One

A good engagement party should begin much like an execution, last meal and all. I can hear my “executioner” already, marching toward my room.

“Snowy!” Hunter barges in on cue, snapping me from my thoughts. When he sees that I’m still in my robe, he averts his gaze and mutters a curse—but not before setting a porcelain plate on the edge of my vanity. On it rests a single piece of toast. “Get dressed and then eat something.”

“I already am dressed.” I shrug the silken dressing gown from my shoulders, revealing the elegant dress I’m wearing underneath. Handcrafted in Italy, it hugs my frame like a glove and costs a pretty penny. A perfect, contrived dress for a contrived occasion.

“And you still aren’t ready?” he asks, huffing his annoyance. “For someone about to marry into the Forbes World’s Billionaires list, you’re sure taking your sweet time announcing it. Eat.”

I roll my eyes while dragging a brush through my hair. Perfectly conditioned curls refuse to conform to shape. Frowning, I tug harder. More frizz forms, and I can’t escape the feeling that even my hair is trying to warn me, throwing a tantrum reminiscent of those terrible days in prep school when hats were my main accessory: You’re doing everything wrong.

My fingers twitch and the brush lands on my lap, dangling loose strands of bright-red hair. With a sigh, I scrape the curls into the semblance of a coil at the nape of my neck and use an army of bobby pins to secure it instead.

“You look perfect,” Hunter deadpans his customary brotherly encouragement. Lest I mistake the words as a compliment, he glances at his watch and then cuts his gaze toward the uneaten slice of bread. “Now, eat. The longer you delay, the more likely it is that some blond bimbo will snatch up Prince Charming, and there go all those investment dollars.”

A restless scowl darkens the hue of the blue eyes we share. To enhance his irritation, a lock of blond hair falls from his neat coif, and I squash the urge to smooth it back into place. Like a statue, he is. Harsh. Impenetrable. But, at the end of the day, he’s only as strong as his foundation. One wobble and smash.

Any other night, I’d take pride in winding him up; it’s the only time I see him act remotely human these days.

“I’ll be just a minute,” I tell him, ignoring how he’s fidgeting in the corner of my room.

His suit stands out in contrast to my navy walls. He’s wearing gray: a fitting color to describe my life. Perfectly, wonderfully gray.

After sliding one last pin into place, I finger a loose coil of my hair and let the stubborn twist remain.

“I look perfect,” I parrot, observing how my curls contrast with my custom cobalt gown. Their fiery red offsets the amethyst set in Mama’s old necklace. I’m a wealth of pretentious colors overall. Red for fury. Blue for power. Purple for prestige.

Hunter claims that I’m in danger of losing my fiancé to some blond bimbo. He’s close. At night, I lose Daniel to a lustrous brunette from the south of Spain, Sloane Matías-Sebastián—a woman who just so happens to be my best friend. Though Daniel fucks her for hours in that swanky penthouse of his, I’m the one wearing his ring.

Not because I’m more beautiful—Sloane could wear a paper bag and still outshine me. No, my current status has everything to do with my family name.

“I am Snowy Gale Hollings,” I recite to my reflection, watching red lips move over the glossy surface. “That means something.”

“Hollings-Ellingston if you can hurry up to attend your own damn engagement party,” Hunter corrects. He’s still scowling down at his watch while flicking invisible lint from his cufflinks.

With our stocks at stake, his nerves are forgivable. He won’t lay off me or the gin he hoards in his office until the day that coveted ring is on my pretty finger.

Hollings-Ellingston. Now that name means something.

“I’m ready,” I say, starting to stand.

“Snowy.” Hunter clears his throat. “You didn’t eat.”

Sighing, I snatch up the toast and devour it in three vicious bites. My stomach churns, forced to accept every bit. “Happy now?”

“I’m pleased as fucking punch.” Hunter’s by my side in an instant, gallantly taking my hand and helping me to my feet. He glances me over and nods almost to himself.

I look decent enough to enter with.

“Now, remember. It’s simple.” He turns on his heel, all but dragging me to the door. “You smile. You simper. You kiss. Voila. Hollings stocks increase by tenfold tomorrow, and you can stamp the Ellingston name on your stationery kit.”

