Prologue

HALLION THORNE CAUGHT IN THE ACT!

By Anna Brooks, Yellow Vault Contributor

She’s kept a high profile since the controversy surrounding her latest boyfriend, baller Kieran Edwards, suddenly coming out of the closet two months ago. Now, Hallie Thorne is letting it all hang loose on a night out on the town. That’s right, my little Vaulters! You’re seeing correctly. Here is Hallie Thorne showing off her nipple. And with none other than cable TV’s most beloved hunk on her arm.

Next station? Has-been Celeb Rehab, if you ask me.

She may be a hit with Hollywood’s men, but whispers on the street are saying Daddy Dearest cannot stand her.

Okay. Wait a minute. Pause. Don’t make a judgment.

I know it looks really bad. Not my nipple—my boobs are awesome, they’re probably my best feature—but I swear I can explain all the other stuff.

So, this is the story of my downfall.

Of how every household in America got to see my nipple.

Go back to a year ago when my nip-slip picture was plastered all over internet websites, magazines, tabloids, and social media accounts. At some point, I wondered if I should get it an agent and a tiny pair of dark film-noir sunglasses. That’s how crazy things got.

Not that I had anything to hide. I was, as the media pointed out, curvylicious. With wide hips, D-cup breasts, and a butt worthy of every one of Lil Wayne’s heart-wrenching poems.

The problem was…my nipple wasn’t just a nipple.

It was the nipple of the first White House baby. I was the First Daughter on a few levels.

America was obsessed with the fact that I, Hallie Margaret Thorne, the first child to be born to a sitting president, was also a royal fuck-up.

The tattoos, cherry-red hair, thick eyeliner, and community college I’d dropped out of one semester into my studies provided a certain easy-to-hate optic…

Everyone thought I had it easy. All I had to do was literally not screw up. But I did. Constantly.

And this last time? I’d taken it one step too far.

Yellow Vaultwasn’t lying. My parents had had enough of me. Desperate times called for desperate measures for their pretty, loose cannon in need of protection, a mental slap in the face, and a wake-up call.

Enter Ransom Lockwood.

Formidable, forbidding, frightening, and…excuse me, but fuckable to a fault. My new bodyguard.

Sorry, close protection officer.

The devil who blew up my life and annihilated whatever was left of my self-esteem.

The ornery protector who stole my heart, smashed it into pieces, then handed me back the broken shards with a lopsided smirk.

They called him The Robot, but I didn’t think that’s what he was.

He had a heart, somewhere under all those layers. Dusty and scarred, but still beating.

So all you need to know is that in some ways, that nip slip did destroy my life. But it also saved me. Or at least, one part of me.

The part that was worth saving.

The part that survived.

When Princesses Fall

My corseted little black dress was a mistake.

I knew as soon as I slipped into the back seat of my driver’s Cadillac, my upper face covered by a sequined, red masquerade mask.

My best friend Keller was already perched on the opposite side of the seat, rearranging a stray hair in his perfect blond mane, his phone’s camera serving as a mirror. He had a beautiful, golden Roman mask on.

“Hey, Den! The Chateau Marmont,” I instructed my driver, rearranging the underwire of my dress.

Keller tucked his phone into the pocket of his Prada suit, throwing me a glance. “Honey, the corset looks like it’s about to launch itself out of the Milky Way. What size is this dress?”

Sitting upright, I shot him an offended look. This garment was the kind of claustrophobically tight that would later need to be surgically removed.

“Balmain only makes stuff up to size twelve,” I mumbled defensively.

“Well, the zipper is probably one hors d’oeuvre away from filing a restraining order against you, so I suggest you go back and change.” Keller smoothed an invisible wrinkle on his cigar pants.

Dennis glanced in the rearview mirror to see if he should turn around and drive back to my house. I shook my head. Absolutely not. I was a size twelve. Sometimes I was even a size ten (though definitely not between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Or Easter. Or while PMSing).

