Chapter 1
I bought an island. So what?
It’s not even a big island. It’s only, like, twenty-five acres.
The guy who sold it to me said it’s an international boating/sport-fishing destination with several private beaches and that it possessedstrong development potential. My parents are always telling me toreach my full potential, so I spent a measly couple million dollars on an early Christmas gift to do just that.
Apparently, that wastaking it too literallyanda gross waste of hard-earned income.
I guess they would know.
Dad’s an investment banker from old money. Mom’s the author of a beloved sweeping fantasy series called A Game of Dark Dissension that spawned four books, two spin-off novellas, a hit TV series, and an upcoming musical adaptation thanks to two prodigious teens on TikTok. She’s new money all the way.
Right now, I’m no money. Cut off. My black and gold cards were ceremoniously snipped with the sharpest scissors Mom could find. I almost dropped to my knees and wept, but my usual theatrics would do me no good in front of those two.
I stopped being sympathetic and started being a liability to them ages ago.
At least this time I’ve given them a good reason to believe it.
So, here I sit in the back of a Town Car as my driver winds an uphill, forest road toward Grandma’s house in picturesque but downright stifling middle-of-nowhere western Massachusetts. My rose-gold tablet stares menacingly at me from its charger. Pulled up on its screen is an email from our family publicist, Sarah Pearson. The damning body of the email is like the cut of Sarah’s tragic bangs: blunt.
We need to contain this story ASAP. No way to spin this.
Suggested action: Social media blackout + complete image rehabilitation
My parents do just about anything Sarah says to avoid being canceled, so this single email is largely to blame for my current predicament. Whyparentyour twenty-one-year-old when you have a PR titan to do it for you? What a joke.
Sitting alone with this frustration will only cause me to spin out like a truck in a snowstorm, so I whip out my phone for a surefire distraction.
The service is bad, but before it disappears altogether, I call Bentley Eng, my best friend. Or the closest I have to a best friend, anyway.
She answers on the third ring, even though she’s already tucked away in her Aspen ski-in estate for the better part of the holidays. Snowcapped mountains provide her with the perfect scenic backdrop for our fuzzy, cutting-in-and-out video call.
“What’s up, Matty Baby?” she asks, followed by the sound of her famously long, pointed fingernails tapping on a nearby countertop. As this call continues, the tapping will speed up, and once it reaches a fever pitch, I’ll know her friendly patience has run out for the day. I’ve got to make this quick.
“What am I going to do?” I whine. “I’m not going to last four seconds, let alone four weeks here. No clubs. No boys. Already barely any phone reception. I’m not a monk!” My driver, with his thick, dark hair tucked under a rigid hat, catches my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Driver Man, keep your eyes on the road and your ears to yourself. Thank you.” I can’t remember if his name is Mikhail or Maxim or Marcus or someone else entirely. Not that it matters.
The only thing that matters is that I’ve been banished to the Berkshires for the holidays. The rules of my sentencing are as follows: I will stay with my grandparents in their homely cabin for the entire holiday season—help with “chores” (seriously?) as needed, partake in Christmas traditions (yuck!), and reflect upon the actions that led to Island Gate. I will not use social media, get into trouble, ormake a further mockery of the family name.
It’s a vast overreaction, if you ask me.
I mean, yeah, sure, maybe a bunch of Dad’s big clients would threaten to pull investments from major accounts if they saw how Matthew Prince Sr.lets his son handle the family finances. And it’s possible Mom’s musical producers might back out because bad press from the creative team is certain death for advance ticket sales. But this would hardly be the first time I’ve sent the media into a tizzy over a price tag.
My entire closet probably costs more than that stupid island.
I have a sneaky feeling something else is up. I just can’t put my finger on it.
“I want to say I feel for you, Matty Baby, but my Xanie just kicked in, so I’m not feeling much of anything.” Bentley’s eyes are spaced-out orbs only half staring back at me. “Which is exactly where I need to be before my cousins arrive. Those little shits don’t deserve the droves of expensive athleisure my parents bought them. If they still believed in Santa, you best believe I’d be shoving coal down those spandex stockings.”
“Bee,” I intone. “Focus. Please. I’m in crisis mode here!”
“Hard to catch the urgency when you won’t even tell me what you’re being punished for,” she says with an unsympathetic groan.
“It’s nothing, Bee. I swear.” I’m sweating as I rack my brain for something convincing to say. I might think the island is no big deal, but everyone else seems to think it’s the end of the world. So, I’ve been instructed to keep it under lock and key. Even from the people closest to me.
“I maxed out my cards again and they freaked. It’s, like, the eighth time now,” I lie.
I know Bentley’s my best friend, but she’s the reason the phrase “loose lips sink ships” exists. Literally. She caused a famous DJ’s yacht to sink off the coast of Ibiza once because she was gossiping with the captain. He was so engrossed in her chitchat that we ended up hitting a submerged coral reef. No one was injured, thankfully. But it was still scary as hell.
