Chapter 1
Roxy
Rain slicks the street in ripples that reflect the amber street lamps and soak up the shadows.
The drizzle is soft, giving a sheen to Boston that almost makes it romantic.
Headlights shimmer across the dark glass of the limo’s back doors.
Beyond them, my sister stands with a smirk under an umbrella being held for her by a silent, hulking man.
The pearls at her throat catch the light, gleaming.
She looks perfectly at home in the chill, and the wealth, and the quiet menace of the evening.
Meanwhile, I sit in the back seat, heart thudding, watching her through the rain—like a lamb waiting to be led somewhere it shouldn’t go.
When I came home for the summer, I expected to be left alone to work on assignments.
Kat asked me only two days ago if I wanted to come to the masquerade tonight.
‘The Gilded Range’, sponsored in part by her husband’s accounting company and catering to the city's elite.
So…why is it in an old bank?
The building is nondescript, narrow, with carved lions pressing forth from worn beige stone. The windows are dark, and only two sconces on either side of the doors light the way.
With a sigh, Kat turns away and sashays toward the bank, calling over her shoulder, “Try not to trip on the way in, Roxy. These people notice everything.”
I scramble out of the car and duck under the umbrella of another waiting man, his face erased by shadows.
A shiver thrills down my spine at the feel of the rain grazing my skin.
What was I thinking?
It’s summer, but early yet, and the white satin dress I’m wearing is sleeveless. The fur at the shoulders is just for show, hinting at the creature I am tonight.
Not a lamb, but a hare.
Gathering the hem of my dress, I pick my way along the sidewalk and murmur, “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Kat’s mouth twitches. “You should be grateful I even brought you. David’s firm had to pull strings for an extra ticket.”
That old familiar blend of dread and resentment creeps in.
And annoyance, because I knew it was a lie.
My mom had already whispered the truth to me earlier, explaining that David was too wrapped up in work to attend, and he and Kat had been arguing about that.
She wanted to go, but not alone, so here I was.
If I say I’m not grateful, I’m ungrateful. If I say thank you, I look small.
There’s no winning with Kat.
The limo pulls away behind us, and the evening air is sharp and damp. I breathe in the scent of wet pavement and Kat’s hairspray.
As the two men who flank us bend to open the doors, my heart thuds again, and I tug at the top of my dress. It suddenlyfeels far too tight. Does the low neckline show too much skin? Kat insisted I borrow it from her stylist, saying it would “elongate my shape.”
