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“And then, when they finally plucked up and asked, my father told them,” J.P.—Jack—Morgan Jr. cackles, “‘If you have to consider the cost, then you have no business buying a yacht!’”

I toss my head back and let out a pealing laugh, resting my fingers on Constance Pulitzer’s arm. We giggle like schoolgirls and share a smile. Matthew, on my right, grins into his champagne glass.

“Oh, indeed,” Constance trills. “And tell me, did you bring the Corsair down this year, like usual?”

“But of course.” He gives a sharp puff of his Cuban cigar, and I inhale, sucking the spiced smoke into my nostrils with a suppressed, gleeful shiver. High on proximity.

“Tradition is what tradition does, eh?” Ethan chimes in.

Jack puffs again. “Now isn’t that the truth? S’good to be back for another season.” He gazes fondly around the Victorian clubhouse.

It’s an hour to midnight on December 31, 1919, and the Jekyll Island Club is abuzz with festivity.

Despite its looming mid-January deadline, not a trace of the Volstead Act and Prohibition threatens these hallowed walls.

Tonight, waiters in full livery circulate with gleaming silver trays, endlessly replenishing champagne and cigars.

Two romantically dimmed crystal chandeliers glisten overhead, casting long, twinkling shadows from wall-to-wall.

Eight towering Christmas trees with Swarovski ornaments and platinum garland flank the room.

And the guests…well, the guests sh ine brightest of all.

Dressed to the nines—white tails, evening gowns, pocket watches, and diamonds.

Every inch of this exclusive soirée drips with old money. I can taste it in the back of my throat, fizzing swallows of crisp vintage champagne. Burning like tendrils of smoke from Morgan’s Cuban cigar. Money lit on fire.

The night began with endless rounds of introductions and small talk, with subtly raised brows and scrutinizing eyes. A room full of lions thinking perhaps I, the newcomer in their ranks, am a sheep.

But blood, not money, drips in the back of my throat. I am a predator disguised as prey.

And in that role, I dazzle.

Perhaps it was my entrance on Matthew DaMolin’s arm, his gifted diamonds sparkling in my ears.

Perhaps it was when Constance Pulitzer declared herself so enamored with my gown—Coco Chanel, white, couture—that she simply had to introduce me to her friends.

Perhaps it was the moment I sliced the neck off the Pol Roger Vintage champagne with the Marquess of Queensberry’s saber, causing an uproariously glorious cascade of nectar to slosh over thrust-forward flutes.

A newcomer to the scene, they whisper behind my back, but perhaps one to watch.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

Perhaps I am a wolf.

Perhaps I play this game to win .

And with an hour to midnight, winning I am. Matthew’s bright, happy eyes, oozing with near reverent worship, tell me nothing less. Tonight—together—we are invincible.

“I’m usually a wallflower at these parties,” he murmurs in my ear, his nose brushing my temple. “You’ve never been a wallflower a day in your life, have you? ”

I chuckle and turn to him, boldly lacing my fingers behind his neck. Invincible indeed.

“I refuse to believe you’ve ever been a wallflower, Matt.”

At a quarter to midnight, the guests trickle outside for the culminating pièce de resistance—a spectacular fireworks extravaganza.

There’s a bottleneck at the double doors to the veranda, where ladies’ arms are looped through gentlemen’s, all stuttering footsteps and hesitating limbs as an elaborate dance of inebriated, door-holding chivalry plays out.

Matthew and I hover behind to allow Ethan, who’s fallen in step, laughing with Harry Astor, to pass ahead of us in the crowd.

I wrinkle my nose, certain the shared joke is something biting and faintly off-color.

The only setback in our evening thus far was a short but rather unpleasant discourse with Harry at the start of the night.

He took one look at the diamonds in my ears and the comfortable drape of Matthew’s arm around my waist before delivering his most unwelcome two cents. “How long has this been going on, Matt?” he asked, pointing to me.

“Um…” Matthew glanced at me with a small smile. “I don’t know. A few months?”

“I thought you were just messing her around at Academy events. I never imagined it was serious,” Harry continued, his tone disparaging.

Matthew was unperturbed. “I don’t think it’s your business either way, Harry.”

“I only wonder where you see this headed. With her history, she’s hardly a suitable match for a DaMolin.”

Matthew’s eyes narrowed at that comment, but I squeezed his arm, silencing him. We took our leave posthaste, and Constance Pulitzer, social butterfly she is, appeared and swept us away to greener pastures.

