1. Francesca
1
FRANCESCA
Ten years ago
“Honestly, Frankie, you’re acting like a spoiled brat. And it’s not cute in case you were wondering.”
My sister’s nasally drawl scrapes down my back like nails on a chalkboard. She sounds exactly like our mother, and I know if I glance over my shoulder at her, she’ll have the same pinched expression, like she just sucked on a lemon.
“I wasn’t, but thanks,” I murmur, forcing my expression to remain neutral.
“Time to end this charade and come home.”
My sister’s words wrap around my neck like a noose, and I struggle to breathe through the incredulity. Home . What a fucking joke.
I clear my throat and keep my feet moving, one in front of the other. “And how am I a brat because I want to go to college?”
“This isn’t college . This is a breeding ground for infidelity and bad decisions and a hundred other ways of ruining your life.” She flings her hand out, toward the house we’re approaching.
A low chuckle slips out before I can stop it. “C’mon, Flora, it’s just a party.”
“No, don’t use my nickname to undermine my point. This is not a not a party. A party is sipping champagne on Giovanni’s yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean,” she deadpans. “Speaking of which, if you’re looking to get laid, you should go to him. Not these . . . boys .” She waves her hand in the air like she’s dismissing everyone at the house we’re approaching.
“You mean like you did with Conrad?” I keep my tone bright.
There’s a beat of silence, but I don’t fill it with an apology for bringing up her betrothed. She doesn’t waste an opportunity to bring up Giovanni every time she can, so why shouldn’t I return the favor?
The lawn stretches out before us, a sea of bodies and red solo cups. Music thumps from the house, the bass vibrating through the ground and up into my bones. Strings of white lights haphazardly hang through the trees, casting a dreamy glow over the whole scene. It looks exactly like every movie I’ve seen about the quintessential college party.
“Giovanni would be a lot nicer than Conrad, that’s for sure. And you could do worse than the Bandinis. Properties in Lake Como, a yacht in Monaco, and an art collection worth more than most people make in a lifetime. You’d never have to worry about anything. Private jets, couture fittings, summers in Capri.” She sighs, a wistful sort of huff.
Which is ironic because she could have all of those things. Conrad Hargrove has just as much wealth as Giovanni’s family does.
“I don’t need all that, and anyway, I have my own money.”
She snorts. “No, Frankie, you have mom and dad’s money. You don’t get your money until you’re married.”
I don’t need the reminder. I’ve read the trust agreements so many times I have them memorized. But thinking about the clauses, conditions, and carefully worded loopholes my family built into it—ensuring I follow their blueprint before I ever touch a cent—makes my stomach turn.
“You know, you really didn’t have to come here. I’ve been just fine on my own for a year.”
It’s a lie. Not the boldest one I’ve ever told, but bold enough that I’m sure she’s going to call me on it.
Being on my own has been eye-opening in ways I never expected. I didn’t realize how much of my life had been curated, controlled, and softened at the edges until I stepped outside of it. I’d never had to budget a grocery trip or figure out how to pay a bill on my own. I’d never had to navigate a city without a driver waiting at the curb.
And I liked it. Even when it was hard, I liked it.
“Come on, sis. I know math isn’t your strong suit, but you’ve been here for nine months, not twelve .”
I don’t skip a beat at her chastising tone. I love my sister, but she never misses an opportunity to point out our differences—making sure the world knows that while we might look the same, we’re not.
Another one of those twin things, I guess.
I stopped caring about competing with my sister a long, long time ago. If I ever even did. Sometimes, I feel like I didn’t start breathing until I left Winthrop Harbor.
“I know exactly how long I’ve been here,” I say, my voice calm. “They said I could take a year, so I’m going to take the full year. And that means no more talk about mom and dad, marriages, or trusts. I’m going to this party now. You can come with me or you can go home.” I nod toward the house in front of us, where people spill out the front door—two girls laughing, heads tossed back, arms wrapped around each other.
Jealousy curls around my ankles like fog rolling off the lake on early spring mornings. Sometimes I think Florence and I were close like that once, but when I search the recess of my mind, I can’t recall the memories.
