The mansion is enormous, and that’s saying something coming from a girl like me, because my parents’ estate in Boston is the kind of place people drool over. This place is so big and extravagant it somehow makes the fifteen-thousand-square-foot house I grew up in look like a starter home.
I’ve been to fancy parties—I’ve even attended red-carpet events—but I’ve never in my life been to something likethis.
Marble floors gleam beneath the light of the chandeliers that drip with crystals the size of grapes, and glass display cases that would normally hold priceless sculptures now hold rows of champagne flutes instead. A string quartet provides the ambiance, while masked men move easily through the room in perfectly tailored suits.
Andwow. Masks or not, it’s obvious these men didn’t get powerful by skipping the gym. Most of them are tall with broad shoulders and confident in that quiet way men get when they have a lot of money and power.
One of these men might choose me.
I catch my reflection in a darkened window and smooth a hand down the fabric of my dress. It’s cream and silk and took my mother and me hours to find during a shopping trip—for this very event—in New York.
I can’t believe it’s finally happening.
My hair and makeup are still intact, and just the right amount of cleavage peeks out from the neckline of my dress. Though, across the room, another girl in a red dress is making a much moreaggressivecleavagepresentation choice.
I swear, if she leans forward by just an inch, we’re all going to get a nipple shot.
Beautiful and sexy but not obscene,my mom would say.
I straighten my shoulders and look back toward the masked men moving through the room.
These men hold all the power and money and wealth in the world. And soon, one of them will hold all my dreams and my future.
One of them will choose me to be his.
My pulse thrums in excitement. I feel like I’ve been waiting all twenty-three years of my life for this moment. Hell, I’ve been preparing for it since before I knew how to tie my own shoes.
From a young age, I’ve known the truth about vampires. Not the cartoon or movie versions, but therealones. The royal elites. The ones who aren’t showcased in the headlines but are so powerful behind the scenes they shape entire cities. My fathersays they control economies and foreign trade and industries across the globe.
My bloodline was confirmed when I was a baby.
“Rare,” my mom used to say while brushing my hair before school. “And special. That’s you.”
I am one of the lucky ones—one ofthe blood of the three. It’s Windsor blood, from my daddy’s side, and both my little sister Bonnie and I have it. But out of us Windsor girls,Iam the next generation to be chosen. The last Windsor woman who was chosen by an elite vampire was my father’s great-aunt Estelle.
This isn’t white-picket fences and minivans. This is royalty. This is fairy tales. And I’m the next lucky Windsor woman who is destined to be inside this world and live a life that’s bigger than most girls could ever dream.
At this event, there are a lot of women, but not all of them carry the same bloodline as me. I have one of only three bloodlines in the world that can marry and have children with a vampire.
It wasn’t always easy growing up in a human-focused world where you never spoke aboutthisworld or the existence of vampires and bloodlines. This isn’t something I could talk about at school or with girlfriends or college dorm roommates.
Only those in the inner circle are allowed to know.
And tonight, everyone in this roomknows.
It’s a relief, but it’s also a competition. There are formidable women here—some almost as beautiful as me—and my purpose is to catch the eye of my future vampire husband.
“Would you like a drink?” A masked man with chocolate-brown hair offers me a flute of champagne. His voice showcases this deep vibrato that I feel inside my chest. His eyes are a dark navy that almost looks onyx beneath the soft glow of the room, and they linger on me for a fraction longer than most would consider polite, but I understand. Anticipation is high for both of us.
“Yes.” I smile, but not too wide or excited. Just…confident. “Thank you.” I lift the glass to my lips, never letting my gaze stray from his. I can’t even begin to tell you how many times my mother made me practice exact scenarios like this in our kitchen.
In order to get the best, you need to be the best, my mom would say.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Blair Windsor.” I purposefully lick a drop of champagne off my top lip. I don’t ask him his name. I know the rules. They’ll tell you if they want to tell you. That’s how it works.
“You’re beautiful, Blair,” he says, reaching out to gently brush a few strands of hair off my shoulders, just barely missing my skin. They aren’t supposed to touch me until they claim me—it’s one of the highest rules of order for the whole selection process.
