Chapter 1

CHAPTER1

SCARLETT

I enter the elevator carefully, my dress nearly taking up the entire space.

“And where am I supposed to stand?” My mother sounds amused as she studies me.

Offering her a nervous smile, I grab at my wide, layered pale-pink tulle skirts and try to pull them in closer to me. That only gives up a few inches of space, max, but it’s better than nothing. “You can stand next to me.”

Mom glides into the elevator, careful not to step on the tulle. She’s wearing impossibly high Louboutin stilettos, and she could tear the skirt with ease. Those shoes are like weapons.

But my mother is very careful and would never do that. This is my night, and she wants me to shine. This event is being thrown for me, and it is huge. Outrageous.

Maybe even borderline completely over the top.

Okay, there’s nothing borderline about it. The party is definitely going to be completely over the top, thanks to my father. He never does anything halfway. It helps to have money like our family does. When multigenerational wealth is managed correctly, like it’s been for the Lancasters all these years, it’s guaranteed to take care of the family forever.

As long as no one comes along and spends it all. My father comes close with his lavish ways. As the youngest of the Lancaster brothers, he’s considered the black sheep of the family. The rebel. The outlier.

Sometimes, as his oldest child and only daughter, I find his reputation hard to live up to.

The moment the mirrored elevator doors slide shut, I stare at my reflection, drinking in the extravagant dress I’m wearing to my eighteenth-birthday party. I’m suddenly afraid it’s far too grand, and I mentally fight the panic rising within me, desperate to remain calm despite second-guessing my choice.

“I probably look ridiculous,” I say on a sigh, wishing I could go back to my suite, where I got ready earlier, and change into something less ostentatious. Why did I think such a large dress was a good idea again? I look like a little girl desperate to play dress-up in her mom’s fancy clothes.

Which, I can’t lie, was sort of the look I was going for when I chose the dress in the first place, but . . .

“You’re beautiful.” Mom’s cool palm presses into my forearm, her touch gentle. Reassuring, as always. “The dress is stunning. You are stunning. Remember how you said you wanted to make a statement when you walked into your party?” When I nod, she continues. “Trust me, darling. In that dress, you’re going to do it. No one will be able to look away from you. Not a single person, including you-know-who.”

My heart beats heavier at her not-so-subtle reference. I wring my hands together, taking a deep breath, holding it in for a beat too long before I let it out shakily. I shouldn’t be nervous. This evening promises to be fun. Magical.

Possibly even life changing.

“Have you spoken to Ian yet?” My mother’s voice is hushed, as if she doesn’t want anyone else to hear her question, which is funny considering we’re the only two people in the elevator.

“We texted earlier.” Just thinking about him sets my heart aflutter.

Ian Baldwin. My friend. One of my closest friends. He’s smart and sweet and handsome, and he always makes me smile when I first see him.

Pretty sure he doesn’t realize that I have a huge crush on him. I’ve had a crush on Ian for years, which seems like such a silly way to describe my feelings for him, considering our ages. Crushes are for middle school.

But that’s how he makes me feel when I’m near him. Like an awkward preteen who can barely speak.

Our parents have known each other for years—Ian’s father is my father’s lawyer, who he keeps on retainer. Ian is twenty and will eventually go to law school, and he has his entire life planned out. Eventually he wants to work for his father’s law firm. He wants to be married by the age of thirty and to live in a two-story house not far from his parents’ home. He also wants two children—a boy and a girl. His biggest desire is to be respected in the same legal circles his father moves in, and he wants to handle the biggest celebrity clients he can find.

“Celebrity is where success is at,” Ian told me once at a family dinner, me sitting next to him breathless and hanging on his every word. “They’re always involved in some sort of scandal and need an attorney to bail them out. It would be easy money, representing actors and musicians. Celebrities who do nothing but make videos for their so-called followers.” He rolled his eyes.

I tried to ignore the insulting tone of his voice when he said that, considering I’m trying my best to become an influencer of some sort. I have a small following. People listen to me. Somewhat. It helps that I come from one of the oldest, wealthiest families in the country and that my father was—still is—somewhat famous.

