Which would make me no better than my asshole twin.
And I refused to be that guy.
11
Verity
"Try this one." Saoirse thrust a cocktail dress at me. I frowned at the frothy pink tulle and sequined bodice.
"You're joking, right?"
"No, Ver, I'm not fucking joking. We've been through my entire closet and you've turned your nose up at all my suggestions!"
"Maybe that's because I don't want to go to the stupid party!" I huffed and threw myself dramatically onto her super soft bed. Saoirse needed to shut up. Yes, I liked to party as much as the next girl. And yes, I also loved to dress up in pretty outfits. But what Ididn'tlove was spending the evening watching a bunch of sexpot women slobber all over her brothers. And if I showed my face at this party, that's exactly what would happen.
"Tough shit, bitch. You're going even if I have to drag you downstairs in your PJs."
"Fuck you, whore."
She stuck her tongue out at me while shimmying her hips and then twerking for good measure. "Damn right. I'm embracing my ho phase."
I giggled, despite how annoying she was.
"Since you refuse to entertain the pink one, this is your only option." She held up a black glittery dress that would fall mid-thigh on me. And barely cover my boobs. I examined the cut and decided it wasn't the worst one in her collection.
"OK, fine. I'll wear this and show my face for an hour. Happy now?"
Excited shrieks hurt my ears. "Yes! You can be my wing woman."
"Why? Who have you got your eye on?"
A conspiratorial grin touched her lips. "Remember that guy I hooked up with at the Christmas Ball?"
"The one who ghosted you?" Which led to days of tears, threats to stop eating, and movie marathons featuring heartbroken heroines.
She waved her hand in the air. "Yes, but he had a good reason."
"Um, not sure a last-minute skiing trip counts as a good reason. Phones still work in ski resorts."
Saoirse threw me an exasperated look. "Yes, but he lost his phone, remember? Said he dropped it in a snowbank."
"And yet he still posted loads of photos on Instagram…" Funny that. Saoirse ignored my not-so-subtle jibe. Denial was a girl's best friend.
I'd spent a week mopping up the tears when her dream guy left her bed without so much as a backward glance and then ignored her messages for a week.
As an expert in toxic men, I sympathized. Her crush could have been Andrew Tate's identical, equally unpleasant, twin. But Saoirse didn't want to hear my thoughts about her mistake.
"That's not important. It's all in the past." She hopped up and down with excitement. "He's coming tonight! So let's do your makeup and then I can work on making myself look smoking hot."
All of Ireland's rich, famous, and dubiously connected queued around the large circular driveway in their Bentleys, Porsches, Maseratis, and Rolls, waiting for the assembled line of armed parking attendants to direct their vehicles.
Saoirse and I stood watching the guests teeter up the stone steps to the main entrance, where servers carrying trays of champagne flutes greeted them. It was all ridiculously OTT, but Declan liked to make a good impression on his business associates and hangers on.
The first time he’d allowed us to attend one of these parties, Saoirse, Aoife, and I were too young to drink. Not that it stopped us. Aoife had stolen a bottle of whiskey from the bar and the three of us got wasted in the library.
Declan lost his shit that night and banned us from all future parties. At least until we were of legal drinking age.
With glasses in hand, Saoirse and I wandered around, her plucking small nibbles from passing trays and me taking in the sights. Every room hummed with people, even the rarely used ballroom.
