Dad’s seemingly insignificant choice to uproot our lives. That flimsy, fated house of cards. That’s what’s been running through my mind all morning. Another spade—or likely, a heart—feels like it’s teetering.
My husband turned off his location on his phone.
It’s a small, seemingly insignificant choice that could be for any number of reasons. Maybe I can’t track his phone because it died. Or what if it was stolen? Maybe it’s just a poor GPS signal. Our anniversary’s in two weeks—he could be takingextraprecautions to keep his gift a secret. I don’t know.
But I can’t ignore it.
It’s just one of the many things that drive me up the wall, makes me do outrageous things I’d never usually do.
Which is why my mind’s on the private investigator who’s been tracking Julian when Azalea and Yvette, the co-hosts of Ellswood’s nationally syndicatedThe MorningTea, lean forward across from me—across fromus. I’m with my client, Josephine Carter, promoting the charity gala I helped plan.
Josephine smiles, her expression screaming,Welcome backto the present!
Dang it. What did I miss?
The hosts lean in closer, giving off that casual, knowing air, as if it’s just them and the audience, conveniently forgetting the millions watching from home.
Any loyal viewer—or slightly spaced-out guest—would clock the moment.
It’s the switch-up.
I’ve seen a couple episodes. I get their format. The segment’s ending soon. Tea must be spilled. Expeditiously.
Then again, that viewer—or guest—might also notice the poised elegance of the two Black women on the garish faux-fur guest sofa. Across from the matching pastel skirt suits and asymmetrical lace-front bob hosts, we’re a stark contrast. Ankles crossed, angled just so, posture impeccable. The younger woman—yours truly—radiating quiet dignity in her tailored navy sheath dress, her flawless four-carat diamond ring gleaming under the studio lights.
But when Yvette looks at me, I can’t shake the feeling. She sees an easy target.
“Ebony Grace Livingston…” She dips her buffed and over-contoured chin, her deep brown eyes narrowing under a dark umbrella of eyelashes. “Now, I know you’re here, it’s the end of April, you’re helping Mrs. Carter promote the Mother II Mother charity next month, butgirrrrl…” she says, far too familiar. “Can we get personal for a few seconds?”
Absolutely not.
“How personal?” I chuckle.
Azalea gives a quick nod to the production assistant behind the camera, who holds up the APPLAUD NOW cue card.
The audience erupts in cheers, and all I can do is smile.
Iknew.
Somewhere deep in my gut, Iknewthere was zero chance these women would sacrifice ratings for respect. My boundaries will be steamrolled in two seconds.
Azalea and Yvette are known for trending gossip. Anything scandalous or salacious is right up their alley. Especially when it concerns Ellswood’s elite. They built their fame on the back ofThe Luxe Ladies of Ellswood(seasons seven and ten, respectively),a reality-ish TV franchise showcasing the glamorous, drama-filled lives of the almost famous. They want exclusive, shock-value content that seeps onto social media like poison—and they want to use me as the needle to inject it straight into the bloodstream.
That’s why I initially declined to appear with Josephine. Somehow, charity galas didn’t seem exactly titillating enough for daytime TV.
But I run a premier event-planning company, specializing in high-end affairs with meticulous attention to detail. I offer elegance, sophistication, and effortless luxury to a discerning clientele. Whether it’s a lavish wedding, an intimate gathering, or, in this case, a charity gala, I’m there to deliver. Even if that means accompanying my client onto a nationally syndicated “tea-spilling” morning show—broadcast by myhusband’srival news station—I’m all in.
I also made it crystal clear to the producer that my personal life was off-limits.
Pause, peace, power.
I inhale deeply, then lock eyes with her.
“Now, Yvette…”Girl, youknow you’re so wrong for this.I flash a small smile, then glance at Josephine before pressing a steady hand over my dress hem. “We’re here to celebrate an evening of elegance and lasting impact for South Georgia’s youth ahead of Mother’s Day next month…”Uh…Mother II Mother. The gala is the reason we’rehere… Lord, do not let this woman come for me.
It’s most definitely a warning that I pray she heeds.
Except her full pink lips curl into a thin, placating smile. Then she shifts her gaze to the audience, her expression begging for sympathy.I tried,it says.She’s the one holding out on y’all…
