The day of the gala dawned cloudy and a little chilly for spring, which was actually perfect, because clouds made for better photo lighting, and the cold meant I’d get to wear my faux-fur wrap and silk gloves without looking like I was trying too hard. I blinked into the hazy sun filtering through my bedroom window at a low angle, appreciating both the view of Central Park and the way the light illuminated the vintage porcelain planters I’d installed on the mantel. I’d never been able to do that in my apartment at the Afton—my grandma would always send an employee in to throw them out so that I wouldn’t get dirt or water leakage on hotel property. Here, in my own space, I could do whatever Iwanted. Hopefully not leak water into my floor, but if I wanted to, I could.
Wait a second. The sun should not be filtering in through my bedroom window at all, considering I’d closed the blackout curtains last night and Gabe knew better than to wake me up before eight.
There could only be one culprit. I rolled over with a theatrical groan to glare at Vienna, who stood next to Gabe’s empty side of the bed, calmly examining her nails. It took her a moment to raise her eyes to meet mine. “Well, it’s about time.”
“You could have called,” I grumbled.
“I did. You didn’t pick up. Come on, sleeping beauty.”
I’d been all ready to keep glaring, but apparently all it took for me to get up without complaint was to make me feel pretty even though I had bed head and remnants of eye cream giving my face a ghostly pallor. I pushed myself up. Squeaky Meatball, who’d been curled up at the foot of the bed, gave a rusty meow of protest. I didn’t know what he was complaining about—hecould continue doing his best croissant cosplay as long as he wanted. Cats didn’t have to plan galas. Or attend them. Or do anything, really. Old Pom had kind of been like a cat. “You’re killing me. I was so nervous about today that I couldn’t fall asleep. I barely got, like, eight and a half hours.”
“You’re doing better than me,” she said, and it was only then that I registered that the bags under her eyes were bigger than Poquette’s new totes, the ones that could fit both a laptop and a Stanley Cup. “Come on. Have you checked in with everyone? There’s always some vendor that doesn’t come through or something that goes wrong.”
“Lina’s got that under control, I’m sure,” I said. I reached for my phone. Gabe had already left for work, but he’d texted me encouragement and even an emoji heart, which for him was nearly the equivalent of tearing open his chest to show me his actual heart. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she said, but she didn’t look me in the eye as she said it. “And yes, I’m sure your assistant is doing a fine job, but this isyournight. You’re the one who cares most about everything. It’s your name and reputation on the line, and your cause that you feel the most strongly about.”
I took a deep, slightly shaky breath. Yes. It was my name and reputation there on the line. After tonight, that name would have a very different reputation. No longer would people hear the name “Pomona Afton” and think,girl with an admittedly glamorous mug shot who has never had a thought deeper than a kiddie pool.
And it was my cause too. The press could claim that I was only starting a nonprofit for social cachet all they wanted, but I knew the truth. I’d seen firsthand last year the struggles that people like Gabe went through in order to get an education, and had learned since all about people who had it even worse. It wasn’t fair. The world wasn’t fair—I’d been given so much, and they’d been given so little. It was on me to help even the score, so that fewer Gabes would have to struggle.
“And you’re going to kill it,” Vienna said with a tiny smile, holding out my belt bag. “Now come on. Get dressed.”
Thoroughly energized and more than a little anxious, I brushed my teeth in the green marble bathroom I’d designed (the idea: if my makeup looked good reflected against green marble, it would look good literally anywhere), threw my hair into a bun, and changed into a cute casual denim zip-up dress. Finally, I looked presentable—wait: I slipped on a pair of big sunglasses;nowI looked presentable. “Okay. Let’s start with the guest list.”
And thus I was thrown into a whirlwind of activity—the best kind of whirlwind, because it didn’t mess up my hair. I scanned the final RSVPs and sent Lina in the direction of a few second-tier socialites who wouldn’t be insulted by a last-minute invite, then checked to make sure the bakery was doing okay with tonight’s dessert order (somehow Sage had written down rhubarb only,when the tarts were supposed to include strawberry too). And I plucked a few photos of French heiresses wearing thick-framed glasses off my feed to send Coriander in case she was wavering.
“Ugh.” I grimaced at my phone an hour later. Vienna and I had progressed to the breakfast nook of the eat-in kitchen, where she was pouring herself an ice water with cucumber and I was hunched at the table squinting at my tablet. “I guess I can’t really be annoyed at someone who’s, like, giving us a building, but could Conrad Phlume just stop for a second? He won’t stop texting me. He just asked for a gluten-free meal with a side of garlic bread. Like, why?”
“Because he’s a giant asshole?” Vienna turned with the heavy crystal glass at her lips. “Don’t listen to anything he says.”
I sighed. “I have to listen to everything he says. He’s giving us abuilding.”
She winced. Just for a split second, and it was half blocked by a cucumber slice, but I know what I saw. “Vienna, are you sure nothing’s wrong?”
“I told you, I’m fine.” She took another sip. The ice in her glass clinked against the sides—her hand was shaking.
“You’re definitely not fine,” I said. “What’s going on?”
She stared at me for a second. Set the glass down on the gleaming granite countertop. Awfully close to the edge—it wouldn’t even be a challenge for Squeaky to knock off. “You know I love you, Pom, right?”
“Yes,” I said cautiously.
“And I would never do anything to hurt you.”
I mean, she’d hurt me pretty badly when she friend-dumped me a couple of years ago, but I wouldn’t bring that up. “Okay?”
She stared at me again. Her lips parted.
Then she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “After tonight, it’ll be over anyway.” She cleared her throat. “Have you heard back from the venue?”
Later on, I’d be furious at myself for not pressing her. But atthe moment, in my defense, my phone was pinging nonstop and my mind was running a mile a minute with all I had to accomplish before the event of a lifetime that very night. So I let it go. Told myself I’d press her tomorrow. “Apparently they don’t have any violet tablecloths. Just purple. It’s a disaster.”
You’d think I’d be exhausted by the time it came to get dressed for the gala, but somehow it was the opposite: I felt a little like I’d downed eight espresso martinis (really do not recommend; emergency room lighting looks good on nobody). “I’m definitely going to need your help zipping me up,” I told Vienna. “Alexa Vinchy dresses are great and all, but it’s like she has a competition with herself about making the smallest, sharpest zipper covered in the most snaggable material she can possibly fit on one dress.”
It was worth it, though, I knew as I admired myself in the mirror, smoothing the jagged ruffles that kept the poofy skirt from getting cutesy. The dress had a lot going on besides the ruffles—a jewel-colored mosaic pattern on the bodice; an asymmetric hem; gauze puffing up to my collarbone—but it all worked together. The moment I tried it on, I’d looked my reflection up and down and thought,Yes. Yes, this is it. This is the dress that will make me the center of attention.
And then, of course, there were the shoes. After my best friend had murdered my grandmother with my mother’s famous stiletto heel and pictures of those heels had been splashed across every newspaper and social media account in the world, I had two options: give in to the salacious mob who would whisper furiously if I dared wear heels again and start wearing flats, or teeter tall and proud back into society.