His infamy is sometimes to my detriment, but I work with his past—and even current—reputation as best as I can. Eventually I want to make a difference with my platform. I’m not out to just get free stuff.

While I’m still not sure what I want to do with my future, Ian has a plan firmly in place. And I want to be a part of that plan so badly I can practically taste it. Not that I would ever tell him, but I often imagine myself as his wife. The mother of his children—the perfect boy and girl. They would be beautiful, well mannered, and well spoken. The perfect representation of their equally perfect father.

My daydreams are filled with images of me attending social events by his side. Hosting dinner parties for our large social circle at our gorgeous two-story house with an impeccable green yard and beautiful garden that I tend to while wearing a large straw hat to protect my skin from the sun.

Does my secret dream make me sound like an old woman? I sort of don’t care. That’s what I want.

Only with Ian, though.

“Is he here yet?” Mom asks.

Hereis the Plaza Hotel. My party is being held in their famous ballroom, and it’s going to be epic. I visited the ballroom earlier, when everyone was still setting up for the party, and the transformation took my breath away. The flowers, the decor, the food. And don’t even get me started on the planned performances tonight. Aerialists dangling from the chandeliers. Scantily clad burlesque dancers decked out in feathers and pearls while dancing in giant cocktail glasses. That’s all my father’s doing. He always likes pushing things to the edge, I swear.

He even hinted at a surprise performance, and I don’t have a clue what he’s referring to. I just know he never does things in a small way. He’s all about the grand gestures, which is a Lancaster family trait, but sometimes? Those grand gestures make me uncomfortable and I’d rather avoid them.

Where my dad is loud and obnoxious, I’m quiet and prefer to linger in the shadows.

But tonight, I’m excited to see who he’s brought in to perform. What if it’s Taylor Swift? I absolutely adore her. Beyoncé, maybe? I’m all about female empowerment, but I also wouldn’t mind seeing Harry Styles . . .

“Darling, did you hear me? Is Ian in the ballroom yet?” Mom asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

I blink at her, then shrug, my entire dress shifting with the movement. “I think so? I’m running late, so I’d guess everyone who’s coming is already in the ballroom.”

“Oh, don’t worry about being late. The guest of honor should always make a grand entrance,” Mom says with all that elegant authority I wish I could emulate. She’s so confident in her position as Fitz Lancaster’s wife.

Gloria Lancaster is the woman I’m desperate to be when I grow up. My mother is the supportive wife to one of the heirs of the Lancaster fortune, but she’s also heavily involved in a variety of charities, has gobs of friends who clamor for her attention, and after all these years, she still has the love and absolute adoration of my father.

Fitzgerald Lancaster may be a force to be reckoned with, but when he’s paired with my mother, they are still the it couple of high society, even now.

And then there’s me. Their oldest child, their only daughter. The quiet one who would rather stay at home and read a good book or binge-watch a series. I’m not as dazzling in the public eye as they are or even some of my cousins—not even close. Mom pushed me to become more involved on social media about a year ago, and I’ve grown my platform steadily ever since. Desperate to become something beyond Fitz and Gloria’s boring daughter.

Fake it till you make it, right?

“I’m definitely making a grand entrance tonight. Not sure how they’ll miss me in this dress.” I grab at the skirts, fluffing them out, wishing I could borrow just an ounce of my mother’s cool confidence for the evening.

The elevator comes to a stop, the doors sliding open with a soft whoosh, and we’re immediately hit with the sound of soft music mixed with the low murmurs of hundreds of people in conversation.

My birthday party is in full swing, and I haven’t even arrived yet. My mother always says that’s a good sign. Taking a deep, calming breath, I close my eyes for a moment, count to five, and tell myself it’s going to be all right.

It is. I know it.

Mom stays in the elevator as I make my way out, my wide skirts dragging across the floor, even with the heels I’m wearing. The dress is elaborate, constructed of layer upon layer of delicate, baby-pink tulle, with a high-low skirt that shows off my legs yet expands into a fluffy train that trails behind me as I walk.

