastating fraud was uncovered, sources say federal authorities are no closer to locating the billions stolen by Alistair Agoston. Victims are demanding progress, and those demands have been met with silence.

The article went on to detail the arrest, the trial, my father’s 175-year sentence, my mother’s activities, and then: Charlotte Agoston, only child of Alistair and Lisette Agoston, has been in seclusion in an undisclosed location since giving her testimony just over one year ago. Sources indicate that while she’s not thought to be complicit in her father’s scheme, she’s considered a person of interest by the FBI, which has been unable to locate her for further questioning. When asked, Lisette Agoston denied having any knowledge about where her daughter was currently living. Anyone with information concerning the whereabouts of Charlotte Agoston is asked to contact the FBI.

At the bottom of the page was a picture of me. Well, the old me. I looked around to make certain no one was watching as I folded that section of the paper and stuffed it in my bag. It wasn’t like I could hide all the copies, but why leave it where someone might make the connection? The line was barely moving, so I picked up the local paper that was tucked under The New York Times and flipped through to find the entertainment section. It’d been a while since I’d been to a good show, and I wanted to see who was coming to town. I froze when I saw Simon’s face staring up from the society section. He was once again dressed in black tie, but this time his arm was wrapped around a gorgeous blonde in a sleek gray designer gown. She was tucked in close to his side, hand pressing against his chest. I read the headline:

NOLA’S FAVORITE SON SHINES AT CHARITY GALA

My eyes flicked to the date on the paper. Today. I forgot about the line and dropped into a chair.

Last evening New Orleans’s leading citizens gathered at a gala to raise funds for the final stage of construction of the art museum expansion. All eyes were on Simon Duchesne and his lovely companion, Ms. Vanessa Frost, as it is rumored that he is preparing to launch his campaign for the United States House of Representatives in hopes of ousting incumbent, Robert Carter, and reclaiming the seat his father held for sixteen years before his unsuccessful run at the Governor’s mansion…

I skimmed the rest of the article, and the words blurred when I saw the same speculation that a marriage proposal was expected to be forthcoming prior to Simon hitting the campaign trail. When I dropped the paper, my sweaty hands were smeared with gray ink from the newsprint. My churning stomach rebelled at the thought of food. A cold detachment settled over me as I realized Simon was apparently a very busy man. Somehow, between taking me out for dinner and picking me up for work, he’d managed to squeeze in a charity event with his … whatever she was. His girlfriend? I mentally ticked off his schedule for the evening: dinner with me, gala with her, then orgasms with me before calling it a night. Fucking over-achiever.

Hot anger burned through the detachment when I recalled my thoughts from the wee hours of the morning, about how I wanted to try to find a way to fit into his life, and about how Simon’s honesty had inspired me to find a way to unbury the secrets I’d been hiding. I didn’t care that my reaction was hypocritical. My reason for hiding the truth from Simon was to preserve the life I’d built in New Orleans. His was … what? The quick fuck he’d claimed not to want? What a joke. He was just as bad as any of the people who’d used me before, except this time, I wasn’t being used for financial gain. I was just a toy to be played with when it was convenient for him. Con’s harsh words from last night came back to me: You’re worth way more than being some politician’s sidepiece.

Con knew. And he’d tried to tell me. But I wouldn’t listen. I didn’t know why I was so shocked. Yve had mentioned the speculation about their relationship in the online gossip columns. Except dumbass me had assumed it was just that—speculation. Because a good guy like Simon wouldn’t keep a lady for his public persona and a tatted-up bad girl on the side, right? I laughed humorlessly. That’s what I get for making assumptions.

Again, maybe I wasn’t being fair, because even if he’d asked me to go to an event like last night’s gala, I would have turned him down cold. There was no way I could brave the cameras to stand by his side. Someone would figure it out, my anonymity would evaporate, and then the FBI would swoop in. But he didn’t ask me—he hadn’t even mentioned it—so fuck being fair.

I walked out of the café without getting coffee or my damn beignet.

I stalked into the shop, but didn’t make it more than three steps past the door before Yve pounced.

“Who pissed in your Cheerios?”

“Not talking about it.” The incriminating section of the local paper was shoved in my bag with the section of The New York Times. I wasn’t sure why I took that one too. Maybe so I could pull it out and look at it for a reality check every time I remembered how amazing last night had been.

Yve frowned. “Seriously, Charlie. You look … sad. Is Huck still coming home tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” Which was one more kink I had to iron out. I was sure Simon would be showing up to help me get Huck home, and no way in hell was I accepting any more help from him. Harriet would just have to haul out her old diesel Mercedes station wagon. And then the bill … I’d pay the whole freaking thing. If it was more than I had, I would swallow my pride and ask either Harriet or Con for a loan. I was not going to be further indebted to Simon or his friend.

“Then what gives?”

Yve wasn’t going to let it go. She was almost as bad as Juanita when it came to needling you until you confessed. I reached into my bag and pulled out one of the sections of newspaper, checking first to make certain it was the right one. I slapped it on the counter in front of her.

“Went for coffee. Found this instead.”

Yve looked down and studied the picture. “Same blond bitch from the society pages online.”

“Yeah, well, I thought whatever they had was history. Especially because last night he was at my house. And I was naked. And orgasms were involved.”

Yve scanned the paper, presumably doing what I had done first—looking for the date. “But he was at the gala last night.”

“After he picked me up from here, but before he picked me up from Voodoo at two. Busy guy.”