“And the money,” I say as dryly as I can. “Don’t forget the money.”

“Oh, and yes, of course, the money.” Hunter beams, oblivious to the candor. We’re nearing the stairs now, and he descends the topmost one first before extending an arm to assist me.

I need the help. My dress has a train that snakes behind me, requiring that I use one hand to guide it while balancing off Hunter with the other. Mama used to say that beauty is all about balance: finding the delicate thread between pretty and pretentious and dancing along it on tiptoe.

Daniel Ellingston is both pretentious and pretty, a winning combination. He’s waiting for me at the foot of the grand staircase, a champagne flute in hand. We’re so perfect together, he and I. We both lie as easily as most people breathe. We sacrifice comfort for fashion, and we know how to stop a room dead in its tracks with a smile.

Mayfield’s best and brightest came out in droves to fawn over our impending union. Society’s elites pack the foyer, decked out in the season’s latest fashions. They hush as I appear, clutching at their literal and figurative pearls.

At a glance, I only know a handful of them personally.

“Focus,” Hunter hisses, tugging at my arm.

Right. I’ve been staring. My lips contort to display my teeth and project confidence. Then, on my brother’s arm, I descend the staircase, tilting my head to display my necklace and the dramatic fall of my dress. Oohs are uttered and aahs exclaimed. Camera lenses flash. One of those snapshots will make the society pages tomorrow.

When I reach the final step, Daniel is there to take my hand. He helps me down to the floor level, and a roar rises from our gathered sycophants.

“You look beautiful,” my fiancé tells me before pressing a kiss against my cheek.

I return the chaste gesture with another smile. “So do you.”

Sloane certainly thinks so. She’s watching from the back, wearing one of those strained expressions only possible when you’re dying internally in a public setting. Pearly white teeth and hollow, haunted eyes which perform a slow perusal of Daniel’s body. I copy the motion and instantly understand her attraction. His tux is custom made from an Italian designer: a pure black suit with a white silk shirt and a navy tie. Unfortunately, he’d clash with Sloane’s ivory, body-hugging dress.

We, however, match. My red hair burns bright against his auburn locks. His navy bolsters my bolder blue. Not to mention, our bank accounts accent each other’s perfectly.

As Hunter admitted, I can’t forget the money. After all, love is a numbers game—the sum of how much you can stand someone versus being alone. I love Daniel Ellingston. He minimizes my silent hours and fills my time with pretty, simple lies.

He doesn’t have a heart to break, and I’m not sure I’ll ever find mine to give.

We’re a match made in heaven.

We truly are.

Naughty thoughts ride the bubbles of the first glass of champagne I’ve had in months. My stomach flutters, churning an ominous warning: Not here, Snowy. Not now.

Too late. Beautiful. It’s that stupid word that triggers the memory: Brandt Lloyd never once told me I was beautiful. Or special. A boy so driven toward morality could never tell a lie.

“You’re Snow,” he’d reply whenever I fished for a compliment. “You’re just Snow.”

Messy, chubby, ruddy-faced, acne-prone, dimple-cheeked, awkward, gangly Snow.

And that was enough for him.

Daniel Ellingston goes out of his way to ensure that the whole world knows how beautiful he thinks I am. How special. How clueless. He drapes me in diamonds while sneaking glances at Sloane from across the crowded ballroom of our engagement gala. He tells me all the right things, nuzzled into the nape of my neck. He donates thousands to my favorite charities. Our simplest date consisted of skiing in the Alps. He understands my fear of intimacy and patiently claims we can wait until our wedding night. He’s perfect. He’s wonderful.

I scream into my pillow every night at the thought of marrying him. Why? He’s the best I’ll ever have.

The entire world tells me so. Our perfect destiny headlines every tabloid. My brothers have all but staked their livelihoods on it. I’ve staked my worth on it.

