My Best Friend Used a Billionaire to Ruin Me

Mia Kennedy was sixteen. She had her father's eyes and none of his patience.

The first time I met her, she sat across from me at the townhouse dinner table. She didn't touch her salmon. She just watched me, chin in her hand, the way a cat watches a new dog.

Drake stepped out to take a call. The second the door shut, she spoke.

"The last one lasted four months."

I set down my fork. "Okay."

"That's it? Okay?" She raised an eyebrow. "Usually they tell me how much they *adore* my dad."

"Would you believe me if I did?"

"No."

"Then I won't waste your time."

She stared at me. Then, slowly, she smiled. It was the first real smile I'd seen in that house.

After that, Mia found me. In the kitchen. On the back steps. Once in the hallway, while Drake was on the treadmill upstairs. She didn't want a mother. She wanted someone who didn't lie to her face.

So I didn't. Not to her.

She talked. I listened.

"Dad acts like he's the boss," she said one night, eating cereal at the counter. "He's not. Grandmother controls the trust. He gets an allowance. Like me. His is just bigger."

The next week, painting her nails on the back steps: "Grandmother called the last girlfriend 'a rental.' To her face."

And once, very quietly: "She says the name is the only thing that outlives us. She means it. She'd burn the house down before she let someone embarrass it."

I never asked a single question. Not one. I just said, "That sounds hard," and passed her the polish remover.

At home, I wrote it all down.

*Celeste holds the money. Celeste hates pretenders. Celeste protects the name above everything. Even him.*

I looked at that last line for a long time. Then I closed the notebook.

Mia was the only person in that world I liked. I tried not to think about what that meant.

---

Elyse started showing up.

A gallery opening in Chelsea. A charity auction at the Plaza. A rooftop party in Tribeca where she wasn't on the list but somehow got in. Each time, Drake was there. Each time, so was she, in a dress that cost more than her rent.

"Small world," she said at the Plaza, kissing the air beside my cheek. Her eyes were on Drake's back.

She called me more, too. Long calls. Friendly calls.

"So how big is the Hamptons place, really?"

"Twelve acres. Right on the water."

"And the Fourth of July thing? Who goes?"

"The Whitneys. A senator, I think. Half of Park Avenue." I let a little sigh slip out. "I'm nervous, honestly."

"Nervous? Why?"

"I don't know if I'm what he wants." I paused. "He likes women who know how to support a man. Really support him. Make him feel big."

On her end, I heard it. A soft tapping. Fingernails on a screen.

She was taking notes.

"And Celeste?" Elyse asked, too casually. "Does she like you?"

"I've never even met her."

A tiny breath. Relief, maybe. Hope.

"Oh, sweetie," she said. "Don't stress. You'll be fine."

I hung up and sat very still. She was memorizing his life like a test she planned to pass. She'd always been good at tests. As long as someone else took them for her.

---

Two days before the Fourth, I called Drake.

It was eleven at night. I stood by my window. Down on the street, a car alarm went off and wouldn't stop.

"Drake? Is this a bad time?"

"What is it?" Clipped. Annoyed already.

"It's my mom." I let my voice crack, just a little. That part wasn't hard. "She had a rough week. Her numbers dropped. The doctor wants someone close by."

Silence.

"The party is Saturday."

"I know. I'm so sorry. I hate this."

"You said you'd be there." His voice went lower. Quieter. "People expect to see someone with me, Mara."

There it was. Not *me*. Someone.

"I know," I said softly. "I feel awful. I keep thinking about the house. All that work, and the invitation just goes to waste." I paused. Light. Careless. "Elyse would love it, honestly. She's been asking all about it. She'd probably be good company for you."

I held my breath.

"Your friend. The blonde."

"She knows how to have fun. Unlike me." A small laugh.

Another silence. I heard ice in a glass. Drink three, maybe four.

"Fine," he said. "Send her the details. Tell her not to be late."

"I will. Thank you for understanding."

"Take care of your mother."

He hung up. He didn't say goodbye. He never did.

The car alarm stopped. The room went very quiet.

I sat down at the table and opened my notebook. Near the top of the page was a list I had written weeks ago. Four lines.

I picked up my pen and drew one clean line through the third.

*Get her to the Hamptons.*

Then I just sat there.

Marcus had answered my text last week. The woman from 2019. Seven weeks from the first date to the first bruise. Five months to the hospital.

I thought about Elyse in a white dress on a twelve-acre lawn. Champagne in her hand. Fireworks over the water. Smiling like she'd finally won.

I thought about her fingernails tapping on that screen.

She had read his police reports too. She had read them, and she had sent me anyway.

I closed the notebook. My hands were steady.

I didn't know if that was a good sign.