Page 2

Blair

Age 20

0 hours earlier - Present

It all starts with the invitation.

The mysterious, tantalizing invitation that’s been haunting me all week. The one that’s brought me to this moment—sneaking out of my parents’ pristine Bel Air mansion under the cover of night. I creep down the carpeted stairs, clutching the invitation in my pocket. My white sneakers barely make a sound, but my pulse is a drumbeat in my ears, loud enough to give me away.

Girls like me—polished, obedient, raised to keep every promise to be perfect—aren’t supposed to accept invitations like this. But here I am, halfway down the stairs, desperate enough to risk it all.

Then a light flicks on.

Oh, sugar .

I freeze, gripping the banister as I look down. Mom and Dad are at the foot of the stairs, staring up at me. They’re hovering in their stupid matching outfits like Ralph Lauren-clad hawks, waiting for me to take a single wrong step. My heart sinks as Mom narrows her eyes.

“Where do you think you’re going, Blair?” Her voice is sharp.

Mom has the painstakingly maintained beauty of a Los Angeles socialite. A sleek bob, skin a shade too tan, teeth almost unnervingly white. They’re bared slightly as she glares at me, expecting me to crumple on the spot.

“I’m staying at Leigh’s tonight.” The lie rolls uneasily from my mouth. I’ve never been good at breaking rules. “I thought I told you that.”

Mom’s brow lifts, and I feel the full force of her scrutiny. “You know the rule for sleepovers, Blair. We drop you off and pick you up. There’s no sneaking out.”

Dad grunts in agreement. “Your mother’s right, honey.”

These are their roles: Mom is the mastermind, Dad is the enforcer. He’s always a few paces behind her nursing a whiskey and a stern expression.

I swallow. “Please, just this once?”

She shakes her head. “Rules are rules.”

This is my life now—a carefully managed series of rules and expectations. A life where I can barely breathe.

I clench my hand around the invitation, feeling its edges pressing against my palm.

I’ve been thinking about it constantly since it arrived. The envelope is a deep purple—like a venomous creature warning don’t you dare touch me . But I couldn’t stop myself. The card inside is thick, heavy, smooth. Silver ink glimmers in swirling letters, so beautiful it almost distracts from the razor edges of the words.

If it’s a prank, it’s a carefully planned one.

THE MORTALIS SOCIETY

No sender. No explanation. Just a date, a time, a location, and my name in bold block letters underneath:

BLAIR BENNET

You have been chosen.

Dare to win. Prove your courage. Fortune favors the bold.

The prize: $,000,000.

My first thought was:

What. The. Heck.

A million dollars. Enough to buy my way out of here, to pay for dance school—for a life of my own, away from their suffocating grip. I’ve spent hours staring at the card, the words sinking deeper into me until I could practically feel the weight of them in my bones.

I swallow, pushing down the bitterness that rises every time I think about it. I was once so sure I’d be flooded with offers from every ballet school I’d dreamed of, my future wide open. But I wasn’t good enough for a scholarship. Not after the injury. Not after that night.

“I’m twenty,” I say, desperate to hold onto some pride. “When are you going to stop controlling my life?”

Mom’s eyes narrow, her tone biting. “I don’t like your attitude. And I’ve told you about the ring a hundred times, Blair. What do you think people will assume if you keep taking it off?”

I glance at my left hand, and a rush of anger flares through me. “Wes and I aren’t even engaged. Why do I need to wear his stupid promise ring?”

The truth is that wearing it feels like a hand around my neck, tightening every day. The ring is only a promise of what’s to come: the socialite version of an arranged marriage. My family wants me to marry Wes, the perfectly respectable son of a perfectly respectable multi-millionaire family friend.

“It’s symbolic,” Mom snaps, her patience thinning. “It’ll be official soon enough. Until then, you’re to promise yourself to Wesley.”

I glance toward the grandfather clock by the front door. The hands are creeping close to 0:30 p.m. I need to leave soon if I’m going to make it to the address before midnight. I take another step down the stairs.

But Mom’s cheeks are turning red as she raises a hand to stop me.

Dad glances at her, then tries to take over. “You know, Blair, you never had any trouble before that boy came along.”

I sigh. “I told you a million times. What happened with Josh was a stupid mistake. It was just that one time, I swear.”

Josh. My sweet, simple, football player almost-boyfriend from high school. My one-time hookup with him caused all this nonsense.

My mom’s face sours as if she doesn’t want to think about it. “We’re not talking about Josh. We’re talking about that… other boy.”

Oh.

The boy I don’t let myself think about either.

Asher Stone.

The name alone sends a pang through me, a cocktail of old fury and old desire. I bite my lip as tears sting at my eyes. I’m trying to stay in my parents’ good graces, but I can’t help myself from spitting back a reply.

“Don’t you dare talk about Asher,” I whisper.

Mom glares at me as if I’ve just invoked the devil. “I don’t like your tone, Blair. Go to your room. This conversation is over.”

“Gladly,” I spit back, forcing myself up the stairs, her words chasing me like a stalker.

In my room, I drop onto the edge of my bed, clutching the invitation, my pulse pounding in my ears. There’s another envelope sitting on my desk. A dance school acceptance letter, simple and pristine. I used to think I’d get dozens of offers from prestigious ballet schools pouring in. But after the injury, I have only this one.

One offer. One school. One way out.

But to accept, I’d need money. Real money. I have just enough saved from my barista job to cover a few months of rent and food. My parents could pay for college without a second thought, but they’d never help me pursue a life of my own. No, all they want is for me to wear that ring and march into the future they’ve planned for me, hand-in-hand with Wesley Pritchard.

I stare down at the invitation in my hands. It feels surreal—like a fever dream. A whispered message from a world I was never meant to see. Maybe it’s just a prank or a scam. But what if it’s real?

If it’s real, I might finally be free.

I trace my fingers over the sharp silver letters.

One million dollars.

Enough to buy my way out of this house and into a life I can call my own.

I wait until the voices in the hall fade and I hear my parents’ bedroom door finally click shut. I count each passing second—ten, twenty, thirty. Silence settles over the house, thick and heavy.

Then, before I know it, I’m on the move. I push open my bedroom window, slip out, and shimmy down the trellis, heart pounding with each cautious step. I try not to think about whether this night will end up with me dead.

Instead, I take a deep breath, and I run into the night.