The problem with designer numbers was that they were made exclusively for trim people. I loved my body. Every curve and hard-earned cellulite cell. I knew, logically, designers rarely made true-to-size garments. Their ten was an eight, their twelve was a ten, and their fourteen was…well, nonexistent. But I never bought anything off the rack. To keep it eco-friendly, I always shopped in secondhand stores for gowns, but that limited my options pretty significantly.

“The dress stays,” I announced.

“Not for long, if your tits have anything to say about it,” Keller muttered.

“You’re just bitter because your eyes are baggy.”

“My eyes are baggy?” Keller thundered, ripping his gaze from his phone.

Grinning, I shrugged. “No, but now you know what it feels like to be dissed by your best friend. Doesn’t feel too good, does it?”

Twenty minutes later, Dennis stopped by The Chateau. I squeezed my driver’s shoulder from behind, squishing my cheek against his. “Thanks, Den! You can take tonight off. I’ll Uber it home.”

“I think I’ll stay,” sixty-five-year-old Dennis said wearily. “Your parents aren’t gonna like the Uber idea.” He’d been my driver since I was eight, and knew my parents better than I.

Mr. and Mrs. Thorne did not like it when I left the house—not because they so enjoyed my company. My mere and flawed existence caused them embarrassment by proxy. The nicest thing my mother had ever said about me in an interview was that I added texture to the family. Texture. Like I was a decorative wallpaper. And so, I didn’t particularly care what they’d approve of.

I waved Dennis off. “Keller is going to be right here with me. He’ll keep me out of trouble. Right, Kel?”

“As much as one can.” Keller slipped out of the Cadillac, eyeing the arched entryway eagerly. “Unless whoever attacks you is armed. You know I just cannot with blood. Or if I get hit on by someone hot. But I’m talking Zac Efron as Ted Bundy hot. If it’s just Zac Efron in High School Musical level, I’ve got your back, girl.”

“If you find your Zac Efron in High School Musical, I won’t be bailing you out for lewd acts with a minor,” I fired back.

Keller raised his thumb. “I’m sure this conversation is totally reassuring to Dennis. He now trusts you not to get into trouble.”

I brought my mini smartphone to my lips. “Siri, remind me to make a voodoo doll of my best friend and use it as a pincushion tomorrow morning.”

“Event added to calendar,” Siri replied primly.

Hopping out of the vehicle, I flashed Dennis an angelic, I’ll-be-good smile and pressed my palms together. “Seriously, Den. I’ll behave. Go home. I’m sure Ethel is waiting with her special gingerbread cookies.”

He stroked his chin. “She did say she’s making a fresh batch this morning…”

In a lot of ways, Dennis and Ethel were more of a family to me than Mom and Dad. I’d spent more holidays with them, they took care of me when I was sick, and showed up for my parent-teacher conferences whenever Mom and Dad had been busy at a climate change summit or grilling a tech bro in Congress.

Dennis swung his gaze from my forced smile to the open jaws of The Chateau. He’d taken me here enough times to know I was bound to get drunk, rack up a bill, and end the night vomiting champagne more expensive than his suit into his back seat.

He didn’t want to deal with me. Who could blame him? I could barely tolerate myself. Which was why I planned to drown myself in alcohol tonight.

He sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Just be careful, all right? And go home early.”

“You’re the best, Den. Send Ethel my love!”

He tilted his cloth hat downward. “How ’bout you pay her a visit sometime soon and tell her yourself?”

Dennis and Ethel only languished in Los Angeles because of me. They longed to go back to the East Coast, to their family. I hated that I was a part of their misery, which was why I never dragged myself to their Encino bungalow and endured weak tea and Jeopardy! on loop while Ethel took out her photo albums to show me pictures of the grandchildren they weren’t able to see…because of me. Too depressing. I hadn’t found a liquor strong enough to counter that guilt. Yet.

“Will do, Den.”

He drove off, leaving us in a cloud of exhaust smoke. Ugh. We had to talk about switching to a Tesla.

Keller laced his arm in mine, gazing at the infamous white stack of bricks with twinkling eyes. “At last, we’re in our natural habitat.”

