Cate Sloane tucked her dark brown hair behind her ears and studied herself in the white-framed full-length mirror. Her navy Tory Burch shift with the silver logo button near the collar whispered, Most Likely to Succeed.
Unfortunately, she needed something that screamed, Will Attack if Provoked.
She threw a kelly green cashmere cardigan over her shoulders, but it made her feel like she was celebrating St. Patrick’s Day five months too late. It wasn’t right. Nothing was right anymore. Any second she’d be living with Emma’s daughters—Stella and Lulu. Lulu! She’d already suffered through twelve of her fourteen years with Andie—suck-up, wannabe Andie, so short she could be mistaken for a refugee from Munchkinland. Wasn’t that enough?
She crossed the room to the window, pulling off the sweater and tossing it on the floor. Her floral Anthropologie duvet was folded three times at the edge of her bed, and all six pillows were resting two by two on the white iron headboard, the carnation pink neckroll centered in front. The magazines on her shabby-chic white nightstand were fanned out like in a doctor’s office, and the ornate white picture frames on the wall behind her bed hung in a perfect line. Everything was perfect…except for the fact that her town house was about to be invaded by British losers with bad avant-garde fashion and even worse teeth.
Cate’s iPhone buzzed. She riffled through the black-and-white Balenciaga bag sitting on her desk chair.
BLYTHE: TXT WHEN EVIL STEPSISTERS ARRIVE. NEED 2 HEAR EVERYTHING.
For the first time all day, Cate smiled. Blythe Finley was a good friend, the best Cate had ever had. She was the one who’d brought Cate peanut butter–fudge Tasti D-Lite when she had her tonsils out; the one who’d nominated Cate for not one, not two, but three eighth-grade superlatives: Most Stylish, Best Hair, and an all-new category, Fiercest. And Blythe was the one who’d suggested Cate be the president of the Chi Beta Phis.
The Chi Beta Phis were the most popular girls at Ashton Prep. Cate and Blythe, along with their best friend Priya Singh, had founded the “sorority” four years ago after Veena, Priya’s older sister, told them about the secret sororities at Yale. They’d each used a letter for their name: Chi for Cate, Beta for Blythe, and Phi for Priya. Sophie Sachs was the newest member—they’d let her in in sixth grade, after she transferred to Ashton Prep from Donalty. Cate had insisted they not add a fourth letter for Sophie, because the sorority’s name would be awkwardly long, and Sigma was kind of an ugly word anyway. Sophie, wanting to get involved, had made up a complicated secret handshake that involved pinching the other person’s butt. But it was so silly they’d stopped doing it after two weeks.
The intercom crackled and Winston’s voice filled the room. “Cate…” he said in a deep, commanding voice, like he was the dad in some lame TV sitcom. “They’re here….”
Cate leaned over her petal pink desk and looked out the window. Her dad was acting like she’d asked for a new family. She’d asked him for a lot of things—a private roof deck off her room, a red BMW convertible on her sixteenth birthday, a summerhouse in Nice—but she’d definitely never asked for a new family. But there, standing in front of her house, were Emma and two blond girls. Cate could only see the tops of their heads.
She felt for the sapphire ring on her finger and rubbed the flat blue stone with the pad of her thumb. It was times like these that she missed her mom the most. Since she died, Cate tried to wear something of hers every day just to feel like she was there. Yes, it had been six years, but it still felt too soon. Like someone had pushed the fast-forward button on her life.
The intercom crackled again. “Cate…?” Her dad’s voice trailed off.
Cate got up and pushed a button on the beige plastic unit near the door. “I’m. Coming,” she growled through clenched teeth. Winston didn’t respond.
She walked into her closet and pulled on her go-to outfit: dark-wash skinny J Brand jeans, black ballet flats, and a Nanette Lepore silk leopard-print tank. She threaded a gold leaf earring through each ear and took a deep breath. Whoever these girls were, and however horrifyingly bad their dental hygiene, she was living with them now. Her strategy would be to do what she did best: stay on top—no matter what.
When she got down to the wide mahogany staircase her heart sped up. She took a few steps and peered over the banister. Emma was standing next to the hall closet, clutching Winston’s hand and smiling relentlessly, the way Ms. Elsa Kelley, Cate’s trying-way-too-hard earth science teacher did right after she got her teeth bleached. The afternoon light flooded in from the half-moon window over the door, making the white marble foyer look too bright and cheerful.