“As if I would let you go to a party alone.” She scoffs, storming to stand next to me. “ Please . Don’t make me laugh, Frankie. They would kill me if I let you go to a house party like this alone.” She flicks her wrist, sending her perfectly styled blonde waves cascading over her shoulder in a move I know is practiced but appears effortless.
“What are you going to tell them?” I pause at the bottom of the wraparound porch, reaching out to grasp her wrist. I hate the thread of unease that slithers through me, winding around my ribcage like a ribbon.
She looks down her nose at me, her face so similar to the one I see in the mirror every day and yet so different.
So much . . . better .
Where my top lip is too full, hers is perfectly proportionate. My eyebrows are cousins; hers are twins. A spray of freckles—light brown and cherry red—dapple my cheeks, nose, and chest, while her skin is flawless, smooth, and clear.
It’s our eyes that give us away.
Hers are luminescent amber with threads of golden whisky, and mine are deep, unending brown. Unremarkable in every way. Or so our mother has told me. Often .
“I’m not going to risk Bash’s wrath and let you go in there alone. But I’m also not into self-sabotage either. That’s more of King’s thing.” She huffs, flipping her wrist to tangle her hand with mine. Tugging me forward, like she always has.
The mention of our brothers turns my stomach like I ate week-old burritos. Our older brothers are everything Flora and I are not: men . I’ve lost count of all the arguments I’ve overheard throughout the years between my parents and my brothers. Our family home is extravagant and wonderful in a lot of ways, but privacy is not one of them.
“ Bash ?” My head spins with what that means. Is he stepping into the head of the family role already? And what does that mean for me?
“Who do you think sent me here?” she mutters, eying a couple of people making out in the shadowed corner of the front porch.
“Mom.” It’s the most obvious answer.
Her top lip curls upward as she surveys the wide porch and all the people on it. “I don’t even understand why you’d want to drink shitty beer in this disgusting frat house. Giovanni has a place on the Upper East Side with a private bartender and a fully stocked wine cellar. You could be drinking Cristal instead of . . . whatever this is.”
Her self-righteousness seeps from every pore, dripping from every word that falls from her mouth. But I’m not the same person I was a year ago. Two semesters at Sterling University have taught me more than my entire life in Winthrop Harbor.
Like how freedom tastes better than champagne. How I’d rather drink lukewarm beer with people who don’t care about last names than sip expensive wine with people who only see me as a chess piece.
I tilt my chin up, letting defiance settle in my bones. “Maybe you should be the one marrying Giovanni instead.”
The words come out sharper than I intended, laced with more attitude than I’ve ever dared to use with her before.
It feels strange, like wearing an oversized coat that doesn’t quite fit—the weight of it unfamiliar, the shape of it awkward, but still mine.
Florence stops in her tracks. Her fingers twitch in mine, but for once, she doesn’t pull me back.
Instead, I tighten my grip and pull her forward.
We cross the threshold into the baseball house—which, yeah, okay, does kind of look like a frat house. But not like the ones my brothers lived in.
Theirs were extravagant, sprawling brownstones with private chefs and furniture that cost more than tuition. This place? This is beer-soaked carpets, sagging leather couches, and a neon sign buzzing in the kitchen.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I belong.
“What did you say?” she hisses, her hair brushing my shoulder as she steps closer.
I shuffle a few steps to the left, away from the doorway, my eyes darting around, trying to take it all in. For as big a game as I talked, I’ve never actually been to a party like this before. I spent the last nine months reveling in the freedom of being two thousand miles away from my parents.
I’m not a complete novice though. I’ve been to plenty of parties—most filled with my parents’ friends or their kids. A few underground club parties with my cousin, but nothing like this.
This feels like a scene plucked straight out of every daydream I’ve ever had in high school.
I roll my lips inward, rising onto the balls of my feet as I scan the room. A folding table is set up in front of the windows, a guy in headphones standing behind it, red Solo cup raised in the air as he nods to the beat. People move in a crush of bodies to the music, the furniture shoved against the walls to make space. At the far end of a massive dining table, at least twenty people are gathered, tossing ping-pong balls into red cups, their cheers rising above the music.
My pulse kicks up.
