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His name was Jesse Grayson.

And if Thomas ran into him again, he was going to do a whole lot more than break his nose.

It hadn’t taken him all that long to parse out the identity of Vivienne’s unwelcome visitor. Relatively, anyway. He’d sat awake until just before dawn—his computer in his lap, the guestroom lit in a blue-light cast—and panned through Vivienne’s endless posts.

He’d found what he was looking for in a candid shot of Vivienne and Hadley Appelbaum laughing up at the photographer, prom dresses glittering and corsages wilting. The comment from Grayson had been one of a dozen: keep that corsage on tonight.

It was none of his business. Thomas knew it objectively. Rationally. Logically.

It burned a hole through him all the same.

Clicking over to Grayson’s account, he’d found the photos wiped. Only an old profile picture remained—a faraway shot of a man standing atop a rocky outcrop, the sun streaming in around him.

But it was the man he was looking for, Thomas had been sure of it.

In his pocket, his phone rang. It was the second call he’d received from his fraternity president in nearly as many hours. The ringtone rattled through the hall where he stood now, braced against the wide wainscoting. He silenced it just as the door to Philip’s office flew open. With his thinning hair mussed and a steaming mug of coffee in hand, Philip looked as though he’d gotten even less sleep than Thomas.

“Come in,” he said. “Let’s make this quick.”

Thomas tailed after him into the office, sitting where indicated. Philip dropped into the executive chair across from him and set his coffee on his desk. For several moments, he sat with a finger balanced along his lip, regarding Thomas as though he were sizing him up for slaughter.

Just when Thomas was about to give in and break the silence himself, Philip sat forward and pushed a thick manila file across the desk.

“Read through this. Sign it.”

Wary, Thomas scooped the file toward him and lifted the front cover. Several paragraphs of legal jargon spanned the length of the very first page.

“Uh—what is it?”

“A simple nondisclosure agreement,” said Philip, with a dismissive wave. “It’s all boilerplate.”

“Oh.” Thomas let the file fall shut. “Is there a reason you’re giving this to me now?”

“There is, in fact.” Philip leaned back and laced his fingers over his stomach. His mouth looked as though he’d bitten into something sour. “Tonight, the Turner family is hosting their annual cotillion. It’s an extremely exclusive event. My colleagues will be there and, regrettably, so will the press.”

“Oh,” said Thomas, who felt there was something critical he was missing.

“I’m not sure if Vivienne told you,” said Philip, “but one of my longtime clients lost his son this past weekend. You met him briefly. Bryce Donahue.”

“I saw the news,” said Thomas. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yes, it’s a real tragedy,” agreed Philip. “Unfortunately, reporters are sharks. They get a whiff of blood in the water, they come circling. Isaac Shaw from the Daily Talk is one of them. He’s a hack journalist—the sort that thinks everything is a conspiracy. There’s not a soul that takes him seriously, but he thinks he can get a quote off Vivienne, and that makes him a problem.”

“Got it,” said Thomas. “You want me to run interference?”

Philip beamed. “You’re a smart kid. Shaw doesn’t know a lick of sign. If they encounter one another—and they likely will—I’d rest easier knowing you were there to help her navigate the interaction with grace.”

“I can do that,” said Thomas, flipping again through the document. “Although—if you don’t mind me saying so—I was already doing that. I’m not sure what the NDA is for.”

Philip tensed. “Do you have an issue with the contract?”

“Not at all,” Thomas rushed to say. “I just want to know what to expect.”

There was a pause before Vivienne’s stepfather answered. “Tonight’s party will run well past curfew. Sometimes Vivienne has trouble after dark. I’d like to make sure that trouble stays between us.”

“I don’t plan on saying anything to anyone,” Thomas assured him. He thought of Vivienne in the bathroom, her eyes wild, her wrist bloodied. Wariness punched a hole through his chest. He’d come in here today prepared to tell Philip about Jesse Grayson.

Instinctively, he decided against it.

“I nearly forgot,” said Philip, slapping a hand onto the desk. He reached into the topmost drawer and withdrew a sleek cigar box, setting it between them. “I’ve got a gift for you.”

Thomas took it, prying open the lid. Nestled into a velvet cushion was a thickly linked bracelet set with a single stone. Flat and lusterless, the white mount had a slightly uneven shape to it. It looked identical to the stone in Philip’s signet ring, too opaque to catch the light.

“Amelia had it custom made for you,” said Philip. “Put it on. See if it fits.”

Thomas obliged, setting down the box to affix the clasp in place. The chain was cold against his wrist. The white stone winked up at him like a blind eye.

“It’s great. Thank you.”

“You’re in the family now,” said Philip. “And in this family, we do what?”

Thomas swallowed. He felt strangely cornered. “We keep it in the family.”

“That’s right.” Philip smiled. “Sign the NDA, son. It’s just a formality.”

···

Several hours later, he was midway through wrestling with his bow tie when the doorbell rang. It reverberated all through the house like a death knell. The dogs fell immediately to barking. On his bed, his phone lit up with a text. He gave up on his tie and moved to check his messages.

Princess

door

Thomas

you have me confused with the butler.

The doorbell rang again. Whoever was outside was pressing the button repeatedly, holding it down so that the dogs went wild. On his bed, the phone stayed dark. Vivienne’s parents had headed out an hour earlier, leaving the two of them behind to prepare on their own. Across the house, the doorbell rang and rang. With a groan, Thomas caved.

Shoving aside the dogs, he pried open the front door to find Hadley Appelbaum and Frances Lefevre on the other side, the former dressed in a puffy, plum-colored gown and the latter in a tailored tuxedo.