Cate glided down the stairs, keeping her head held up high. In her leopard-print shirt she felt like a wild animal surveying its territory. This is my house, she thought, pulling her shoulders back. My turf. She stopped on the final step, a few inches above everyone else. The two blond girls were standing across from Winston and Emma, in front of the mahogany credenza. Four Louis Vuitton suitcases sat in a row beside them.
“Hi!” Emma called loudly, letting go of Winston’s hand and hugging Cate tightly—a little too tightly for someone she’d only met a few times before. Emma had been around all summer, which meant Cate had spent the summer avoiding her.
As Emma finally released her, Winston nodded at the two girls and then toward Cate. “This is my Cate,” he said proudly. The younger one, a gangly girl with blond hair that looked like it had been washed with pool water, stepped forward. She was holding a Burberry carrier with some sort of…creature. Cate wrinkled her nose. She hated animals. “Cate,” Emma said softly, wringing her hands together, “this is Lola.”
Right—Lola. Cate stared at the girl. Lola—which wasn’t a much better name than Lulu—was tall and bony and awkward. She looked like a dying giraffe. A dying giraffe who was wearing tapered jeans that were an inch too short. Cate’s stomach churned miserably. The last thing she needed was another loser sister to avoid in public.
“Hi,” Cate said flatly, crossing her arms over her chest. She flicked her eyes over the girl’s lanky frame and held her gaze on her bare ankles just a few seconds too long.
“Stella, luv,” Emma coaxed. “Come here.” Stella walked across the foyer to the staircase and stood next to Winston. He was scratching his neck, waiting to see what would happen next.
Cate pursed her lips and coolly surveyed the girl from head to toe. Stella had loose blond curls that just hit her shoulders and huge eyes the color of martini olives. She was wearing a red sleeveless Diane von Furstenberg dress with black piping around the neckline. Over her shoulder was a gray Marc Jacobs Mercer East/West tote—the same exact one Cate had looked at in Bergdorf’s last week.
The girls stood in silence for a moment. Winston coughed loudly and glanced at Emma, who was still wringing her hands, her lips pressed together in a straight line. Then Cate stepped down from the last step, her feet barely making a sound on the marble. She looked Stella right in the eye and slowly smiled.
“Hey,” she said softly. If her outfit was any indication, Stella was…normal. Someone Cate could be seen in public with. She could even imagine them walking down the hall at Ashton Prep together. Shopping in Soho together. Lying out in Sheep Meadow, talking about the Marc Jacobs spring collection.
Stella reached out and touched the thick strap of Cate’s silk tank.
“I love your top,” Stella said in a lilting British accent. “Nanette Lepore’s brill. And those earrings. They’re smart.”
Cate’s lips curled into a smile. “I love your bag!” she couldn’t help gushing. “It’s incredible.” She gently touched the putty-colored leather.
“My mum got it for me. It was a present from one of her clients.” Stella eyed the bag and shrugged.
Cate stared at Emma in disbelief. Swag? From clients? She’d never even thought of that. Maybe she could forgive Emma for dating her father, for moving to New York, for Lola, or Lulu, or whatever-her-name-was with the frizzy hair and bad tapered jeans. If this meant an unlimited supply of designer handbags, yes, she could definitely forgive her.
Winston turned and kissed Emma on the forehead. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder.
“Great shoes.” Cate pointed to Stella’s red espadrilles. “Juicy?”
Stella nodded and slipped the right shoe off her foot. She nudged it forward with her tiny toes, which were painted with a French pedicure. Cate carefully slipped her foot out of her black ballet flat and into the sandal.
Cate held her breath. Stella held hers. As it had for Cinderella, everything depended on the shoe’s fit.
Cate pushed her toe to the front and gently pressed down her heel. It was perfect. She clasped Stella’s hands and rocked up and down on the balls of her feet, imagining her wardrobe doubling.
“It fits!” Cate cried, and Stella let out a laugh, revealing her dimples.
Stella slipped on Cate’s ballet flat and held out her foot, admiring the fit.
“Perfect!” she exclaimed.
You’re perfect! Cate almost cried, barely capable of containing her excitement. As soon as she thought it, she knew it was true. If there had been a Shopbop.com for stepsisters, Cate could not have picked out a better one herself.