A collective sigh echoes through the studio, but I don’t feel the least bit sorry. So, the poor, gossip-slinging daytime host won’t get the scoop.And?
And scene.
That’s where my mind goes, but Josephine naïvely eats it up.
“Oh, now, Ebony…” Her face softens, eyes pleading with that polite grandmahush nowlook. “We came all this way. We can take a minute if you want to share a little something with your fans.”
All the wayout here. Everything in this city is a twenty-minutedrive, but okay.
“For the fans.” Yvette smirks, and my blood boils something fierce.
Especially because Azalea leans forward, stretching her neck to the audience, her smile wide as the damn Cheshire cat’s as she nudges Yvette’s shoulder. “Yeah, Ebony,girl, it’s just a couple questions…”
A couple loaded questions. Ugh, why did I agree tocome on this show with these tired, low-class, shady…
Again, that restless, low murmur stirs through the studio, and I take a deep breath, which does zero to ease my nerves.
Pause. Peace. Lord, find your power, Ebony GraceLivingston.
“I guess I can answer one.” I laugh, but inside I’m daring either of these women to try me and quickly find out.
“Fabulous!” Yvette claps and squeals. “Okay, we had so many questions come into the show when we announced thattheEbony Grace, half of the picture-perfect Livingston power couple, would be here…” Then her gaze drops to my stomach as she says, “Speaking of Mother’s Day…?”
I don’t need to hear the rest of her question—the audience is already a chaotic mess with applause.
Oh, no she didn’t.
Fury flares in my gut.
The sheer audacity of this woman, thisTV host—in her pastel-blue Easter suit with tasteless white stockings and black heels—insinuating that I’m pregnant.
Unless immaculate conceptions are a thing again, we’d haveto be having sex for that to happen,I want to snap back.
But I can’t.
Iwon’t.
Do not let them drag you, willingly, into apublic scandal.
Hand to heart, I summon every ounce of grace, forcing a smile for the audience. “Our family is looking forward to the holiday—”
You heard it here first,blazed in her murky brown eyes.
Whoops.
“By our family, I mean Julian and myself. Only.” I toss a shaky laugh to the audience then pat my flat stomach as proof.
No matter how hard I work to dodge the questions about marriage and children, the rumors continue to circulate. Everyone’s eager to know when they can expect a baby Livingston. My husband is Julian Livingston III, the charming anchor for KTEGNews at Noonand Ellswood royalty. After ten “kid-free”—Julian’s term, not mine—years of marriage, this town feels entitled to our life updates.
How dare I deny them access to my womb?
I’m just the upper echelon’s favorite former debutante turned not-so-perfect wife who cooks, cleans, and tends to her husband’s needs, however fleetingly these days. Who cares if my company is thriving and that I’ve planned dinners for actual royalty when I’ve produced no offspring?
Yvette doubles down, glancing pointedly at my stomach again before she goes for the gold on the untouchable Livingstons. “Got any news to share?”
I’m half expecting her to just blurt,“Ebony, do you feel like you’re marriedto a ghost with your husbandalways working late?”so I can shatter this picture-perfect façade. “Why, yes, Ido. Since we’re down to super-sexy ‘Missionary Mondays,’ I’m 99.9 percent sure the man is gaslighting meand is sowing his royal oats elsewhere—but I needproof first.
At least honesty’s got merit.