Chapter One
EMMA
End of July - London - One month before the fall semester of Senior Year
If that man doesn’t take his cocky, greedy, and nauseatingly arrogant stare off me, I’m going to scream.
Michael leans in and whispers something to the redhead next to him, and it is so hilarious that she throws her head back laughing. His spiteful eyes catch mine once again, and he smirks. My lips thin as I keep a straight, bored-looking face.
This man-child has been trying to provoke me at every party we’ve run into each other this summer, and it’s honestly pathetic. We are ancient history, as I’ve made clear multiple times. But somehow, he can’t let it go. He’s an arrogant ass who’s mad that I dumped himfour years agowhen we weren’t even together…not really anyway.
Looking away, I take a sip of champagne that I wish were a vodka soda, but all they serve at the annual London masquerade ball is champagne, white wine, gin martinis, and old-fashioneds.Taking one more swig of my champagne, I set the flute down to smooth out my light blue satin gown. Facing forward, I straighten my white mask lined with pearls, a gift from my grandmother. I’ve attended four of these balls, and it’s the first time she’s found a comfortable mask and let me choose my own dress and hairstyle: a bun that lets my curtain bangs hang and is easy to undo once I decide to leave.
Checking the new dainty silver watch my parents gave me for my birthday, I see that I only need to be here for another hour, which feels like an eternity.
My grandparents—who are complete snobs—expect me to act properly and demurely by saying my hellos and goodbyes to all the right people I’ve met countless times but can barely remember. I may be twenty-one, but I’ve learned it’s easier to please my grandparents rather than rebel. So, demure it is.
God, I hate that word.Demure.Who the hell says that on a regular basis?
And they expect me to find a boyfriend here, too. Ha,as if.Not one of these men is my type.
Poor little rich girl,I can’t help but think and take another large swig of my champagne, refilling my second glass without bothering to wait for the waiter to make his stop. The alcohol begins to hit me, but the big dinner helps soak it up.
Luckily, I’m alone at the table and have been for a while now, while most couples are either on the dance floor or standing, deep in conversation. I already took care of what I needed to with the people at my table. We ate, talked about other social events we’ve attended this summer, I answered their questions about my classes at Driscoll University…blah, blah, blah.
God, I miss my mom and dad. They might come from old money, but they’re good and funny people.
And now I sound like a baby.
A softer version of “Masquerade” by Lindsey Stirling begins to play, and I see Michael asking the redhead to dance. Theannoyance I felt before increases. I may not want to dance with him, but goddammit, I love this song.
My friends back home think I don’t know how to dance, and although that’s partly true because I can’t sway my hips like my best friend does, when it comes to ballroom dancing, I’m not half bad. Not that they need to know that. I had no choice but to learn this style of dancing for these kinds of events I’m dragged to every summer. After all, it is my duty as a Haywood and Brighton to maintain decorum and stay active in the community. Although I only go by Haywood for privacy reasons.
I cringe. My parents don’t give me crap as my grandparents do, and they encouraged me to pursue my journalism career when I decided I wanted nothing to do with either of the family businesses. Still, they have an image to uphold.
They married each other out of love, but in their families’ eyes, it was also a business transaction. My parents were just lucky enough to fall in love with the right person, who also benefited them and their families financially, but they’re amazing parents and extremely humble. My mother’s parents, on the other hand…
Just thinking about marrying someone they set me up with disgusts me. They gave up on trying to set me up with their friends’ sons long ago when I’d become stubborn to the point of driving them and all those eligible sons insane.
Michael meets my eyes again and seems to think he’s achieved something, as if he’s come out victorious by dancing with another girl. He twirls the redhead and suddenly moves closer to my table than before.
Ew, no.
Enough is enough.
“Fuck this,” I murmur to myself.
I grab the bottle of champagne that’s mostly full and stomp out of the banquet hall.
Passing a group of familiar faces, I give them the bright smile I usually wear and say hello in the posh voice I’ve learned to useat these events. The second I round the corner of the exit and enter another hall, I roll my eyes and allow myself to slouch. This champagne isn’t nearly enough to get through tonight.
Wanting and needing some space, I continue down the hall until I find one of the rooms usually used by grooms to change in before the weddings hosted here. Opening the door, the room’s lights are dim, but I spot the leather couch I’ve become very familiar with over the past couple of years.
I hop onto the couch while taking off my white stilettos and place the champagne on the side table.
“God, my feet are killing me,” I huff. “If only I could take these damn pasties off, but then Michael and half the men in that room would be looking at my nipples,” I groan.
My bun falls as I carefully remove the pins one by one, letting my blonde hair cascade down my back. I massage my scalp, then release a loud sigh as I finally allow myself to collapse.