As a Hollings-Ellingston, I’ll be a matriarch on par with the Queen of England with none of the societal rules. What else do I have to live for? With no education beyond preparatory school and no career to my name, the title of an investor’s wife is the only goal left to check off my ambitions list. It’s what my parents groomed me to be: the perfect trophy, fit for a king. Admittedly, the societal norms dictating the lives of Mayfield’s upper echelon are far more ruthless than those of a royal court. At least we don’t have to curtsy. One must simply learn how to smile as you stab someone in the back.

Much more elegant.

“Snowy?”

I flinch as Daniel’s hand settles over my spine, guiding me toward him. My body conforms to the motion and cameras flash on cue. Bingo. There’s another front-page photo. I start to drift away, but his palm applies pressure, keeping me by his side.

“Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s perfect,” I murmur against his lapel. It’s the truth. Everything about tonight has been perfect. I’ve never been happier—my father’s definition of “happy,” anyway. No scandals to speak of. No bankruptcies set in motion.

Carefully dosed and manageable mirth.

“You seem quiet tonight,” Daniel insists.

Odd. We rarely talk in general. I usually sputter off a response to whatever he asks.

Like now. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

We both smile as we talk, our eyes fixated on our observant guests more than each other. For appearance’s sake, Daniel slides his arm down to my waist, ruffling the silk of my dress.

“You seem distracted.” Furrowing his brows, he fingers the loose piece of my hair and tucks it behind my ear. “If you’re worried about Ronan, don’t be. I have Hunter out looking for him. He’s probably neck-deep in a bottle of whiskey, but he wouldn’t dare miss tonight.”

“Oh, Ronan.” I nod, still smiling. Ronan, my other, far less materialistic brother. Hunter has dollar signs in his eyes while, these days, Ronan can barely keep his open or off the casino tables. “He’ll be here. Of course.”

Daniel frowns. “Should we wait for him to begin the reception of guests?” He nods toward the table of wrapped presents and yet another bottle of champagne waiting to be sabered open. It’s a gift from Daniel’s grandpapa. A vintage from an obscure year some distant relative participated in during one of the World Wars. The second one, I think.

“No.” I fist a handful of my gown and lift it. “We can start now.”

Together, we approach the center of the room, where Daniel calls for silence by tapping a salad fork against his champagne flute. The crowd hushes, watching us expectantly, as I face them with my hands folded over my waist, showcasing the coveted ring sparkling on my finger.

“Thank you all for coming,” Daniel begins before launching into a speech about how wonderful I am and what an amazing wife I’ll make.

A few of our guests absently nod along. Aunt Agatha. Uncle Morris. Even Sloane.

Ten years ago, most of those gathered here barely acknowledged my existence. Before I was perfect, beautiful Snowy—back when I was just Snowy. I was an outcast regulated to the outskirts of such balls and parties. Only one person ever stood beside me in the shadows. He held my hand, much like Daniel is now. But he didn’t worship me. Honor me. Cherish me.

He knew me. He loved me—just not in the way I wanted. But maybe his love was better in the end. Stronger. What I needed.

For a second—just one—I let myself imagine what it would be like if he were here, in Daniel’s place. My dress wouldn’t be cobalt, for one. Brandt loved white, and silver, and muted colors. He loved green, like the forests we used to play in and the ivy draping the walls of our favorite hideaway. He wouldn’t want a large party to showcase his engagement. I’d have to force him to have one—it’s tradition, I’d pester. You must.

The fantasy unfolds so clearly—minus one detail. Brandt wouldn’t be ashamed to put a ring on his “Sloane.” He’d never settle for me.

“Darling?” Daniel runs his hand down my side, drawing my attention. “Should we open this one next?”

“Hmm?” I blink. At least four once gloriously wrapped gifts are now on full display, perched on the edge of the table like sacrificial offerings. An engraved cake carver. A vintage bottle of wine. His-and-her wine glasses.

“Here.” Daniel passes me a box still wrapped in gold foil. “Open this one, darling.”

My mouth aches—a clue that I’m still smiling and have been all along. Like a sleepwalker, I must have gone through the motions. Keeping the grin in place, I peel the paper off, revealing a custom silver frame.

“It’s beautiful,” I coo, holding it up for everyone to ooh and aah over.