“Darling, you are absolutely stunning,” Mom says once she exits the elevator, her gaze on me. “I’m going to text your father and ask him to join us out here. We’ll escort you into the ballroom and have them announce you’ve arrived. What do you think?”

“Okay, that sounds good.” I nod, shaking out my suddenly sweaty hands. I hate that I’m so nervous. I’ve been to plenty of events in my life, but not one that’s only for me. And with so many people in attendance. Tonight’s party is special, but it also should be fun. It’s a celebration for me.

We’re also taking donations in lieu of gifts to a variety of charities my family supports, including the Trevor Project and the Center for Reproductive Rights. Plus, we’ll make a considerable donation as well. It’s the least we can do.

Someday I want to use my own money and donate to the causes that matter to me, but for now, I’ll use the family money.

“Fitz. Darling. Please come out here and help me escort our gorgeous daughter into the ballroom.” Mom ends the call, and I swear within two minutes my father is striding toward us, a giant smile on his handsome face when he spots me.

“Scarlett, my God, look at you! You’re beautiful.” He greets me with open arms, and we hug awkwardly, the dress getting in the way. How could it not? “You’re going to make quite the appearance. You and that dress are going to be splashed all over the internet tomorrow morning.”

“Stop, you’re making her nervous,” Mom chastises before turning to look at me. “Are you ready?”

Standing taller, I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “Yes.”

“Did you tell her about the surprise?” Dad asks Mom.

“Not yet,” Mom says, sending him a pointed look. As if she wants him to remain quiet.

Nerves buzz in my veins, accompanied by a small dose of wariness. “What surprise?”

Dad moves to stand to my left, rubbing his hands together. “Who I arranged to perform just for you tonight.”

Oh, right. How could I forget? I was thinking about it only a moment ago in the elevator. I briefly clutch his arm, staring up at him with imploring eyes. “Please tell me it’s Taylor Swift.”

The Lancaster fortune is vast. Dad could totally get Taylor to make a special appearance at my party. He could pay her millions and it wouldn’t make a dent in the family bank account.

“I tried, but she couldn’t make it,” Dad says with a mock pout.

I push aside the trickle of disappointment and move on to my next favorite. “Harry Styles then?”

“Close.” His grin is huge as he loops his arm through mine. Mom does the same with my right one, all three of us linked as we head for the marble stairs that lead down into the ballroom. “Take one more guess.”

“Someone else from One Direction?” My brain scrambles, my footsteps faltering as we draw closer. The music grows louder, the roar of many conversations happening at once becoming more distinct. “Maybe Liam?”

Ugh, Liam. He’s my least favorite.

“You’ll see.” The mysterious smile on my dad’s face tells me he’s loving this.

“Stop making her guess,” Mom says, sounding vaguely irritated. “She’ll find out soon enough.”

We stop at the top of the stairs, my dad waving at the man with a microphone in his hand standing nearby. The heady scent of thousands of flowers hits my nostrils, rich and sweet, and I stare down at the ballroom, taking it all in. The walls are bathed in pink light just for the night, the giant chandeliers that hang from the ceiling glittering in varying shades of pink.

There’s a woman on stilts moving through the crowd, wearing a white dress with a massive skirt, the bodice dripping with strings of pearls. A violin is tucked beneath her chin as she plays a delicate tune. Servers clad in pink velvet jackets move about the room, carrying trays laden with champagne glasses full of pale-pink bubbly.

I suddenly, desperately want a drink, despite my being underage. Eighteen is the legal age to drink in Europe, right?

“Attention, everyone! The birthday girl has finally arrived! Please put your hands together in welcoming our guest of honor of the evening, Miss Scarlett Lancaster!” the man with the microphone announces.

A spotlight hits us, illuminating the three of us in shimmering pink, and I blink against the brightness, unable to make out any friendly faces. The applause is polite as we walk down the stairs, a few shouts of “happy birthday” coming from deep within the crowd. All I can do is smile and nod, pretending I know who is saying what to me as we finally come off the stairs and walk past the crowds, moving deeper into the room.

I’m trembling. God, I even stumble, and thankfully my parents keep me upright so I don’t fall and make a complete fool of myself. Mom murmurs words of encouragement, telling me to keep my chin up and make eye contact, and while I try, the spotlight is making it impossible.

