Chapter 281: It Doesn’t Matter What They Think

The car pulled up to the club at half past eight.

Arianne sat in the backseat, her phone in her hand. Sam’s message was open on the screen: Back booth. The one with the velvet. We started without you. There was a wine glass emoji. There was a purple heart. Sam had been texting like a teenager since she wrapped filming, giddy and unguarded in a way she rarely let herself be.

Mira was in the front passenger seat. Behind them, a second car idled — three more bodyguards, the standard detail since the press conference, since the lawsuits, since Arianne’s face had become public currency. She’d grown used to the shadow. It was easier than she’d expected.

"We were followed."

Mira’s voice was calm. She didn’t turn around.

"Three women. They picked us up outside Rochefort Group. They’ve been taking pictures since you left the building."

Arianne pocketed her phone. "Paparazzi?"

"Probably not. Professionals don’t act like that. They’re too obvious. Too eager. They’re not trying to hide." Mira paused, checking the side mirror. "Could be fans. Noah Hart’s. Someone probably spotted you and called friends."

Arianne considered this. Fans weren’t professionals. Fans made mistakes. Fans could be waited out.

"Keep watching them. Don’t let on that we know."

"And if they approach?"

"We’ll see what they do first."

Mira nodded. Arianne stepped out of the car.

The club was loud.

The bass from the dance floor hit her before the lights did — a wall of sound that vibrated through the soles of her shoes and up into her chest. Colored lights swept across the crowd, catching the glint of jewelry, the sheen of sweat, the flash of teeth as people leaned close to shout over the music. The air smelled like perfume and liquor and something sweet and cloying underneath, the way expensive places always did when enough bodies were packed into them.

Arianne scanned the room.

She recognized faces. A junior board member from Summers Corporation was at the bar, his tie loosened, laughing too hard at something a woman in red was saying. A socialite who’d been at the anniversary banquet was holding court in an open booth, her audience arranged around her like petals. A man whose name she couldn’t place but whose face was familiar from a dozen charity galas was leaning against the wall, watching the dance floor with the dead eyes of someone who’d been watching dance floors for decades.

She didn’t stop. Didn’t greet anyone. She moved through the crowd toward the back, where the private booths were tucked away behind velvet curtains and the music was dampened to a low throb.

Mira stayed near the entrance. Watching the door.

The booth was exactly as Sam had promised. Velvet seats in deep purple. A low table scattered with glasses. A bottle of wine already open, the level down by a third.

Sam was sprawled in the corner, her legs tucked under her, a glass of red in her hand. Her hair was different — shorter, something she’d done for the role or maybe just because she’d felt like it. Audrey sat across from her, more composed, a glass of bourbon on the table in front of her.

"Finally," Sam said. "We thought you’d bailed."

"I was followed."

Sam’s eyebrows went up. "By who?"

"Unknown. Possibly fans of my husband."

"The downside of marrying a celebrity." Sam raised her glass in a mock toast. "Welcome to my entire life."

Audrey slid a glass across the table. Bourbon. The good kind, the amber dark and rich in the low light. "You look like you need this."

Arianne shook her head. "Not tonight."

She took the seat beside Sam instead, settling into the velvet. The couch was deep enough that she sank into it, the cushions swallowing her shoulders. For a moment she just sat there, letting the noise of the club wash over her, letting the day fall away.

Sam was watching her. "You okay?"

"Long week."

"Long month." Sam swirled her wine. "Tell me about it."

Arianne turned to face her. "How was filming?"

Sam’s expression flickered. The giddy energy from the texts dimmed a little, replaced by something more complicated.

"Hard. Good, but hard." She took a drink. "The work itself was incredible. The director knew what he was doing. The script was solid. I got to actually act, which was — " She paused, searching for the word. "Terrifying. And also the best thing I’ve ever done."

"But?"

"But some of my co-stars decided I didn’t earn it." Sam’s voice was dry, the way it got when she was saying something that hurt and didn’t want to admit it hurt. "They think I used Gilbert. The Pemberton name. The Pemberton money. No one said it to my face, but I heard things. The looks were worse. You walk into a room and everyone stops talking, and you know they were talking about you, and you have to pretend you don’t know."

Arianne didn’t offer sympathy. Sam didn’t need sympathy. "Did you use Gilbert?"

"No."

"Then it doesn’t matter what they think."

"It matters when I’m on set at five in the morning and no one will make eye contact." Sam set her glass down harder than she meant to. "If I’d known it would be like that, I would have done what Franz did. Taken a pseudonym. Distanced myself from the Pemberton thing entirely. Let them judge me for me, not for my brother."

"He’s had conflicts because of that choice."

"I know."

"The split between Noah Hart and Franz Rochefort. The constant management of two identities. The way people react when they find out he’s not who they assumed. It’s not a clean solution."

Sam was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded. "I know. He told me once — he said there are days he forgets which name he’s supposed to be using. Which version of himself he’s supposed to be." She picked up her glass again. "I just wanted to be good at something without everyone attributing it to my family."

