CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I’m at war with myself as I get ready for the Hartley Gardens Gala in my room, and not just because I keep drawing my eyeliner wrong.
One side says Come hither and gaze into my eyes, and the other says My mom didn’t let me wear makeup until today.
But that’s of little consequence, given the big picture.
On the one hand, I curse Anna Matthews for doing this to me. A black-tie event is the oldest trope in the book—just one more reminder that I’m nothing more than a pawn in her game.
But as I smooth my dress in the mirror, I have to face the undeniable flip side: I do love a glamorous dress-up moment.
And in this bloodred backless gown with a slit up to there, it’s hard not to feel like some kind of supermodel spy.
I even have a sexy thigh holster to hide my phone.
It’s really an exercise armband MacGyvered with some hair elastics to fit, but still.
Today has been a crash course in new money behavior, strategizing all the ways we can lure the Mangler at tonight’s event. Lesley led the charge by his whiteboard, where he jabbed a pointer at reference pictures, dos and don’ts, and conversation topics.
Old money is quiet, stuffy, snobbish.
New money is gaudy, brash, ostentatious.
Do: name-drop, show off, draw attention to yourself.
Don’t: be so crass that you get kicked out.
And so we begin, dressed to the nine hundreds, preparing to roll up to the Victoria and Albert Museum in a yellow Lamborghini Lesley has rented for the occasion.
He registered us as Zachary and Savannah Beaumont, and even had wedding rings at the ready until I insisted that the Beaumonts be siblings.
Bickering heirs to a California smoothie chain fortune. See, Anna? Two can play at this game.
I have put in the hours of effort befitting a rich American girl desperate to hobnob with the London elite—albeit with YouTube beauty tutorials in lieu of a glam squad. After a few practice defense maneuvers to double-check my dress’s range of motion, I’m ready.
I hurry out of my room and down the hall. I’m the last to arrive in the foyer, judging by the sounds of low-voiced strategizing and anxious pacing drifting up the stairs.
I only make it halfway down the steps when the sight of Grant stops me.
He’s not someone you’d ever call sloppy in the first place, but to say he cleans up nicely is an understatement.
He’s decked out in a traditional, non-green tux, his hair pushed off his face in a way that looks polished but also like it just fell that way.
And even as he fidgets with the flashy new Rolex that has replaced his usual brown leather watchband, he’s the spitting image of a classic romance hero.
I can take just a second to secretly admire that before I have to resent it again, can’t I?
Then he sees me with a double take, and his jittering fades away. Or maybe he just telepathically sends it to me, because my heart has a definite palpitation.
All he says, so quietly I’m not even sure he means to, is “Wow.”
Wow. It might be the most cliché thing he could have said, but tell that to my nervous system. His gaze is like a soft touch on my skin, his voice echoing through me like wind in a canyon. Wow. As far as I’m concerned, he invented the word.
I feel like I should say something—Wow yourself? You look okay, I guess? Sup, bro?—but there seems to be a large rock lodged in my throat. I’m dimly aware of Lesley whistling.
“Well, well!” Lissa crosses her arms, assessing us. “Don’t you two look utterly dangerous!”
I snap back to attention. “We’re not supposed to be utterly dangerous,” I remind her. “We’re supposed to be chunks of hot dog in a crab trap.”
She quirks an eyebrow at me and huffs out a breath. “Fine. Grant, tell Roxie she looks like a hot dog.”
Grant looks at me for a few more heated seconds, then decisively turns to Lissa.
“Give us the rings,” he says.
I fly into panic mode. “What?”
He takes the velvet box from her and shoves a gold band onto his finger. “No one’s going to believe we’re brother and sister with you looking like that,” he says.
“Ever heard of adoption, moron?” It’s harsher than I meant to be, but this is not a time for pleasantries. This is a time for shutting shit down.
Grant spares me only the briefest flat look as he comes toward me, taking two more rings out of the box. “I mean with me looking at you, looking like that. In that dress.”
I’m speechless as he grabs my left hand and unceremoniously slides the rings—a band to match his and an obscene diamond the size of a compact car—onto my finger. I pray that my hand isn’t as hot to the touch as my face feels.
“If anything, making eyes at one’s sister is decidedly old money behavior,” Lesley chimes in unhelpfully.
“We can’t do two fake-dating things in a row,” I protest. It’s over-the-top, even for Anna Matthews.
“We’re not fake dating,” Grant says. He gives my newly ringed hand a little shake. “We’re fake married. And if it makes you feel better, we can be hours from fake divorce.”
He drops my hand, but the sight of the matching ring on his finger makes me feel like we’re handcuffed together.
Suddenly, the idea of entertaining the company of a serial killer tonight seems welcome. A relief, even. Like a cold shower or a much-needed slap in the face.
“If you ask me,” says Lesley, even though nobody did, “posing as a couple is quite to your advantage in acting tasteless. Lovers’ quarrel in the galleries, snogging on the dance floor. That sort of thing.”
“Ew,” I say, perhaps a bit too loudly, blocking out the image before my cheeks go pink.
“Again, thanks so much,” says Grant.
Lesley shoves a ridiculous chauffeur hat on his head and opens the door.
“All right, you two, get your knickers out of a twist. Do whatever you want—dance on tables, spill your drinks, brag about knowing Banksy—just as long as you misbehave enough to provoke some sneaky blueblood to murder, got it?”
Grant and I grumble our responses—“Got it” and “You’re not Banksy”—simultaneously.
Lesley steps out to lead us to the car, and as I pass Lissa, she coughs, avoiding eye contact.
“Grant and Roxie sitting in a tree, M-A-R-R-I-E-D,” she sings under her breath.
I let out a deeply frustrated UGH as I step out into the night.
“None taken,” Grant calls out after me.
· · ·
THE V he’s met with more than a few hair tosses and admiring smiles from chiffon-draped women.
And even though he returns them with nothing more than a polite nod, a curious prickling sensation is creeping over me. I think that’s enough of Phase Two.
Grant and I reconvene in the gallery with zero leads. Most people here aren’t exactly brimming with friendliness, but there aren’t any straight-up murderous vibes yet. So it’s onto Phase Three, or as I like to call it: The Big Old New Money Razzle-Dazzle.
We wander around and strike up random conversations, or butt into ones that are already underway.
Grant ditches his jacket. I attempt to blind people with my ring.
We brag, we name-drop, we make passive-aggressive comments about our turbulent marriage.
We pull out every trick in the book, turning the place into our own personal Olympics of Making People Uncomfortable.
“An inheritance is fine, if you’re into that kind of thing. But have you heard of Dogecoin?”
“You’re a Lord? So am I! Which website did you buy your title from?”
“As my dear friend, the great Mario Lopez, once said to me …”
The people we grace with our presence do not want to be around us; that much is clear. But they also don’t seem to care enough to want us dead.
What we have succeeded in doing, however, is entertaining the living hell out of each other. An hour and several glasses of ginger ale into the evening, I’ve almost forgotten that this isn’t just a big, hilarious game of one-upmanship between me and Grant.
And I appear to be winning, judging by Grant’s near inability to keep a straight face while I regale our latest victims with stories of our European travels. I tick off the exaggerated and mispronounced cities on my fingers—Paree, Barthelona, Mont Carlo.
“Don’t forget our trip to Sweden,” Grant says, smirking. “Remind me: What are your favorite things about that country?”
“Oh, so many things,” I say, smiling broadly at our unimpressed and vaguely bored new friends. “Where do I begin—its constitutional monarchy? Its rich history of social welfare, including universal healthcare and higher education? Or its royal motto, For Sverige—i tiden?”