CHAPTER 1 #2
The ladies at Alderton-Du Ponte—the ones without daughters, of course—would praise my mother for her beautiful daughter to my face, would whisper of my levelheadedness behind my back.
She’s so mature for her age, they’d say.
She’s so beautiful. The most beautiful girl Alderton-Du Ponte has seen in years!
Which was why I’d impress the cufflinks off Dr. Pembleton. I’d smoothly talk with Mr. ASMR in person for the first time. And as for Dad…
My stomach became heavy once more. “Is Dad almost ready?” I asked, even though I knew.
The answer wrote itself all over Mom’s face, the warmth in her eyes cooling off like a sudden gust of wind that’d slammed the door shut.
And like a tree uprooted by the breeze, I felt like I was about to fall.
“He… isn’t feeling well,” she said.
Isn’t feeling well. Words we’d been hearing for almost two months. Words repeated so often that they had lost their meaning.
Jamie once more lifted his head. “But it’s Senior Night.”
“He knows where both of you are going,” she said gently, as if her calm tone would soothe the hurt. “We already paid the enrollment deposit. It’s not as if he’d be surprised.”
That wasn’t the point, though. Senior Night at Alderton-Du Ponte was a formality, sure, but it was tradition, a coming-of-age ceremony that every high schooler in the country club looked forward to.
It was their way—and their parents’ way—of being able to brag about their future at Dartmouth or Harvard or Stanford, or any of the other impressive universities.
Dad was supposed to come and introduce me to Dr. Pembleton because they’d gone to Mullhound together. It was supposed to be Dad’s prime moment of, “This is my daughter, following in my footsteps. I’m so proud of her.”
Even though it’d been years, I could still remember how Mom and Dad had been excited for Destelle’s Senior Night—and could still remember how she’d refused to go.
I was living the dream Destelle robbed him of. He was supposed to come.
Up until the middle of March, Dad had seemed pleased I was following in his footsteps. Now, it wasn’t like he couldn’t care less—it was almost like he resented me for it. At least that was how it felt.
“Can I borrow your earrings, then?” I asked Mom, voice level, as if the news hadn’t stung. I could not be upset. I was perfect. “The pearl ones? As a little consolation loan?”
A relieved laugh burst from her. “Fine. Just this once. I have a necklace that would look lovely with it.” Her gaze dropped to my throat.
My dress dipped a little lower than I normally liked, my necklace taking up some of the real estate.
It was a thin white gold chain with a teardrop pendant that looked like an opal in the light.
There was another charm nudged by the pendant, one that’d been added after the fact, in the shape of a four-leaf clover.
The necklace didn’t suit the dress—it rarely suited anything I wore—but I never took it off. “Just the earrings would be great.”
“Nellie gets pearls,” Jamie muttered. “What about me?”
“I have another pair, if you’d like to pierce your ears really quick,” Mom said playfully, walking toward my brother.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, taming it down.
His hair was more like Dad’s and Destelle’s, wavier than straight.
“How about I let you take your book with you tonight? You can sneak off into one of the coat closets after the ceremony, just this once.”
Just this once, she said, as if Jamie didn’t do that for every single fundraiser. She just never noticed.
Jamie still had on a pouting face, but said, “I suppose that’ll suffice.”
“Suffice.” Mom huffed at him and his odd way of speaking.
“S-U-F-F-I-C-E.” It was almost compulsory, spelling it out.
Mom’s smile bloomed wider. Her pride was almost enough to chase away the disappointment that’d bit into me like teeth.
“My two sillies.” She patted Jamie’s shoulder, retreating back through the bedroom.
“I’ll grab the earrings and meet you both downstairs.
The car leaves in five minutes. And, Jamie?
Fix your tie.” She disappeared into the hallway.
I stood still for a moment, lightly swaying in place. Dad was somewhere in the house, not feeling well, and I knew for a fact he would not emerge to see us off.
I’m going to your alma mater, I wanted to tell him, to shake him from the walking coma he was in. You wanted Destelle to go there. What happened? When did you stop being proud of me?
“What does that mean about Dr. Pembleton?” Jamie asked, because Jamie knew everything.
“Nothing changes. I can still introduce myself—I am still going to Mullhound, and I am still interested in any recommendations he can give, even if Dad isn’t there to back me up.”
Arthur Pembleton was a legendary professor at Mullhound, well-connected in the community and known for being one of the best defense attorneys this side of the country.