"You are good at something. You’ve always been good at something." Arianne’s voice was even. "What they attribute it to is their problem."

Sam looked at her. The corner of her mouth twitched. "You’re annoyingly logical."

"I’ve been told."

Audrey had been quiet through the exchange, sipping her bourbon, listening. Now she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

"So if you’re not drinking," she said, nodding at Arianne’s empty hands, "does that mean what I think it means?"

Sam’s head swiveled. "Oh, I was going to ask that. She ordered a soda water earlier. I saw it."

Arianne shook her head. "I’m not pregnant."

"You’re sure?"

"I got my period. During the overseas trip, before my birthday. So yes. I’m sure." She paused. "At least for now."

"For now," Sam repeated. "That sounds like there’s a timeline."

"There’s no timeline. But the way things are with Franz — " Arianne stopped. How to say this. How to say that they were trying but they weren’t not trying either, that every night she went to his room was a choice, that the possibility was present and welcome and not frightening in the way it had been with Dominic. "I wouldn’t be surprised. If it happened soon."

"But you’re not in a hurry."

"No. We want to enjoy each other. Just us, for now."

Sam nodded slowly. "Franz starts filming in two weeks."

"Yes. Once he’s on set, the chances drop. The hours. The distance. So if it doesn’t happen before then — " She shrugged, a small motion. "It probably won’t happen until after the season wraps."

"That’s practical."

"That’s our life."

Audrey swirled her bourbon. "You sound very calm about all of this."

"I am." Arianne surprised herself by meaning it. "I spent years not wanting children because I couldn’t imagine bringing them into the life I had. Now the life is different. The person is different." She paused. "It’s not something I’m afraid of anymore."

Sam reached over and squeezed her hand once. Brief. Firm. Then she let go and reached for the wine bottle. "Right. I need more alcohol and also snacks. Don’t talk about anything important while I’m gone."

She slid out of the booth and headed toward the bar, her heels clicking against the floor.

Arianne waited until Sam was out of earshot. Then she turned to Audrey.

"Can I ask you something?"

Audrey set her glass down. "Of course."

"Miriam Sanders. Do you know the name?"

Audrey’s expression shifted. The journalist surfaced — the professional instinct, the quick cataloging of information. "The Montclair Business Journal. She was a financial gossip columnist, wasn’t she? A few years back."

"Yes."

"I’ve heard of her. She vanished, though. No bylines. No sightings. People in the industry assumed she’d moved to another city, maybe another career." Audrey tilted her head. "Why?"

"I need to find her. Discreetly. No public records searches. No trail."

Audrey absorbed this. She didn’t ask why Arianne needed to find a vanished journalist. She’d been around long enough to know that questions like this came with weight.

"You think she’s connected to something."

"I know she is. I need to know where she is now. Whether she’s still in the city. Whether she’s still alive."

The last word hung in the air. Audrey didn’t flinch.

"I can do that. I have sources. People who find people." She paused. "Does this have anything to do with what Gil told me? About the investigation?"

"Indirectly."

"Then I should tell him."

"Yes. Before you start looking. He needs to know what you’re doing and why." Arianne met her eyes. "You two are in a good place. Don’t keep things from him. Not this."

Audrey nodded. "I’ll talk to him tonight. Or tomorrow morning. Before I make any calls."

"Thank you."

"Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t found her."

"You will."

Audrey opened her mouth to respond, but Sam was already coming back, a glass of wine in one hand and a plate of something fried in the other. She slouched onto the couch beside Arianne, her shoulder pressing against Arianne’s, the plate balanced on her knee.

"Miss anything good?"

"No," Arianne said.

"Liar. You two looked serious." Sam didn’t push. She popped something crispy into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "Guess who I saw downstairs."

"Who?"

"Angelika Sinclair."

Arianne’s expression didn’t change. "And?"

"She’s being hounded. Some man. A socialite — the kind who’s been through half the women in this room and the other half know to avoid him." Sam’s voice was dry. "He’s got his hand on her waist. Very possessive. Very public. She looks like she’s trying to escape and doesn’t know how."

"Does she want to escape?"

"Hard to tell. She’s smiling, but it’s the kind of smile that looks like it hurts." Sam shrugged. "It’s almost sad. Except she cornered the twins at the anniversary banquet. So." She took a drink. "I’m not that sad."

Arianne said nothing. Angelika Sinclair, who’d terrorized two four-year-olds with veiled threats, now cornered by a man whose hands didn’t know how to take no for an answer. The irony was sharp enough to cut. She didn’t let it cut her.

"Does he have a name?" Audrey asked.

"Probably. I don’t care what it is." Sam set her glass down. "The point is, she’s still circling. Still in the scene. I thought she’d disappeared after the banquet, but apparently not."

"She’s not our problem," Arianne said.

"No. But it’s good to know where she is."