This gift came from the Sebastiáns, I presume given its ornate design. Sloane doesn’t seem eager to claim it, however.

She is standing beside a cluster of bleached blondes I vaguely remember from prep school. Daniel must have invited them. A thin blonde with a hooked nose sticks out: Patsy Abernathy. Unease ignites in my skin, licking away at my confident exterior. I haven’t seen her in years. In fact, our last meeting had to be around senior year when she insinuated I looked like a pig in my ceremony gown.

Brandt called her shallow once. He hated that I held her and her posse of bimbos in such high esteem. “You don’t want to be like them,” he always said. “They have nothing to live for but their looks.”

Patsy’s have held up so far. Her black, form-fitting gown is from the exclusive collection of a Parisian designer. She smiles once she notices me staring and waves as though we’re the best of old friends. What difference ten years and thirty pounds lost makes.

“Oh, look at this one, darling.” Daniel tilts an open box toward me: another gift from some obscure social climber or relative.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur before I even look down. When I do, confusion distorts my rehearsed smile.

Someone sent a book, leather-bound with gold filigree forming the title. I read it twice as my eyes widen; it’s a children’s book showcasing a single fable.

“Snowy?”

I barely hear Daniel.

Impatient, he curls his fingers beneath my chin, tilting my face toward him. “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing.” I stagger away from him, but not without first snatching the book from its nest of tissue paper.

It’s heavy, a limited-edition collector’s volume. The pages are worn, betraying its prior use. I knew someone who had a book like this. They scribbled in the margins, leaving notes and meaningless phrases. Including one at the very end in sloppy script: Brandt Lloyd was here.

“Snowy?”

Footsteps chase me from the ballroom. With my free hand, I claw at the train of my gown and outrun them. This wing of the house is darkened and emptied, and I take the route past Papa’s old study and out into the garden.

Warm air replaces the chill of the air-conditioned interior of the manor. Heedless of the uneven stones underfoot, I stagger toward the bubbling fountain in the center of the courtyard and attempt to slow my breathing. Think.

I’m hallucinating. Obviously. That five-second fantasy was a mistake. Brandt’s chased me into the real world again. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply and exhale two words. “He’s dead.”

My morbid lullaby. My cruel slap of reality. My one anchor in the sea of monotony my life has become.

Brandt Lloyd is dead. My beautiful boy. The only one in the world who could turn a vicious taunt into something magical. Our secret saying.

Slowly, I let my eyes open and focus them on the book cover in my hands.

Humpty Dumpty.

With trembling fingers, I flip through the pages. They’re crisp and unmolested, the hallmark of a brand-new copy. At the back, all I find is a gleaming sticker from the manufacturer. No notes. No scribbled greetings. Just painful memories that pinch at my psyche like jagged glass.

“Here,” he said, tossing a book onto my lap. “Stop pouting and start learning.”

I eyed the book with tears streaming down my cheeks and my hair a frizzy mess around my shoulders. We were in Papa’s study. Brandt had entered without permission—like always, he had known where to find me. Once I saw the gilded title, I glared at him. “Nice one. You’re mocking me too—”

“Read,” he snapped while settling himself behind Papa’s desk. Barely seventeen and as lanky as a bullwhip, Brandt resembled a sliver of ivory in my father’s hulking leather chair. Somehow, he managed to dominate the space, radiating authority and wisdom. With his long fingers steepled beneath his chin, he fixed me with a stern jab of his brilliant, blue gaze. “Out loud. Go on.”

So I did only to wind up exasperated by the end. “So, not only am I fat, but I’m irreparable?” I made it a question because I instinctively knew his aim wasn’t to insult.

“All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t fix Humpty Dumpty,” Brandt said, looking down on me from Papa’s desk, as shrewd as any businessman I knew. “Only he could do that, someone brave enough to climb on a wall despite the danger.”

I swallowed hard and fidgeted in my school uniform, still sniffling and wiping away tears. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He smiled. One of those rare, fleeting expressions only he could give. My breath caught, my heart swelling in my chest.