Oh, I’m definitely doing that. A couple of fingers of shitty beer , as Florence calls it, will be worth it for the memory of playing my first game of beer pong.
“Hello?” Florence steps in front of me, blocking my view. She waves her hand in my face with that condescending flick of her wrist I’ve always hated.
“What?” I arch a brow, raising my voice to be heard over the music.
“What’s going on with you? Why are you talking like you suddenly don’t want to marry Giovanni?” Florence’s perfect brows knit together as she searches my face.
I slide my hand free from hers, my gaze drifting past her in search of the drink table. The subject of my alleged fiancé is not something I ever really care to talk about. And I definitely don’t want to bring him up now—not when there are far more interesting things happening around me.
The bass thrums in my chest, my head nodding to the beat without conscious thought. Movement spills across the room, bodies pressing close, laughing, swaying, heat radiating from their skin like energy crackling in the air. Inhibitions are shed like second skins, left behind in the dim light, pooling at their feet.
Florence is still talking, her voice a thread of noise in my ear, but the throng of dancers calls to me like a siren song.
I lean toward her, my gaze never straying from the three people in the middle of the floor. A girl sandwiched between two guys, their hips rolling and dipping together. It’s kind of mesmerizing.
Something in my lower stomach clenches at the sight. I’m no stranger to dancing, but this is more than that. There’s possessiveness in the way his hand curls around her hip and the way her arm curls around the other guy’s neck.
“Are you even listening to me?” Florence snaps, stepping into my space, her face filling my vision.
I level her with my most neutral expression, refusing to let her see even a flicker of hesitation. “I don’t want to talk about Giovanni right now, and I certainly don’t want to marry him.”
Her sharp intake of breath is loud in my ear. Her fingers close around my arm, nails biting into my skin. “What has gotten into you? Of course, you’re marrying him.”
I’m already shaking my head before she even finishes speaking. “I’m not. And you can take that back to Bash and Mom and whoever else sent you here as their little spy.”
Her grip tightens for a second, like she thinks she can physically hold me to the life they’ve planned out.
She can’t.
I untangle my arm, stepping back, my pulse thrumming with the music, with the adrenaline of saying it out loud. Then I turn and stride toward the living room, leaving her standing there, still trying to fit me into a box I’ve already outgrown.
Her hand snaps around my bicep, stopping me in my tracks once more.
“What do you think you’re doing right now?” she hisses. “You spend one semester away at college and then, what? You’re going to blow up your whole goddamn life? Get a fucking grip, Francesca .”
It’s the way she says my full name. The sharp consonants burrowing inside my ear, somehow cutting through the music. Or maybe that’s just my imagination playing tricks on me again.
I pivot on the ball of my foot, meeting her gaze without flinching.
“I’m going to go dance,” I say simply. “You can stay or you can go. Dance with me or don’t. The choice is yours, Flora .”
Her gaze bounces between my eyes, her lips twisted into a frown. I watch the moment she decides to give in. Her brows smooth out, settling into their usual, perfectly arched shape. She nods once and releases my bicep.
“This isn’t over, Frankie. But fine, you can have your little frat party. I’m going to find something to drink.”
She turns and disappears into the crowd. The moment she’s out of sight, I take my first full breath in twenty-four hours.
Relief unfurls inside me, loosening something tight in my chest. But the guilt follows just as quickly, curling around my shoulders like a too-warm scarf.
I shouldn’t be relieved to have my sister gone. I should want her here. Should want us to be inseparable, the way we were when we were kids.
But wanting something and accepting the truth of it are two very different things.
I maneuver between bodies, slipping into the thrumming mass of dancers, the heat of the room wrapping around me like a second skin. The music pulses beneath my ribs, the bass vibrating in my bones, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself just—be.
I tip my head back, feeling my hair tickle my shoulder blades, and close my eyes.
I strip it all away.
The betrothal. The family name that carries weight in five countries. The expectations written in ink before I even had a say. The generations of wealth that make people bow their heads when they hear it, even as they sharpen their knives behind our backs.
Right now, I’m just a girl at a college party.
No family. No last name. No future already carved into stone.
Just me.
The song shifts, the tempo picking up, and my lips curve.
Let them try to drag me back.
I’m already gone.