1
DALLAS
“Oh, Lord, they weren’t bluffing, were they? He really is in town.” Emilie latched on to my wrist, coffin nails sinking into the tan flesh.
“So is Oliver von Bismarck.” Savannah extended her arm. “Someone pinch me.”
I did so with pleasure.
“Ow, Dal. Stop being so literal.”
I shrugged, fixing my attention on the catering beside us. The real reason I’d appeared at the debutante ball tonight.
I plucked a chocolate-covered pomelo peel from a crystal tray and crushed it between my teeth, savoring the bitter-sour nectar.
God wasn’t a man.
God wasn’t a woman, either.
God was probably a piece of Godiva-covered fruit.
“What are they doing here? They’re not even from the South.” Emilie stole Sav’s debutante program and fanned her face. “And they’re definitely not here to meet women. Both are die-hard bachelors. Didn’t Costa dump a whole-ass Swedish princess last summer?”
“As opposed to a partial-ass Swedish princess?” I wondered aloud.
“Dal.”
Where were the Portuguese custard tarts?
I was promised Portuguese custard tarts.
“You said there’d be pastéis de nata.” I snatched a consolation prize—melopita—and waved it at Emilie. “Serves me right for trusting you again.”
Her hawk eyes caught me slipping two Polish donuts into my bag. “Dal, you can’t hide that in your Chanel. You’ll ruin the calfskin.”
Sav shoved a frantic fist into her clutch, retrieving a tube of lipstick. “I heard von Bismarck is in town to buy Le Fleur.”
Jenna’s daddy owned Le Fleur. They manufactured percale sheets for five-diamond hotels. In eighth grade, Emilie and I ran away from home and slept in their showroom for a week before our daddies found us.
“What does he need Le Fleur for?” I picked a kanafeh next, my back still to the mythical creatures my best friends had collectively lost their minds over.
Judging by the urgent whispers around us, they were not the only ones.
Emilie snatched the Bond No. 9 from Savannah, applying a generous coat to her lips. “He’s in hotels and hospitality. Owns a little chain called The Grand Regent. You might’ve heard of it.”
The Grand Regent began as an exclusive, invite-only resort before metastasizing into more branches than the Hilton. So, I gathered Pompous von Fancypants wasn’t strapped for cash.
In fact, obscene generational wealth was the unspoken entry ticket to tonight’s event.
The 303rd Chapel Falls Royal Debutante Ball was a glorified dog show that attracted every billionaire and mega millionaire in the state.
Fathers paraded their cotillion-bred daughters around the Astor Opera House in hopes they’d perform well enough to be courted by men in the same tax bracket.
I hadn’t come here to find a husband.
Before my birth, Daddy had already promised me to someone, which the diamond ring on my engagement finger reminded me.
This always seemed like a problem for the future—up until I discovered the official announcement on the society pages two days ago.
“I hear Romeo is dead-set on becoming the CEO of his daddy’s company.” Lord, Sav was still droning on about him. Were they planning on penning the man’s Wikipedia? “Already, he’s a billionaire.”
“Not just a billionaire. A mega billionaire.” Emilie fingered a marquise diamond on her Broderie bracelet, her poker tell. “And he’s not the type to blow it all on yachts and gold toilet seats or funding self-indulged pet projects.”
Sav snuck a desperate glance at them through her compact mirror. “Do you think we can be introduced?”
Emilie’s eyebrows pinched together. “Nobody here knows them. Dal? Dallas? Are you even listening to the conversation? This is important.”
The only grave situation I’d witnessed was the lack of shortbread, too.
Reluctantly, I fixed my eyes on the two men that parted the thick crowd of silk chiffon and frozen updos.
They both stood at least six-three. A towering height that made them look like giants trying to squeeze into doll houses.
Then again, nothing about them was conventional.
Their similarities ended with their height. Everything else was arctic opposites.
One was silk and the other leather.
If I had to guess, the live-action Ken clone was von Bismarck.
Dirty-blond, square-jawed, and adorned with shabby whiskers of stubble, he looked like something only a Walt Disney illustrator could sketch.
The perfect European prince, down to the scandalous blue eyes and Roman-like structure.
Silk.
The other man was a polished savage. Menace decanted into a Kiton suit.
He wore his inky hair in a gentleman’s cut, trimmed into submission. Everything about him seemed carefully crafted. Intentionally designed to deliver lethal doses straight into a woman’s bloodstream.
Sharp cheekbones, thick brows, lashes I’d risk jail time for, and the frostiest gray eyes I’d seen to date.
In fact, his eyes were so light and frosty, I decided they had no business coupling with his otherwise tan Italian features.
Leather.
“Romeo Costa.” Savannah’s voice curled with longing as he breezed right past us, heading toward the table reserved for VIPs. “I would let him ruin me as thoroughly and impressively as Elon Musk destroyed Twitter.”
