Avery stands in the doorway, staring at all the food in disbelief. Evan turns to look at her and smiles. The curtains are open in the dining room, and the midday sunlight streams in and catches in his hair. She blinks and shakes her head, and he walks back to the doorway, taking her hands in his.

"I don't understand, Evan," she says, pulling her hands away. "What's this about?"

"We haven't had a meal together in a long time," he says. "And you're the mother of my child. I thought it would be nice if we dined together."

"If I eat with you, will you delete the recording?" she asks.

"Yes," he says. "I'll delete it after lunch."

He reaches down and tries to pull the floppy hat off her head. She slaps his hand away and holds it down over her hair. His forehead wrinkles and his eyes narrow as if he's in pain.

"I get that you didn't want anyone to see you on your way to meet me," he whispers. "But, are you still so worried someone will see us together?"

"It's not that," she says.

"What is it then?" he asks, reaching for her hat again.

She sighs and lets him lift the hat off her head. Then he pulls the sunglasses from her face. His eyes narrow, and his hand brushes against her cheek. He pulls it away and looks at the concealer streaked across his fingers. Before she can object, he grabs a cotton napkin and gently wipes the concealer from her cheeks and forehead.

"What happened to your face?" he asks.

"I lost a chess game," she says, reaching for the hat.

He shakes his head, "Just wash it off."

"You think I haven't tried?" she snaps. "I put a special cleaning solution on, but it might take a few hours. Now, if you don't mind, can I have my hat and sunglasses back."

Evan nods, and she puts the hat on her head, tugging the brim, so it casts dark shadows over her entire face. She slides the sunglasses back on and sits down at the table. He serves her a heaping plate of food and starts to fill his own. Every time he glances at her, a smile plays around his lips.

"If my face is so distracting, you can look the other way," she says.

He presses his lips into a straight line and shakes his head. Still, she notices him glancing at the turtles between bites of his food. She nibbles a piece of broccoli and looks back at him. He's just as distracting in the bathrobe—his exposed chest seems to gleam in the light.

There's a knock on the door, and Robert enters the dining room with a team of waitresses. Each woman carries a silver tray with a different dish. They form a half-circle around the table and hold the dishes out so Avery can see them.

"Miss Peters, these were specially prepared for you," Robert says.

Avery wrinkles her nose. That doesn't sound right, she thinks. Evan clearly knows what I like and don't like because all my favorite foods were already on the table. Why would Robert lie about that?

She looks between the oysters Rockefeller, the eggplant parmesan, and the Belgian waffles. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to the food Evan has brought in—each dish is from a different country and served at a different meal. None of them go together. Then her eyes land on a heaping plate of spaghetti, and it all makes sense.

"These foods don't look like they were specially prepared for me at all," she says.

"Well, if they're not for you, who could they be for?" Evan asks.

"Charles, obviously," she says. "Most of these are his favorite dishes."

Evan and Robert exchange a glance, and Avery drops her fork onto the table. Her stomach twists, and she wonders if she's going to be sick. What does Evan mean by preparing all of Charles' favorite foods? Is he trying to torment her on purpose?

"This is really cruel, Evan," she says. "I don't know why you had these dishes prepared, but it's not funny."

"I'm sorry, it wasn't meant to be cruel," Evan says. "I just know how much you miss him, and I thought this might be a nice reminder."

"Well, I appreciate that," she says with a sigh. "But, you've gotten some of them wrong." She points at several platters and says, "I've never seen him eat any of those."

Robert nods and writes something on a pad of paper. Then he waves his hand, and the waitresses follow him out of the dining room. Avery picks at her crab cake and then puts her fork down.

"Are you finished?" Evan asks.

She nods, wondering if he's going to force her to stay for dessert. But he claps his hand, and the waitresses return to clear the table.

"Thank you for dining with me," he says. "As much I might enjoy it, I'm not going to keep you, prisoner here,. You can leave whenever you like."

"Thank you," she says.

She excuses herself to the bathroom and reapplies the concealer all over her face. The turtles haven't faded at all, and she wonders if the cleanser Linda gave her will really work. She adjusts her sunglasses and straightens her hat before leaving the hotel room and getting into Linda's BMW.

She steers the car toward the mall, eager to do some shopping. Jessica destroyed her entire wardrobe, and Andrew hasn't gotten around to buying her replacements. Besides, any excuse to stay away from the Clifford house is a good one. She wanders between Chanel, Prada, and Versace buying a few dresses and skirts.

The bags are heavy in her arms, and she's about to head back to the Clifford mansion when she sees the trademark Hermes pattern in a glowing window. She walks into the shop and crosses the brown and white tiled floor. A friendly salesgirl bustles over and offers to help with her bags.

Avery gratefully puts the shopping bags down and browses the Hermes collection. There are several bags that catch her eye, and she turns to ask the salesgirl to get them down for her. But the friendly girl isn't there. Instead, she's at the front door to the shop, smiling and bowing to a group of women. The other salesgirls drop what they're doing and go to join her.

