Anyway, Marc laughs at the women gathering all around Connor, although he admits he'd like to live in Connor's pants for about a year, and Wili calls them all fools. The only point of Connor, from Wili's perspective, is that he's an ally against Daniel. She then repeats that over and over to herself until she becomes weakened and dehydrated from insisting that it's true so hard, because it's a total lie and she's crushing even harder than Daniel Meade right now: "He'll always side with me against Daniel."
Boom! Connor totally sides with Daniel for about the hundredth time, and then goes on and on about whatever it is, and Wili's like, "Daniel is having a brilliant fucking day!" Connor tries to chill her out and she finally just fucking yells at him to find money for her ideas, and Connor's had about enough. He tells them about how he has this great relationship with Condé Nast and wants to sell a few of their titles over to them to open up their cashflow, and Wili's feeling that, but Daniel throws a fit because it's interfering with his father's legacy. Um, your father's "legacy" is a murderous bipolar daughter, a clueless playboy son falling head-over-heels into forty, a hardened ex-con of a wife, affairs with two different Brides of Satan, and a kidnapped sperm-popsicle baby now being fostered in the unwelcoming pickled Scottish womb of a near-moron, down in the fitting room. By no means should we damage that by selling off a couple of magazines, Rosebud. Wili screams and yells about nothing in particular while Daniel throws his little fit, and finally Connor's like maybe Daniel has a point and says he'll think about less drastic measures, and bounces because it's obvious Wili and Daniel are about to freak out. Unable to control himself, Daniel blabs to Wili about how Connor is his very specialist very bestest friend, and she got played, and then carves into the conference room table, "CO + DM 4 EVA" and runs off to buy Connor some little token of his admiration.
Betty rummages around in the saturated fats and processed sugars that constitute her refrigerator, pulling out both chips and dip, in case he's exactly who he is, or carrot sticks "in case he's that guy," which impulse would lead me less to indulge than to be like, "And a gun, in case he's a carrot stick guy." She's talking to Hilda, who looks more fabulous each week, and she's all, "If I put out candles that's romantic, but maybe it's too romantic for a date that doesn't exist that I can motherfucking guarantee you he doesn't remember you're having, or maybe I'm just the kind of girl that has a billion candles around, like, all the time." And... you kind of are, Betty. Don't hate.