Blankets are distributed amongst the crowd outdoors as we await the impending display.

Matthew and I stake out a secluded spot on the fringes of the manicured front lawn.

We angle ourselves toward the river, where the fireworks will be launched.

I can just make out the shadowy skeleton of a barge in the distance.

“Is your champagne empty?” Matthew asks. He’s already wiggling his shoulders out from under our shared blanket to get a refill.

“It’s fine. I don’t want you to miss midnight.”

“I’m out too.” He raises his glass. “I want us to toast the New Year together. I’ll be back in two minutes.”

Reluctantly, I hold still while he drapes a pleasantly scratchy, cashmere-disguised-as-tweed shrug around my shoulders. Then he lopes toward the veranda in search of another round.

“Are you having a nice evening, Katarina?” Lady Genevieve materializes beside me. Her silver skirts rustle quietly, almost ghostlike, as she draws to a stop on the lawn.

“Oh, yes.” I smile hesitantly, oddly nervous. “Thank you for inviting me as a guest of your family. It’s been an evening I’ll never forget, one of the best of my life.”

“That’s kind of you to say. I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am. I’ve never been to a party like this. I mean, before the Academy, before Matthew…my life was very different.”

She considers her words before she speaks. “Katarina, I remember you well from your interview. Girls like you don’t come around often, but they are why I love what I do. I wonder, do you remember the interview?”

“Of course, bits and pieces.”

“I remember bits and pieces too, some parts better than others. What I remember most is the moment one of the board members asked you to tell us why you believed you should be given one of the prized seats at the Academy over a better prepared girl from a nice upper-class family. Do you remember what you said?”

“No,” I admit .

“He asked why you should be given a spot over another girl, and your response was, ‘Why shouldn’t I be? She’s no more deserving than I am.

’ And you had this glint in your eye when you said it, Kat, like you were just daring him to disagree.

And then you said, ‘And frankly, I’m a far better investment than any of those other girls, because I understand hard work, and I will work interminably hard to be here. ’”

I nod, remembering as she recounts the story. It was one of the few moments, possibly the only moment, when my wolf broke free. Biting and clawing the way she’s done since I was six years old.

“I knew we had to have you, Kat,” Lady Genevieve continues.

“Your story is not unlike my own. I come from the wrong side of town myself, but I’ve never let it stop me.

You just have to be a little bit faster, a little bit smarter, a little bit luckier.

I gave you a bit of luck the day I accepted you to Telfair, but the rest you’ve done on your own.

You’ve more than proven yourself worth the investment. ”

Much of what she says is true, but then I think of Tony, whose Latin accent, and Abe, whose dark skin, mean doors forever slammed in their faces.

Doors no amount of luck or determination will open.

What kind of place could our world be if there were more Genevieves and Matthews out there, opening access to institutions like Telfair and respectable jobs to everyone ?

I swallow hard. “It means a lot to hear you say that. Thank you.”

I catch sight of Matthew in the distance, fresh bottle of Pol Roger and flutes in hand. He salutes me with the bottle and smiles so wide, it socks me in the gut from all the way across the lawn.

Lady Genevieve observes us for a moment, then turns back to me. “It’s been a pleasure to have you here with us tonight, Katarina. You make my son very happy, it’s plain to see. And no matter what your other accomplishments or history may be, that’s all a mother really cares about.”

“He makes me very happy too,” I reply quietly .

“Coming from different worlds…it doesn’t matter so much at the end of the day. As long as you understand what makes you similar—that will always be far more important than what makes you different. After will always be more important than before.”

I stay silent, uncertain.

“And as a mother,” she continues, taking a deep breath, “I don’t care where you’ve been before, Kat. I only care about where you’re going and what you plan to do when you get there. What you plan to do with my son’s heart once he’s given it to you.”

I continue looking at her. My palms start to sweat.

“Because he will give it to you. He already has, whether he realizes it or not. And all the rest”—she waves her hand at the glamour surrounding us—“is immaterial.”

Immaterial? Is it though?

“I…”

“It’s okay.” She stops me, reaching out with a gentle hand. “You don’t have to say anything. I just hope you know that if you want it, this can be your family too. You have a place with us, and there’s no rush. It’ll be right here waiting, if and when you’re ready.”

As Matthew comes to my side, his mother gives his cheek a soft pat. “Happy New Year, darling.” She disappears into the crowd.