“It means that you stop fucking pouting and pick yourself up. What is that chant your father always makes you say?”

I rolled my eyes. “My name is Snowy Gale Hollings. That means something. Only,” I added haughtily, “all it means is that we’re so rich it doesn’t matter if I’m fat and ugly. Any day now, he’ll give me a voucher for liposuction. The only thing my name means is money.”

“No.” Brandt stood, unfurling his limbs with enviable grace. No one would ever dare mock him for his appearance. Except, perhaps, to imply he was too beautiful. Too handsome. The dark hair set against his indigo eyes made him far too formidable an opponent. My anger was no match, diffusing from me like smoke. “You’re Fiery Princess Snow,” he said, eyeing my frizzy wild hair. “That means something. It means that I’ll always be there to remind you to pick your ass up the next time some jealous, spoiled bitch calls you Humpty Dumpty.”

“Snowy?”

I flinch, suddenly aware of my surroundings. Cold air floods my lungs—not the familiar scent of old books and worn leather permeating Papa’s study. My vision blurs, smearing the scenery into a blob of golden tones and dark emerald green. That’s right: I’m in the gardens, and someone’s approaching from the shadows.

“Snowy, are you all right?”

Like always, Daniel conforms to my side, pressing a chaste kiss on my cheek and wrapping his thick arms around my waist. He’s more muscular than Brandt Lloyd could’ve ever hoped to be. His voice isn’t as naturally soothing, however. It takes effort on his part to sound more caring than impatient.

Upon clearing his throat, he tries. “Darling, everyone’s waiting. Was it the gift? I will admit it’s a rather unusual present—”

“It’s nothing.” My fingers tighten over the spine of the book. Suddenly, its true intent becomes clear: Someone wanted to remind me of my past. No matter who I may marry or how my appearance may change, I’ll always be Humpty Dumpty.

Only one guest would be so bold.

“You go in,” I tell Daniel, forcing a smile. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Are you sure?” His thumb traces my cheek, catching me off guard by how tender the gesture feels. Sometimes, he fools even me.

“I’m fine,” I reply. Banishing the tears, I swipe my hand across my face and wince. The edge of my ring caught the tender ridge of my forehead, leaving a bitter sting. “I…I just needed some fresh air.”

“All right.”

He leaves, and I turn to the fountain, running through the pages once again. Humpty Dumpty—my hated nickname. Old Snowy’s, anyway. The chubby girl with frizzy, red hair and only one friend in the whole world to cry to. The twist? He merely tolerated her, the daughter of his father’s business partner. He just never had the cruelty to send her away.

I swallow hard, fighting the memories back. Then I toss the book into the fountain and watch it float over the rippling surface. Unfortunately for the bitch who sent me this gift, I’m not that little girl anymore.

With my chin held high, I return to the ballroom. Rather than head straight to Daniel’s side, I approach the gaggle of women clustered at the back of my family’s ballroom. Sloane spots me first, her lips contorting into a faux-friendly smile.

“Snowy,” she says, her accent giving my name a musical thrill. “You look beautiful. Is everything all right?”

Ignoring her, I turn my attention to the beautiful blonde standing beside her. “Hello, Patsy,” I say.

She blinks beneath the scrutiny and giggles nervously. “You look amazing tonight, Snowy. Congratulations—”

“Was that your gift?”

“Huh?” She cuts her gaze to the table overflowing with presents. A splash of color paints her pale cheeks. “I don’t think—”

“You know, I was just reminiscing the other day,” I tell her, smiling wide, my tone cordial. “About how much fun we had in school. All those games we used to play. And my old nickname…” I tilt my head thoughtfully and run my thumb along my chin. “What was it?”

Patsy giggles again while glancing nervously at Sloane. But, if she expects a rescue, she’s sorely mistaken. The Spanish beauty, and anyone else in the nearest vicinity, is suddenly two steps back from her. Patsy’s on an island unto herself.

Once upon a time, I’d have cherished this moment.

Now? I can’t stop focusing on her mouth. Rumor had it that Brandt kissed her once, on those thin, pursed lips that spewed such torment against me. Rumor also claimed he rejected her afterward. He could be like that sometimes. Hot and then brutally cold.