“Get excited, Superman,” said Frankie, in her usual deadpan. “We’re riding with you.”

“Says who?”

“Vivienne,” said Hadley, who didn’t look remotely pleased to see him.

Frankie, on the other hand, looked delighted. “You must have really pissed her off if she doesn’t even want to be alone in the car with you. Where is she, anyway?”

“Upstairs,” said Thomas darkly. “I’ll go get her.”

···

He found Vivienne in bed, her skin lit gold beneath the setting sun, her shadow stretching along the wall like taffy. She didn’t look up as he let himself in. She lay on her stomach, dressed in a silk pajama set, her hair in fat pink curlers. A thin bit of fishing wire curled between her teeth. All her focus appeared to be trained on slowly threading little glass beads onto a strand of wire.

“Your friends are downstairs,” he said. “You should probably get ready.”

She ignored him, her feet swinging through the air. A pair of faux fur slippers whisked together in an audible swish-swish-swish .

“Or we can stay here,” he said, propping himself against the wall. “And you can tell me why you suddenly don’t want to be alone in a car with me.”

She kept quiet, rolling the wire into a knot. In his pocket, his phone rang again.

He silenced it. Again.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Vivienne,” he said. “You know that, right?”

That seemed to jar her into motion, at least. She rolled out of bed, rising fluidly onto her toes and reaching for his hand, slipping the bracelet onto his wrist as she did. A string of pale pony beads snapped into place, the word CRYBABY spelled out in neat black lettering. She set to work loosening the clasp of the silver band beside it. With a soft click , the chain came loose in her hands. She transferred it into his grasp, folding his fingers over the links. Her touch lingered, scalding through him.

“You don’t like the bracelet Philip gave me?”

Her flat amber stare rose to his. I like mine better.

“Then I’ll wear yours.”

It was the most amicable exchange they’d had in days, and it instantly loosened something inside his chest. Whatever she saw in his gaze caused her own to shutter. She stepped out from beneath him as he pocketed the chain. I should get ready.

“What if we blew off the party,” he said, without thinking. “We could stay here.”

She looked startled by the suggestion. And do what?

“Uh, well, whatever you want. Personally, I was thinking we could sit on the couch and do nothing.”

She considered him sideways, thinking it over. The lack of an outright dismissal loosened the knot still further. Finally, she signed, It’s Shark Week .

He grinned. “Best week in television, if you ask me.”

She bit down on her lip to keep from smiling. Your tie looks terrible.

“Yeah.” He gave a short laugh. “Philip should have given me a clip-on.”

Didn’t your dad ever teach you?

“No, uh—” He cleared his throat. “He didn’t teach me much.”

All traces of laughter disappeared from her face. She looked suddenly solemn, a ribbon of hair springing loose from her curlers.

I can help you.

Before he could protest, she’d risen onto her toes beneath him and begun redoing the knot with nimble fingers. He lifted his chin to grant her access, his pulse racing at a clip. When it was done, she stepped back to examine her work.

You look nice.

He feigned surprise. “Was that a compliment, Miss Farrow?”

Patting him on the chest, she turned toward the bathroom.

She didn’t make it far. A half step, at best. That’s all it took for him to reconsider. He caught her by the crook of her arm, tugging her into a pirouette. She managed to cut him a single, questioning look before he bent down and closed the remaining space between them. This time around, he did it right. He took his time, kissing her the way he wanted to—the way he should have done that day in his room. His hands splayed along her spine, pressing her into him until her breath shattered across his tongue in a soundless gasp.

The kiss deepened as the sun sank back behind the trees, leaving them shrouded in a velvety twilight. Emboldened by the dark—or else hastened by a sense of urgency—Vivienne grasped at his collar, undoing the knot she’d tied only moments before. The topmost button of his dress shirt popped loose. The second. The third.

Her fingertips scraped like claws along his clavicle.

“Viv? Are you ready?”

A voice in the hall sent them flying apart, both of them breathing hard.

Hadley appeared, flanked by the dogs, her expression flat. Vivienne began rapidly tugging out her curlers as though she’d been doing it all along, shaking loose the soft waves of her hair. It wasn’t remotely convincing. Her face was flush with color. Her lipstick was a mess of pink. Self-conscious, Thomas pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. His knuckles came away smudged.

“We’re late,” said Hadley. It came out accusatory. “Let’s go, before my mom murders me.”

···

The Turner family home was a sprawling Georgian estate of weathered brick and shuttered gables. Sleek white columns propped up the entryway, beneath which sat tiered topiaries wrapped in yellow string lights. Several expensive-looking cars were parked along the hedges out front. It looked, to Thomas, like a scene from a Bond movie, and not a place real people actually lived.

He pulled into a spot indicated by a parking attendant, surprised when the attendant rapped a knuckle on his door. He rolled down the window to find a pimply boy in a red vest and borrowed loafers.

“Valet?”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” Thomas tossed him the keys and clambered out as three other doors slammed shut at his back. By the time he claimed his ticket, Vivienne and her friends were already halfway up the front staircase, linked arm in arm and laughing at some private joke. Off in the distance, heat lightning flickered in the sky. The air felt static with electricity.

Vivienne cast a glance back at Thomas as he ascended the steps behind her, his hands in his pockets, the pony beads pinching his skin beneath his shirt cuff. Her dress was the color of a cherry blossom, and she wore her hair pulled back in a matching bow. Gilded in the lamplight, the sky flickering white at her back, she looked like a painting.

Color swam into her cheeks, as though he’d told her so right out loud. He felt the heat of her gaze deep in his solar plexus. Suddenly, all he could think about was getting her alone.

“Come on, Superman,” called Frankie as they passed through the front gate. “You’re holding up the line.”