"Oh, good afternoon, Miss Clifford," one calls. "It's so good to see you again."

Avery watches as the salesgirls part, letting Caitan and a group of young women dressed in head-to-toe designer outfits into the store. Caitan is wearing a surgical mask over her mouth and carrying the limited-edition black bag on her arm.

Avery smiles to herself—she bought a fake Hermes bag and left it in her closet at the Clifford mansion. In the morning, she gave the Clifford maid the real bag and asked her to check it. Clearly, Caitan took the bait and is trying to take the real bag for herself.

"Oh, Avery," Caitan calls. "Wow, you're so brave to come out when your face is so messed up."

"What do you mean messed up?" one of the girls asks. "I can't even see it cause she's got that awful hat on. Who wears sunglasses and a hat inside anyway?"

"Avery is dating my brother," Caitan explains. "This morning, we played chess, and she lost, so we doodled on her face. But we accidentally used a permanent marker."

"Oh, wow," the girl says. "She must look hideous."

"Oh, she's not telling the whole story," Avery says with a smile. "She also lost. She claims she knew how to take the marker off, but from the looks of that surgical mask, I'd say she didn't."

"You don't know anything," Caitan says. "I'm wearing the mask cause I started to get a cold and didn't want to get any of my friends sick."

"Really?" Avery asks.

"Never mind that," Caitan says, looking at the shopping bags at Avery's feet. "Are you buying more things with my brother's money? Hasn't he given you enough already?"

"My relationship with your brother is none of your business," she answers.

"Whatever," Caitan says, turning to her friends. "You know, she has no money of her own. My brother gave her a fake bag, and she couldn't even tell the difference. Can you believe that?"

"How embarrassing," the girls giggle.

Avery waves to the salesgirl, but the girl isn't as friendly as before. She helps Avery get a gunmetal colored bag. Avery looks inside and nods, and the girl rushes away to wrap it up.

"It's not my fault that the Cliffords can't tell the difference between real and fake bags," she says, looking at Caitan. "Are you sure that the bag on your shoulder is real?"

"Of course it is," Caitan says. "I've had it for ages already—you all saw my Instagram posts with it."

The girls around her nod, and Caitan lifts the purse up to show it off. She passes it around, and her friends finger the leather and smile jealousy. One blonde girl with a French bob haircut swings the purse in her hands and shakes her head.

"Hmm, I'm not so sure it's real," she says with a slight accent.

"How dare you," Caitan snaps. "I'll prove it. Sales Girl! Come over here! I want someone to authenticate this bag."

The store manager emerges from the back. She walks across the room and tucks her hair back behind her ears. She raises the bag to the light and looks at the leather. Then she slides the zipper back and forth and peeks inside the bag.

"I'm sorry, Miss Clifford, but this bag is definitely not real, Hermes," she says. "What?" Caitan shouts. "That's not possible!"

"I'm sorry, Miss Clifford," the manager says. "But, the bag is a fake."

"Take a closer look," Caitan insists. "I had my maid get it appraised this morning, and she said it was real."

The manager's face hardens, and she says, "Look, if you don't, believe me, you can have it sent to our headquarters, but I promise they'll say the same thing I said. If you look at the seam here, you can tell it's not a real cross-stitch. And the lining inside is slightly discolored—our colors aren't so bright. Finally, the tag here is clearly a knockoff—a good one, but still a knockoff."

Caitan's pale face turns blotchy and red, and she takes the bag and throws it at Avery's feet. She stomps her foot and points a shaking finger at Avery.

"You tricked me," she screams.

Avery raises her eyebrows and asks, "How do you think I did that?"

"I don't know, but you must have switched the bags somehow," Caitan says.

Caitan lunges forward and grabs the brim of Avery's hat. She pulls it off her head and then yanks the sunglasses from her face and throws them to the ground. Avery stands still and puts her hands over her stomach. Caitan looks up at her face, and her eyes widen with surprise.

She whirls around and pulls a silk scarf from the display and scrubs it against Avery's cheek. She pulls it away covered in concealer. A catlike smile twists her mouth, and she rubs the scarf over Avery's nose, forehead, and other cheeks. She throws the ruined scarf onto the ground and points at Avery's face.

"Look how ridiculous Avery looks," she shouts.

Caitan's friends look at her as if she's crazy. They step backward and whisper among themselves.

"There's nothing on her face," the French girl says. "What's wrong with you? You're acting—how do you say it—trashy."

Avery pulls the surgical mask from Caitan's face, revealing the dark black smudge above her lip. The marker looks especially dramatic against Caitan's blotchy skin.

"Oh my god, Caitan, that's hilarious," the girls shout. "But why on Earth would you go out like that? I'd be too embarrassed even to leave my bed."

"You've gone too far this time, Caitan," the French girl says. "Between the fake bag and the mustache, it's too embarrassing to be seen with you. Don't tell anyone you know me."