Page 17 of The Faking Game
“I’m notfamous.”
“Well-known, then? Choose whatever word you like. People know you’re a Montclair.”
I wonder if it’s the same for him. That wherever he walks, people know he’s a Calloway.TheCalloway. Each generation has one heir that gets it all, and he’s this one’s. He must have jealous cousins and siblings lurking in the wings. Blessed and saddled with a last name that makes him a constant target.
It might be one of the few things we have in common.
“What kind of party are you throwing?” I ask.
West’s voice turns low. “It’s a fundraiser. There will be… people there I’ll need to talk to.”
“You’re networking tonight. Private or business?”
He’s quiet for a short beat. “Both. I need you right next to me. The guards will blend in when we arrive, and I don’t want you farther than an arm’s length away.”
“There’s absolutely no way my stalker has magically gained an invite to your party in less than an hour,” I protest. “Just so we’re both aware of that.”
He glances over at me, something like delight in his eyes. “I like it when you bite back. And no, probably not. But I’m not taking risks.”
The car slows down at two large, ornate wrought-iron gates. There’s an intricateCin the middle. They swing open as the car inches forward.
And there’s Fairhaven.
I’ve never seen the house that the Calloway family has called home for over a century. West’s famous ancestor, the Calloway who started it all, built it during the Gilded Age on North Shore’s famous Gold Coast.
Fairhaven lies at the farthest edge of King’s Point, right by the Atlantic Ocean.
The house itself sits at the end of a long, well-lit driveway. It’s all red brick, white columns and green ivy, and is several stories tall.
A testament to a family that was once America’s richest, when the glittering New York society built mansion after mansion along the North Shore. Not many remain. Those that do are museums, hotels, college campuses. Very few are still in private ownership.
Arthur stops the car right outside the main steps up to Fairhaven’s double doors. The house is even larger up close. Symmetrical, well-kept, stunning. I step out onto the gravel. Lit torches line the steps, and there’s music swelling from inside.
“Welcome,” West says beside me, “to Fairhaven.”
I roll my shoulders back. His house will be filled with guests. I can already see some of them, spilling out through the open door, moving behind large, white-trimmed windows.
We walk into the foyer. White marble tiles echo faintly beneath my heels, drowned out by the sound of live music and chatter. The ceiling is arched, tall, with grand staircases curving on either side of the foyer.
A few people turn to us. Smiles are thrown West’s way, a fewhellos,wondered where you were ats.I put on my best smile beside him. It’s one thing I’ve learned in modeling over the years. Smile. Look happy. Never let anyone know that you’re uncomfortable, or upset, or hurting. Never let anyone see you.
Let them see what they want to.
West shakes hands and makes his way to a large sitting room.
“This is your home?” I whisper beside him. I know he inherited Fairhaven, but I didn’t realize it was quitethislarge. There’s an ornate stone fireplace that curves in the center of the sitting room, flanked by people holding drinks and talking.
“I’ll be sure you get a proper tour later.”
Then he stops in his tracks. I follow his gaze to the other side of the room, where a woman sits on a futon beneath two bay windows. She might be in her fifties or sixties; it’s hard to tell. Brown hair a shade lighter than West’s.
And she’s looking straight at us.
Around her is a group of women my age. They’re different ethnicities and all beautifully dressed. Some seated, some standing. It looks like she’s a queen holding court.
“Your mother?” I guess. The resemblance isn’t striking, but it’s there. And I’ve spent more time looking at West than I would ever admit out loud.
“Yes.” He looks down at me, and there’s a tightness to his expression. “You wanted to practice dating?”