A newer memory springs forward, unwarranted.

“Stop it, Snow!” he shouted, shoving me back while wiping at his mouth. The look on his face stole my breath away—I’d never seen him that furious. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

Blinking, I refocus my attention on Patsy. “My nickname,” I repeat when she hasn’t replied. “Do you remember what it was?”

Patsy’s throat jerks beneath a nervous gulp. “I-I—”

“What a shame that you can’t make it to the wedding, Patsy.” I frown and shake my head. Then I gather my train in a fist and turn my back to her. “Have a wonderful night.”

I cross the room, desperate to ignore the pinch in my chest. Guilt. How long has it been since I felt it—or anything at all? Too damn long. Perhaps I need my medication adjusted again. After all, as Papa repeatedly drilled into my skull: I’m Snowy Fucking Gale Hollings. That means something.

It means I lie all the time.

It means I feel nothing.

It means that money trumps all. Even the life of the boy I loved.

“Darling?” Daniel reaches out the moment I’m close enough, grasping my hand. “Are you all right?” He’s still smiling, of course. The expression must hurt—he holds it for so long. Anything to keep up appearances—mustn’t let them see any flaws in the façade.

“I’m tired,” I tell him before placing a kiss on his cheek. “I think I need to lie down for a moment.”

“Now, darling? There’s something I thought we could discuss.”

Only I can hear the crack in his voice. Displeasure. If I leave now, I’ll embarrass him.

If I stay, I’ll embarrass him. My chest feels too tight. That damn piece of toast Hunter forced me to eat weighs heavily on my stomach.

He’s watching me from across the room, his eyes narrowed in warning. Play along. After tonight, with our engagement immortalized in every society page in the country, my marriage to Daniel Wentworth-Ellingston III is all but guaranteed. The influx of new money will help Hunter secure his precious investments, and the house of cards that is the Hollings Estate will remain balanced for a few more generations.

All I have to do is smile.

“I just need to lie down.” I escape before Daniel can reply, knowing he can’t chase me across the room a second time without losing face. I hear him murmur something charming before he forges onward to open gifts without me.

If only I could have him continue the rest of the engagement in the same way. I’d smile and simper and let him do all the talking.

Left to my own devices, I run. I hide. I let him save face alone.

When I reach the staircase without being attacked by Hunter, I’m reminded once again of how the hierarchy works in this secluded, gilded world.

I’m only worth as much as my ring finger.

I eye the digit in question as I mount the stairs and enter my suite. My steps draw me straight toward the bathroom. No, I tell myself, faltering over the threshold of gleaming white tile. The toilet looms in the far corner, watching me. Taunting me.

I should have never eaten that bread.

Hunter always nags me at the worst possible times. To protect his investment, of course. Daniel couldn’t know about the damaged goods he would receive until it was too late—though he was fucking Sloane, and she’s stuck her finger in her throat more than I ever did.

Did. That’s the keyword. I’m healed now. I’m healthy and well-adjusted, no longer that girl driven to extremes in a desperate attempt to feel in control. I am in control. I won’t go into the bathroom…

I won’t go any closer…

I won’t approach the toilet…

I won’t lift the lid…

Staring down into the rippling water, I let myself toy with the idea. Just one little purge. I’ll feel better. I can’t sleep on a full stomach, and I need to be well rested—how else can I put on the best performance? My teeth skewer my bottom lip as my fingers trace the rim of the porcelain seat. Slowly, I lower the lid. Then I turn away and reenter my bedroom.

With one hand, I undo the back of my gown and crawl beneath my duvet, wearing only a bra. Then I reach behind my pillow and find a plastic bottle hidden away beneath the silk. It rattles as I drag it closer and fish two Xanax out. They go down roughly without water. But I’m running out.

With my eyes closed, I inhale deeply and try to forget. Everything. All the old memories and the less vibrant new ones. I sink into the monotony my life has become and let it pull me away.

Deep down I know the truth: without him, I’ll always awaken to a nightmare.