He delivered the news flatly, keeping his face blank. His eyes were still on Daisy, who neglected the couch, spreading her legs at his feet, begging for a belly rub. He leaned down and scratched her stomach absentmindedly, waiting for me to absorb the news. His words soaked into me like poison, spreading slowly and lethally. They hit me somewhere deep, in that tight ball of angst I kept lodged in my belly. My mom ball. I knew Chase and his father were close. I also knew Chase was a proud man and would never break down, especially in front of someone who hated him. My knees buckled, the air slamming against the back of my throat, refusing to make its way into my lungs.

I resisted the urge to erase the space between us and hold him. He’d translate my warmth into pity, and I didn’t pity him. I was crushed for him, having experienced losing my mother to breast cancer when I was sixteen after her on-again, off-again battle with the disease. I knew all too well that it was always too soon to say goodbye to a parent. And that watching someone you loved lose the battle against their own body was as painful as ripping open your own flesh.

“I’m so sorry, Chase.” The words finally stumbled out of my mouth, clunky and weightless. I remembered how much Dad had hated being told that. So what if they’re sorry? It’s not going to make Iris feel better. I thought about Mom’s letters. I typically started every morning with one of her letters and a strong cup of coffee, but this morning I had read two of them. I’d had a gut feeling today was going to be a challenging one. I hadn’t been wrong.

I hope you are still compassionate and kindhearted.

I wondered what she’d think of my nickname. Martyr Maddie. Always down for saving the day.

Chase’s hooded eyes dragged from Daisy to meet mine. They were frighteningly empty. “Thank you.”

“If there’s anything I can do . . .”

“There is.” He straightened up swiftly, patting himself clean of Daisy’s hair.

I tilted my head in question.

“In the days after my father broke the news to us, my family was a mess. Katie didn’t show up for work. My mother didn’t leave her bed, and Dad ran back and forth, trying to comfort everyone instead of taking care of himself. It was, for lack of better words, a fucking shit show. And the show’s still going.”

I knew Lori Black had battled with depression before, not through Chase but through an in-depth interview she’d given Vogue a few years back. She’d spoken candidly about her dark periods while promoting the nonprofit organization where she volunteered. Katie, Chase’s sister, was a marketing executive at Black & Co. and a shopaholic. That was less endearing and quirky than it sounded. Katie suffered from bad anxiety attacks. Her episodes included going on intense, out-of-control shopping sprees to bury whatever it was that made her nervous. Knee-jerk spending made her breathe slightly better, but she always hated herself afterward. It was like binge eating emotionally, only with designer clothes. That was how she’d gotten diagnosed, in fact. Six years ago, she’d gone into a spending frenzy after her boyfriend had broken up with her. She’d spent $250,000 in a little less than forty-eight hours, maxed out three credit cards, and been found by Chase buried under a literal mountain of shoeboxes and clothes in her walk-in closet, crying into a bottle of champagne.

Chase must’ve read my mind, because he pressed home, his eyes holding mine intensely. “Considering my mother’s track record, it wouldn’t be far fetched to assume she’s on a straight path to Depressionville. When I went to check on Katie, her door was blocked with Amazon packages. I needed a sacrificial lamb.”

“Chase.” My voice croaked. I had a feeling I was the poor animal about to get tossed into the smoker. His face was blank, his tone measured.

“I had to think on my feet. So I made an announcement of my own.”

He grabbed the can between us, taking another sip, his eyes on me. Quiet. My heart spun like a hamster on a wheel. The tips of my fingers tingled. Panic clogged my throat.

“I told them we were engaged.”

I didn’t answer.

Not at first, anyway.

I picked up the can of Diet Coke and threw it against the wall, watching it splash into an avant-garde painting of brown fizz. Who did something like that? Told his family he was engaged to his ex-girlfriend, whom he’d cheated on? And now he was here, not even half-apologetic and still a full-blown jerk, delivering the news offhandedly.

“You son of a . . .”

“It gets worse.” He raised a palm, his eyes cutting to my window seat, which was crowded with potted flowers in various colors and Daisy’s bed. “As it turned out, the engagement announcement was just what the doctor ordered. Family is a divine principle for the Blacks. It gave Mom something to be excited about and took away Dad’s thoughts from the big C. And so it appears that you and I are having an engagement party in the Hamptons this weekend.”

“An engagement party?” I echoed, blinking. I felt seasick. Like the ground beneath me swayed in the same rhythm as my pulse. Chase nodded curtly.

“Naturally, we both must be in attendance.”

“The only thing natural,” I said slowly, my head a jumbled mess, “is the fact that you’re still delusional. The answer to your unspoken request is no.”

“No?” he repeated. Another word he wasn’t used to.

“No,” I confirmed. “I will not accompany you to our fake engagement party.”

“Why?” he asked. He looked genuinely baffled. I realized Chase, despite his thirty-two years of existence, had very little experience with rejection. He was handsome, smart, so filthy rich he couldn’t spend all his money even if he dedicated his entire life to the cause, and of enviable Manhattan pedigree. On paper, he was too good to be true. In reality, he was so bad it hurt to breathe next to him.

“Because I’m not going to celebrate our fauxmance and deceive dozens of people. And because doing you favors is very low on my to-do list, somewhere under plucking my eyelashes individually with a pair of tweezers and picking a fight with a drunken Santa on the subway.” I was still holding the door open, but I was shaking. I couldn’t stop thinking about Ronan Black. About how it must’ve hit Katie and Lori. About Mom’s letter telling me to stay compassionate. Surely she hadn’t meant this.

“I’ll fire you,” he said simply, not missing a beat.

“I’ll sue you,” I retorted with the same nonchalance, feeling much more hysterical about his threat than I let on. I loved my job. Plus, he knew damn well I lived paycheck to paycheck and wouldn’t survive even the briefest unemployment.

No wonder his last name was Black. His heart certainly was.

“Is money tight, Miss Goldbloom?” He arched an eyebrow, his voice deadly.

“You know the answer.” I bared my teeth. A Manhattan apartment, no matter how small, cost a fortune.

“Perfect. Do me this solid, and I’ll reimburse you for your time and effort.” He turned from bad cop to good cop in a second.

“Blood money,” I said.

He shrugged, looking bored with my antics. “Blood? No. A few scratches, probably.”

“Are you offering to pay me for companionship?” I ignored the pulse flicking in my eyelid. “Because there’s a word for that. Prostitution.”