Before I take my first step, my phone rings. I normally wouldn’t pick it up, but it’s my brand manager, Kiki Klineman. And I always pick up her calls.
“El, hon. I saw photos of you at dinner,” she says in her usual no-nonsense monotone.
“Already?” I don’t know why I’m surprised when she always seems to know the news before it goes to print. It’s why I hired her.
“Don’t worry. You look incredible,” she says flatly. “Nothing urgent now, but call me in the morning. I’ve got a bunch of requests coming in for the summer. Some of them overlap, so we need to prioritize the ones that matter most.”
“Fun! I can’t wait to go through them with you.”
“Me too,” she deadpans. “But tonight enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it!” Kiki is a straight shooter with no emotions. But this is the most she’s ever shown.
The second she hangs up, a champagne flute is handed to me. It’s no surprise I don’t listen to Gavin and I take the glass. Like Kiki said, I’ve earned a night of fun.
“Elena, over here.”
“Turn to the left.”
“Look to your right.”
With literally everyone calling for me at all angles, I do a three-sixty while holding the glass up, giving them exactly what they want. The sound of the shutter click is music to my ears. As soon as I turn the corner and before I walk through the doors into the club, I swiftly pour out the champagne in a planter. When I get inside, an attendant takes the empty glass from me. Smug satisfaction rises inme, knowing I’ve proven Gavin wrong not once but twice. Idomake responsible decisions, and Icanbe discreet…when I want to.
It isn’t long before the party really gets going. The music is as intoxicating as the vibe, and my body can’t help but move to the rhythm of it. Everywhere I go, I’m dancing. On the speakers, in the stairway…even in the bathroom while I wash my hands, I’m dancing like I don’t have a care in the world. And why should I? Everyone loves me.
“Drink, drink, drink, drink!” a crowd chants at me the second they see me come out of the bathroom doors. So I do. Right after I take the shot, my phone vibrates in my hand. I answer without thinking.
“Ugh, what now?” I shout over the electronic music pulsing in the background.
“Someone’s live streaming in the club.” God, Gavin is so exhausting. Even on a Saturday night, he can’t take a day off. “Drinking out of someone’s belly button? Elena, have younostandards?” Of course Gavin notices the one time I slip up.
“I know who you are,” I say, wiping my mouth from the belly-button shot in question. “You’re Carlton.”
“Jesus, Elena, just how drunk are you? I’mGavin,” he seethes. “Your older, much wiser, andmuch moreresponsible brother.”
“No, I mean, you’re Carlton fromFresh Prince,” I say, completely sober. “You know, the really uptight one who doesn’t know how to relax? You’re Asian Carlton!” I cackle at the spot-on comparison. “Don’t you have anything better to do than to stalk my socials? You need to get your own life, Gavin.”
“I do have a life. Sonya and I were watching a movie when—”
“Ew, stop flexing your relationship status.” Just because Dad is proud that Gavin’s dating Sonya, he acts like he’s cured cancer orsomething. According to Dad, Sonya Sinclair is perfect for Gavin. On paper that is. She’s the heiress to Bucky’s BBQ Sauce, which has been a staple in households across the US since her grandfather Bucky Sinclair trademarked and sold their family’s secret recipe in 1960. Hailed as “The most American discovery since America itself,” her family’s business matches the caliber of success of our family’s, and they’re in the food industry, which ensures that our two families will never be in direct competition with each other. Dad thinks Gavin and Sonya’s relationship elevates our status. You know, like a birds-of-a-feather type of thing. News flash: The only person who cares about Gavin’s relationship with Sonya, aside from Dad, is Gavin.
“You can’t make having a girlfriend your entire personality,” I say.
“You can’t make partying your entire personality,” Gavin counters.
“Actually I can, Gavin.” And because he won’t take my word for it, I hold my phone up for Gavin to hear for himself.
“Elena, Elena, Elena!” the crowd chants when I cup my hand around my ear. Just because he—and my parents, for that matter—don’t think I’m worth their time, it doesn’t mean others feel that way too. And as long as people keep saying“What’s that?”and are paying me to attend their parties, I don’t see that changing anytime soon.
Chapter 2
In the dark club, the strobe lights and mind-altering music make everything seem like a good idea. Like table dancing, kissing randos, and eating bacon-wrapped hot dogs from the questionable cart around the corner. And, okay, yes. The occasional drink is also a huge contributing factor. But who cares? I’m living my best life. In the day, however, the harsh lighting reveals the smeared makeup, the sweat stains, and the ugly truth that none of it was a good idea.
My head is pounding, and my mouth feels like sandpaper. I need water. And a maximum-strength ibuprofen. I try to peel my eyes open, but my lids are glued to my eyeballs. After several attempts, I finally pry them open, only to shield my face with a hand.Ugh, the light. Once my vision adjusts, however, I’m still squinting as I take inventory of my surroundings. That’s not my bathrobe. I don’t own a corded telephone. And this bedspread? I would never choose this print for myself.
I sit up to get a proper look around. Something about it seems familiar. It’s a hotel room in The Beverly Hilton. I’d recognize these curtains anywhere. But whose room is this? When I attempt to get out of bed, my feet feel someone at the other end of it. I cover my mouth to muffle a gasp.Ohmy God. This is bad. So bad.
Instinctively I pat myself down. I sigh as soon as I realize myjumpsuit is still on and still intact, with all its buttons firmly clasped. At least nothing happened between me and this mystery guy.
A quick scan of the room tells me we’re the only ones here. Which means my friends must have abandoned me at some point last night. How could they do this to me? How could they stand by and watch me make the series of poor decisions that led me here? I could’ve been hurt, unconscious, abducted, or all of the above. For all they know, this guy could be a serial killer. I mean, a pretty young one with a Rolex and a diamond stud and…are those keys to a Ferrari?
