Once A Liar

“I was jealous when you told me he was your father,” I admitted. “I had always looked up to him in that way, and I wanted my father to be like him. All drive and ambition, never satisfied, all hunger for the best.”

She turned to me suddenly, stern and almost scolding. “But please tell me that’s not why you want to marry me.”

I pulled her onto my chest and stroked her long hair to help ease the tension. “I want to marry you because I love you, Juliette.” I’d never said the words to another human being before, and they felt foreign and sticky coming out of my mouth. “It has nothing to do with Marcus.”

Those were the words she needed to hear, to be reassured that we were both going into the marriage for the right reasons. Before the conversation ended, I made sure to add a final caveat. “One more thing,” I began, “no one knows the truth about where I came from, and it’s going to stay that way. If you ever repeat anything I told you, there will be trouble.”

I realized my comments were bordering on threatening, but Juliette understood me. I had only scratched the surface of the truth of my upbringing, and I hadn’t yet shared with Juliette how I got out of there and into the world where she found me.

Two days later, we had a small ceremony on the beach in front of our rented house and cemented our mutual commitment.

In the time since I had stepped out of the public’s attention, Stu Bogovian had hired a different attorney to represent him during the sentencing and subsequent appeals, but Marcus made sure it appeared my absence was for the sake of my wedding and honeymoon.

“You want to get all the way to the top, don’t you, Peter? There are steps to be taken, and it’s a very delicate dance you have to perform to get where you want to be.” As if he were raising a son, he was using me to proliferate his own legacy. “You lost a very public and very high-profile case, and your client has been sentenced to the maximum. You needed to get that ego in check. Your law school reputation and the name you made for yourself at that white-bread firm were impeccable. We needed to dismantle that a bit.”

I seethed listening to him. I felt like he was treating me like a lost little boy, scolding me and putting me down. “I don’t need to be publicly humiliated just to be put in my place, Marcus. I’m extremely good at my job, and I would appreciate it if I could get back to work on the kinds of cases I should be working on.”

“Don’t worry, Peter.” He laughed a hearty, guttural laugh and slapped my shoulder. “The rest of this is going to be fun for you. There’s no more losing involved. You’re making the right moves now. Getting married was a very good step. People trust a married man, especially one married to such a humanitarian as Juliette. Her shine will reflect on you, and you’ll fall in with the right crowd.” Marcus’s demeanor shifted in that moment, and he turned his back to me, holding his hand to his mouth.

“What?” I demanded, fearing his caginess. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“There are two things.” He turned to face me but didn’t take his hand away from his mouth. “First, I’m going to give you some cases, and you’ll have to win. None of the big ones—leave that to me and Sinan. You just have to keep winning and do it powerfully and without remorse. That’s the way I’ve gotten to where I am today, and where you want to be.”

I wanted to protest. How could he withhold all the desirable cases from me? “And the second?” I asked with teeth clenched.

“The second step is more personal, more private. Something I need from you because I never did it myself.”

“Stop stalling, Marcus.”

“I never had a son, and now you’re here filling that role. And if this empire is going to last beyond my death and yours, we’ll need an heir. You’ll need to become a father.”

NOW

Jamie and I ride in silence up to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and I can’t think of a thing to say to him.

“How are you adjusting?” I attempt, just as Jamie opens his mouth to say, “Was Claire supposed to come?”

We both grumble awkward half laughs, and I wave Jamie to go on, so he asks his question again. “Um, tonight, to this party, wasn’t Claire supposed to go instead of me?”

“The invitation was addressed to me, and I was permitted a guest, so frankly, it’s up to me who I bring,” I respond. “And Claire never seems comfortable at these things anyway.”

“Oh.” He adjusts his seat and tugs at his sleeves.

“You’re not uncomfortable at these events, are you?”

“Where are we going again?” Jamie looks beyond me, out the window as we continue north on Madison Avenue.

“The Met. We are going to a masquerade ball, a benefit for your mother’s foundation. Didn’t she bring you to these before?”

Jamie’s face blanches. “Yes, I’ve been to a couple of Rhodes Foundation benefits before.”

“Well, soon you’ll receive your own invitations, and you won’t need to be escorted by the old man.”

I practically lunge for the door handle as soon as we pull up to the museum to free myself from this awkward car ride. I grab the two masks off the seat, one a basic black Zorro-style mask, and the white satin one with the gold horns. I slip the white one over my face and hand the other to Jamie.

A narrow hunter green carpet has been draped down the front steps of the museum, creating an exclusive pathway for the benefit-goers. Jamie slides on his mask and fumbles with his borrowed cuff links, as if he’s worried they’ll fall out. I hurry in front of him, ascending the stairs, periodically checking my Rolex. I can’t stand being late, and getting my son properly dressed took longer than expected. We arrive, finally, with just fifteen minutes left in the cocktail hour.

This is a philanthropic event filled with New York socialites. All the men are wearing tuxedos, and the younger women have on more jewelry than clothing. The masks range from cheap Halloween versions to massive feathered-and-bejeweled affairs held up on golden rods. The stick-thin plastic women are hard to differentiate, and all share the same manufactured smile. Hardly a natural face or body exists in my present company, but I’m scanning the party for one gorgeous creature in particular.

I navigate the crowd, stopping in for greetings among various groups.

“Hello, Senator,” I say, popping up behind an elderly gentleman who is not actually in politics and his much younger trophy wife. “And how is your daughter this evening?” I say, kissing her hand and smiling. He gives me a jovial slap on the shoulder and she looks at me through glazed, unfocused eyes.

The cocktail hour conversations all revolve around thinly veiled competition over whose child is the most accomplished—who has been accepted to which Ivy League school, who was offered a modeling contract with Ford.

Jamie follows me as I insert myself into small clusters of guests for quick shallow greetings. “Alysia,” I coo, wrapping my arm around the bare shoulder of a gaunt middle-aged heiress known to be desperately waiting for her father to die. “How beautiful you look this evening.”

She kisses both my cheeks and offers condolences for the loss of my ex-wife. I raise my finger to my lips and hush her before she can continue, pointing to Jamie by way of excuse. Jamie politely introduces himself, and she kisses both his cheeks, as well. Jamie wipes his face absentmindedly and we continue on our walk to the bar, so I can fetch something suitable to drink.

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