The Heiress

1. Daisy

Daisy

T his insufferable asshole.

We met not two minutes ago, and I’m already prepared to rip her throat out and make her watch me devour it whole. I’m not kidding!

Her name is Lorde Sheen. Yes, that Sheen. The first thing I learned about her is that her mother is Camilla Sheen, the actress with more Oscars than Meryl Streep. The second thing I learned about her?

She’s a jackass.

Right now, I’m learning that she has one of the pearliest white smiles I’ve ever seen. Because she’s laughing right in my face from across our table. At this rate, she’s not going to be keeping that nice smile for much longer.

“So, Daze…” She pops more artisanal bread into her mouth, flakes and crumbs falling from between her teeth. Gross . I’m frozen, though. What gives her the right to shorten my name like that after knowing me for two minutes? Besides, what does she think I am? A movie title?

“It’s Daisy .” My teeth are gritted to the point where I can barely understand my words. The recipient of my murderous look is my supposed best friend, Ashleigh Lee of the Hong Kong hedge fund Lees, who was responsible for dragging me into this quagmire.

Lorde’s eyebrows reach her hairline. “That so? I think ‘Daze’ suits you so much better. It’s very… homely.”

What? What did she call me?

Luxurious. Stunning. Beautiful. Sophisticated. Patient. Regal. Those are the words people call me. Those are the words I appreciate being called!

Homely? Fuck right off with that shit!

She definitely notices my anger. Lorde is going to ride my rage into the sunset like I’m some deranged bucking bronco (mare?) in need of taming and training.

Daze. Look at her take great joy in calling me that, “I hear you’ve shacked up with plenty of people over the years.

So, what made you choose Angus of all assholes? ”

Beside me, Angus Smith, the worst date I’ve ever had, shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Ashleigh is responsible for this mess, but it’s only because Angus and Lorde are good friends, and the former needed a date – and I’m single.

I have no idea how Angus and Lorde are friends, though. They couldn’t be more different!

Let’s start with Angus Smith. Perfect, London-bred, bit on the short side but who’s measuring…

he’s got the boyish good looks to make up for it.

You might even say he’s our city’s very own Prince Harry.

Every girl I know whether from the country club or my old high school, has some nasty, dirty dreams about Angus Smith.

Then there’s this damned Lorde Sheen. Nouveau riche, I shall say out of politeness.

We all know her illustrious mother, a classic rags-to-riches story starting as a teen in the ‘80s. Nobody knows who her father is. Does Camilla Sheen know which Hollywood riffraff knocked her up to create this piece of work? Lorde looks more than fine on the outside – what? I can admit when someone I greatly dislike is hot. She’s taller than me when I’m in my sky-high heels.

Her thick hair begs for someone to either mess it up or comb it to perfection.

Now, look at those toned arms and shoulders and that it’s right there chest. Or so the tabloids – which I read religiously for a mention of my name – are always talking about.

I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been looking.

The thing the tabloids have forgotten to mention to loyal readers like me is that she’s a terrible fuckhead who should not bother being in my presence.

In a matter of ten minutes, this double date has gone straight to hell, and there is no one to blame save for Ms. Sheen.

Even though she is my friend’s date, she has made several crude remarks about me, shot me down even after polite answers, and managed to trip me on the way into the restaurant, breaking the heel of a Louboutin.

While I hobbled into the restaurant, she laughed it off.

Back to the gross thing she asked me. “I think that’s a bit inappropriate to ask,” I snap, although I’m blushing. I don’t want to be blushing. Lorde’s shit-eating grin makes me wonder if this isn’t a blush of embarrassment, but pure, righteous anger.

I look to Angus for some support. All he does is clear his throat.

“Come on, Lorde, don’t be a butt.” That’s all the help I get?

“So,” Ashleigh chirps, since we’ve all but forgotten the woman responsible for this mess.

I’m dropping boulders in her face with this glare of mine, but she won’t meet the avalanche heading her way.

“Thanks for conning me into this, Ash,” I want to say.