“Oh, I would let him do heinous things to me.” Emilie toyed with the blue diamond on her neck. “Like, I’m not even sure what they might be, but I’d still be down for them, you know?”
It was a problem. Being church-going, Bible-thumping, virginal Southern girls in the twenty-first century.
Chapel Falls was known for two things:
1) Its filthy-rich residents, most of them conglomerate owners of high-profile Georgian businesses.
And 2) being extremely, outdatedly, lock-your-daughters-up conservative.
Things worked different down here.
Virtually all of us never went further than sneaking a few sloppy kisses before marriage, even though we all scraped the age of twenty-one.
While my well-mannered friends kept their glances discreet, I had no trouble glaring.
As a nervous host led them to their table, they surveyed their surroundings. Romeo Costa with the dissatisfied detachment of a man who had to feast on back-alley garbage for dinner; and von Bismarck with amused, cynical playfulness.
“What are you doing, Dal? They can see that you’re staring!” Savannah nearly fainted.
They weren’t even looking our way.
“So?” I yawned, swiping a flute of champagne from a tray hovering in my periphery.
While Sav and Emilie gushed some more, I set off, passing banquet tables lined with imported sweets, champagne, and goodie bags.
I did the rounds, greeting peers and distant family members if only to access the catering trays on the opposite end of the room. I also kept an eye out for my sister, Franklin.
Frankie was here somewhere, probably setting a small fire to someone’s toupee or losing the family fortune in a game of cards.
If I was branded the lazy one, with the lack of ambition and abundance of free time, she was the designated banshee in the Townsend household.
I had no idea why Daddy brought her here. She was barely nineteen and interested in meeting men a little less than I was interested in chewing unsterilized needles for a living.
Strutting in my limited-edition Louboutins—five inches, black velvet, and needle-thin heels made of stacked pearls and Swarovski crystals—I offered smiles and blown kisses to everyone in my path until I bumped into another body.
“Dal!”
Frankie wrapped her arms around me like she hadn’t seen me just forty minutes ago when she’d sworn me to secrecy after I caught her shoving nips of Clase Azul into her padded bra.
The plastic edges of the miniature bottles dug into my boobs as we hugged.
“Are you having fun?” I righted her in place before she toppled over like a goat. “Do you want me to get you some water? Advil? Divine intervention?”
Frankie smelled of sweat.
And cheap cologne.
Andweed.
Lord, help Daddy.
“I’m fine.” She waved a hand, peering around. “Did you see there’s some duke from Maryland here?”
“I don’t think monarchy exists in the U.S. of A, Sis.”
Just because von Bismarck’s last name sounded made up didn’t mean he was royalty.
“And his super-rich friend?” She ignored me. “He’s an arms dealer, so that’s fun.”
Only in her universe would an arms dealer be something enjoyable.
“Yeah, Sav and Emilie were so pumped, they were ready to wrestle a mountain lion. Did you meet them?”
“Not exactly.” Frankie scrunched her nose, still surveying the ballroom, probably for whoever made her smell like an oopsie-baby in the back of a drug dealer’s car. “Guess whoever invited them wanted to make an impression, ’cause their table has shortbread specially prepared by the late queen’s beloved baker. Flown here straight from Surrey.” She flashed me a crooked grin. “I stole one when no one was looking.”
My heart squeezed.
I loved my sister so much.
I also wanted to kill her right now.
“And you didn’t steal one for me?” I nearly shrieked. “You know I’ve never tasted authentic British shortbread. What’s the matter with you?”
“Oh, there’s still plenty more there.” Frankie dug her fingers into her tight updo, massaging her scalp. “And people are lining up to talk to these jerks like they’re the Windsors or something. Just go there, introduce yourself, and casually take one. There’s a mountain of them.”
“Shortbread or people?”
“Both.”
I craned my neck above her head.
She was right.
A line of guests waited to kiss the rings of these two men.
Since I wasn’t above lowering myself for something tasty, I marched to the cluster of people haloing Costa and von Bismarck’s table.
“…disastrous tax plan that would create economic mayhem…”
“…surely, Mr. Costa, there must be an off-ramp for all this spending? We can’t keep funding these wars…”
“…true about their lack of technological weapons? I’ve been meaning to ask…”
While the men of Chapel Falls blabbered their way into giving these two a coma and the women leaned down to show off their cleavage, I weaved into the thick crowd, my eyes on the prize—a three-tier tray full of mouthwatering shortbread.
First, I casually planted my hand on the table.
Nothing to see here.
Then I inched deeper toward the British treats—the centerpiece.
My fingers skimmed a square when a biting voice turned my way.
“And you are?”
It came from Leather.
Or rather, Romeo Costa.