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“I always have a schedule.”

“Not like yours last night.” Tiffany looks toward the dress on the floor. “That the dress?”

“Pretty,” Charlotte says.

“It’s just a dress.” I pick it up quickly and fold it over my arm. “Did you need something?”

“Yes,” Charlotte says. “Details.”

“I don’t have any.”

“You went to a Vexley gala with Quenton Stanley⁠—”

“You know about Mr. Stanley?” I gasp.

“We know everything,” Tiffany says. “Now dish.”

“I came home tired,” is all I give them.

Tiffany laughs. “I bet.”

“I need to get downstairs,” I say, trying to move past them.

Charlotte shifts, blocking me. “Was it glamorous?” she asks. “All those rich men staring at you like you were one of them?”

“I wasn’t one of them.”

“No,” Tiffany says sweetly. “You definitely weren’t.”

Charlotte steps closer. “I would never go to one of those events.”

I almost laugh. “You’re saying that because you weren’t asked.”

Her eyes flash. “I’m saying it because there’s baggage that comes with being chosen by a Vexley.”

“Baggage?” I repeat.

“Oh, come on.” Tiffany tilts her head. “You think people don’t talk?”

“About what?”

“About girls who get invited upstairs,” Charlotte says. “Girls who get dressed up and sent out like party favors.”

My stomach drops. “I wasn’t⁠—”

“What? A party favor?” Charlotte’s laugh is cruel. “Then what were you?”

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t know what I was last night.

Mr. Stanley’s entertainment?

Nathaniel’s mistake?

My own foolish dream?

Probably all three.