He’d retired from practicing law a few years ago, going back to his alma mater to teach it—and created a fellowship for undergraduates who had intentions of pursuing law.
Highly competitive. Completely exclusive.
Only four students were selected each year.
Never a freshman, of course, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t make a killer first impression.
Jamie, after slipping a sliver of paper he used as a bookmark into his page, pushed up his glasses and got to his feet. “You didn’t tell Mom about Mr. ASMR, did you?”
I put all the thoughts of Dad on a shelf in my mind. “No.”
“Because you know she won’t approve of you meeting up with a stranger you met online.”
“Because it’s not a big deal. He’s only a year older.”
“So he says. He could be lying. He could be fifty-five. You have no clue.”
“You’re acting like I invited him here. He was the one who brought up Senior Night at Alderton-Du Ponte and said he was attending with his parents.”
“And don’t you think that’s at all suspicious? That he just so happens to be attending the same event we are? That he just so happens to be in the same city?” Jamie closed his eyes. “You don’t even know his actual name, Nell.”
As someone who’d been gunning for perfect attendance and perfect grades, I’d had to learn quickly what worked when it came to focus.
For me, that’d been turning on an ASMR Study With Me channel, where they set up the camera in their workspace and film it.
Something about the pen scratches and page flips kept my mind busy, filling in the spaces my letters normally shouldered into.
And one day, as the ASMRtist on my computer unloaded his bag for a Study At the Beach With Me video, I’d seen something.
The beach he’d sat on. I’d recognized it. It’d been the pier in Bayview, the next town over. I’d quickly sent Mr. ASMR a DM, commenting on the proximity, and he’d replied almost as fascinated as me.
And when he said he’d be coming to Senior Night at Alderton-Du Ponte—an event that was open to all the influential families of Fenton County, members or not—I didn’t think anything of it.
“I’ve shown you his hands,” I told Jamie. “Those were not a fifty-five-year-old’s hands.”
The alarm in Jamie’s expression didn’t fade. “You’re basing this on his hands.”
“C’mon, guys!” Mom called up the stairs. “We’re going to be late!”
I took one step away from the bathroom counter before stopping. I needed to look myself over one more time. “As long as you don’t sneak off to read, I’ll be by your side the entire night. You can beat him up if he looks skeevy.”
“Right, because these muscles I’m hiding under my jacket will do maximum damage.”
His sarcasm was noted. One glance at him and it was clear Jamie was a reader, not a workout enthusiast. “Leave the physical stuff to Daisy.”
Jamie’s grumbling faded as he left my room.
I tucked my dark hair behind my ears. Mom’s earrings would look lovely against the sea of darkness, tickling the fair skin of my throat.
I reached up and pinched the pendant between my thumb and finger, and it was small enough to fit between them perfectly. It almost served as a button on a remote, pressing pause, rewinding to the first time I’d put it on, to the person who’d given it to me.
To the person I refused to let myself really think about longer than two seconds.
No good would come from thinking about him. Not when I had to be on my A game.
“F-O-C-U-S,” I spelled, and then spelled it again in my head.
I hated clutter. I could live with a little dirtiness—like a toothpaste smear on the sink or a few hairs in the shower drain—but dirty clothes lying around, or an unmade bed? A cluttered room, a cluttered mind, a cluttered life; that was the motto Dad instilled in me.
I was Eleanor Brighton, future defense attorney with a perfect life to lead. I could not be cluttered.
I had to be perfect.
“P-E-R-F-E-C-T.” I released a breath, the letters washing over me like a magical spell.
Perfect girls were not nervous to talk to professors, or boys, or any other influential adult they met—no, they were confident.
Sure. They walked into rooms as if they owned them, and they held their chins high.
They were the prettiest person in the room.
“Perfect,” I repeated.
And then I went downstairs to meet my family in the car.
Alderton-Du Ponte was Connecticut’s most elite country club—or at least, that was what its members liked to claim.
I wasn’t sure anyone had ever bothered to fact-check it.
Still, there was no denying that ADP felt like another world entirely.
Marble floors gleamed beneath towering windows, catching the light and sending it sliding across the lobby.
Everywhere you looked, there was something designed to make you forget the outside existed—spas scented with eucalyptus, glittering saltwater pools, pristine pickleball courts, and an 18-hole golf course that stretched on and on.
The whole place felt dipped in gold. Perfect.
Stressful.