“ You kept going on about how hot Lorde is, and I had no choice but to come when it turned out she was Angus’s friend.

” I keep my trap shut. “Have we decided what we want to order?”

“I’ll have the ossobuco,” Lorde begins, before turning her attention to Ashleigh. “And I wouldn’t mind having you for dessert if you know what I mean.”

I lift the tablecloth and find Lorde’s hand on my friend’s bare knee. There is not much to grab there, so she’s about two inches away from finding a place she has no business being!

“Ow!” Yes. That was my foot meeting Lorde right in the shin.

She got her hand off my friend, didn’t she?

Except now that icy grin is directed right at me again.

“What’s the matter, Daze?” she asks through those pearly whites.

“Jealous? There’s more than enough room, so you’re definitely free to join us for a menage.

I hear it’s the trendy thing around here.

”Both she and Angus laugh like that was the most hilarious joke in the world.

Me? I’ve had enough.

My napkin hits the table. My chair screeches as I push it back abruptly.

No one’s laughing now. “You may treat girls like that in California,” I say, “but we have standards here in New England.” I use the last of my energy to give her the most derisive glare I can devise.

Not even Angus Smith is worth this. “Come on, Ash, let’s go and let these children laugh alone. ”

Ashleigh is squeamish, shifting back and forth in her chair. Finally, she meets my gaze. For the first time in a long while, she’s defiant instead of compliant. Damnit. The one time she decides to grow a backbone!

“Looks like you’re on your own.” Lorde swings her arm across Ashleigh’s chair.

Fine. I will snatch my purse and leave with my head held high. At least I’ll have tha–

“Ah!” My heel! It’s broken! Shit, shit, I forgot! Here I go, down, down to the floor in one of the city’s nicest brunch spots, latching onto the tablecloth as if it’s going to save me…

More like I take the whole damn thing down with me!

The tablecloth drapes over me as I look up at the ceiling.

Cutlery sings around me as it plunks onto the floor.

The whole restaurant has stopped functioning.

Why pay attention to your own table when you can gawk at the mess I just created?

Pull out more cell phones and snap more pictures, why don’t you!

Lorde is the first to try to help me up. While I would love to shirk her off out of principle, I grasp her hand and wobble my way back to my feet, sans one heel. Nope. Can’t do it!

She slams back into her chair as I topple onto her. “Oh, boy,” she grunts, catching me by the armpits, my left foot scrambling for purchase on the floor. I’m such a mess by now that all I can do is sink to my knees.

My head rests most unceremoniously on the side of her lap.

“I was gonna buy you a drink first,” she murmurs, so only I can hear. “But hey, if you wanna get right to it…”

I’m up in a flash, hopping on one foot in a mad dash to get away from this morbid humiliation.

A waiter rushes up to me, asking me in accented English if I need someone to call 911.

Ashleigh gets up and rounds the table. Angus puts both hands on his face, and I can’t tell if he’s holding back more awful laughter.

Everyone at the nearest table continues to gawk.

I ignore them. With my chin tilted far too high, I slip out of my broken heels and carry them with me out of the restaurant barefoot. Who knows? There might be a pap around here, and if I’m gonna show up in The Daily Social , it will be with my pride intact!

Then here I am, standing on the sidewalk, realizing that I left my purse, phone, and sweater in that cursed place.

Deep breaths. Remember, you’re Daisy Fucking DeMonte. One of the most put-together girls in all of New England. Heiress to a department store empire.

I’ve got what many women don’t. Long legs. Great hairline. Blue eyes and the lightest brown hair around, as expected of an upstanding young woman. Plus a mega-rich Daddy who thinks I’m his shining star.

Nobody… nobody fucks with me and gets away with it!

Daggers fly from my eyes as Lorde Sheen steps out of the restaurant with my things. I yank them from her grasp, tell her one more time that I do not appreciate being treated like a rotten piece of meat, and go hail the first cab I find.

We drive by her still standing on the sidewalk. “Sorry,” she mouths. Too little, too late!