Worse, all I can do is wonder where Ian is. Is he here? What is he wearing? He said he would be in a suit, and I’m sure he looks crushingly handsome. I don’t know if my heart will be able to take it when I finally see him.

I spot a man in the near distance, tall and lean. Much like Ian. Golden-brown hair. Is that him?

The spotlight drops and I blink, my vision back to normal, and I realize the man isn’t Ian. Disappointment swamps me and I push it aside.

This evening is a happy occasion. Everything is going to come together and work in my favor.

I just know it.

“We have another exciting announcement,” says the man, who I’m assuming my parents must’ve hired to be the MC for the night. “There will be a special performance taking place in honor of Scarlett’s eighteenth birthday tonight. A member of one of her all-time favorite bands will be taking the stage in just a few minutes, performing some of their biggest hits!”

I glance over at my dad, who’s watching me with fondness shining in his eyes. He looks ready to burst apart with his secret.

“Who is it? Just tell me,” I insist, already over the surprise factor.

I’ve never really been one who likes surprises anyway.

He grins, his excitement palpable as he rests his hand on top of mine, my arm still curved around his. “Tate Ramsey!”

I frown as my father’s answer sinks in, glancing about the room, my gaze snagging on the dessert table, which is covered with eighteen cakes in various shapes and sizes. This party is making me feel like Marie Antoinette, I swear. And I don’t know if that’s necessarily a good thing.

“Tate Ramsey?” My voice is weak, my mind swirling.

Oh God. Wait a minute . . .

The has-been lead singer from that one boy band that was huge when I was, what, thirteen?

“You mean from Five Car Pileup?”

Dad nods, seemingly pleased. “One and the same. I remember how much you adored them. Him specifically.”

“But I was in middle school,” I remind him. “Like, the seventh grade.”

Fine, it was more like the eighth grade when my friends and I all loved them.

Tate Ramsey and the rest of Five Car Pileup were huge—five years ago. One of those boy bands put together with an audition call, they even had a one-season reality show that I vaguely remember watching. They also had quite a few hits in a startlingly short amount of time. Catchy pop songs with Tate mostly on lead vocals and the rest of them harmonizing along with him. They became famous fast, always photographed on the gossip sites. Everyone wondering who they were dating, what they were doing, what they were wearing.

And then they ran into a little trouble.

Trashing hotel rooms while on tour. One of them had a sex scandal with an underage groupie that eventually got swept under the rug. They partied constantly, much to the horror of all the parents of young teenage girls. Social media started calling them bad influences, and their reputations were tarnishing bit by bit.

Tate was the only one in a committed relationship when they were a band. He’d been steadily dating his longtime girlfriend from high school, and they were portrayed as madly in love. Fans hated her for “stealing” the cutest, most popular one—and then we hated her even more when she was caught cheating on Tate.

With another Five Car Pileup band member.

Oh, that situation became ugly fast. Tate went on a drunken, drug-fueled bender and made a complete joke of himself. Their label dropped them. The band broke up. The gossip sites crucified him specifically.

No one wanted to be near Tate Ramsey.

Does anyone still want to be around him?

“And you loved him back then. You played their music over and over, especially that one song. I remember you even had his posters on your wall.” Dad pats my hand again, then lets go of me completely. “Now go on! Spend time with your friends! Enjoy your party!”

Mom gives me a brief hug before she pulls away, smiling at me. “Try to act like you’re excited about the performance for your father’s sake, yes? He was so excited when he found Tate Ramsey.”

“How did he even find him?” I never see his name mentioned anywhere anymore.

I pretty much forgot he even existed.

“Oh, he was selling personalized greetings on one of those websites.” Mom waves a dismissive hand. “You know what I mean.”

“Like the Cameo site?” Oh God, that’s kind of humiliating.

“Yes, something like that. You pay fifty dollars, and he wishes you a personalized happy birthday. Your father sent him a private message and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.” Mom shakes her head, her delicate brows drawn together.

“How much did he offer him?” I brace myself for the answer.

“One million dollars.”