The masquerade ball was hosted as a fundraiser by a plastic surgery clinic in the valley for veterans who’d suffered burn scars. Keller and I had both put 5k in our envelopes, but neither of us showed up for the pre-ball dinner. Keller didn’t like eating in public (true story) and I didn’t like being bombarded with questions and requests about my family.

“You know…” I flipped my dyed burgundy tresses as we made our way to the bar, bypassing masked up bellboys, concierges, and ma?tre d’s. “The Chateau Marmont is known for being populated by people either on their way up or on their way down. Which category do you think we fall into?”

“Neither.” Keller led me to the oaky, red bar of the hotel, with the familiar maroon stools and matching overhead chandeliers. “We’re just beautiful spawns-of. Born into high society and low expectations. We’re going nowhere.”

Keller was the son of Asa Nelson, front man of the band She Wolf and the biggest rock n’ roll legend still alive. Both our last names opened doors—not all good.

We settled at the bar. Wordlessly, the bartender Frederik, slid a Marmont Mule cocktail my way, fixing Keller his regular, Bleu Velvet. Frederik wore an all-white rabbit mask that highlighted his piercing blue eyes.

“I should take him home,” Keller muttered, elbowing me.

“He seems like a bad idea.”

“My favorite type,” my best friend retorted. “Yours, too.”

I didn’t acknowledge that last part. It wasn’t Keller’s fault he thought I slept with everything with a pulse—a common general vibe I gave people. But it never felt good to be reminded that I was lying to my best friend.

Before we even made it to our first sip, we were surrounded by two wannabe actresses, one reality TV star, and a life coach I was certain also moonlit as a waitress at The Ivy. Everyone stood around, preening, while trying to convince the people they mingled with that their big break was just around the corner. This was how Keller and I spent our nights. Every single one of them. Partying, drinking, mingling, pretending like the world was a big, fat pi?ata, ready to burst and rain fat fashion contracts, Vogue covers, and Oscars over our heads.

We were socialites. Young, rich, and bored.

We answered to no one and were sought after by everyone.

Technically, Keller and I both had jobs.

At twenty-seven, Keller was the owner of Main Squeeze, an upscale juicery in West Hollywood known for its detox bundle, favored by Victoria’s Secret models and Real Housewives.

I was an Instagram persona, meaning I got paid in luxury products and compliments, advertising products to my eight hundred thousand followers. Anything from clothes and handbags to tampons. My so-called “work” took two hours a week, but I was oddly protective of it. Maybe because I knew it was the only piece of me no one was allowed to invade or shape. It was all mine. My doing, my responsibility, my little, small win in this world.

“Isn’t it funny,” I mused aloud, swirling the swizzle stick in my drink. “How we can pretend like we’re productive members of society and the tabloids just run with it?”

The two actresses, reality star, and the life coach evaporated from our place at the bar the minute they spotted a Netflix star who’d entered the room wearing a medieval plague doctor mask.

That was the catch about L.A. It was a great place to accumulate people, as long as it wasn’t true friendship you were after.

Keller shot me a frown. “Speak for yourself. I do have a job. I own a juicery. I source all the ingredients myself.”

“Oh, Keller.” I patted his hand on the bar and held up my drink. “I’m ‘sourcing local ingredients’ right now. Don’t get me wrong, it’s an amazing hobby, but neither of us needs the money.”

We never spoke of it, but I’d always assumed Keller, too, got a hefty sum of allowance each month from his dad.

“No, Hal, you don’t understand. I have a job.” He frowned, rearing his head back. “With people on my payroll, quarterly meetings with my CPA, budgets, the entire shebang. If I don’t do things, they don’t get done.”

He was deep in denial. We were both counting on our parents to pay our rent, car leases, and life expenses. At least I had the dignity to admit it.

I took a sip of my drink, struggling to breathe in the tight dress. “I mean, sure. What I meant was, we have really fun jobs, so they don’t feel like jobs.”

Keller rolled his eyes. “That’s not what you meant.”

He was right. It wasn’t. But I was too exhausted from my deep-cleanse facial earlier to pick a fight.

“I just noticed Perry Cowen’s here.” Keller tilted his head behind my shoulder. “Her new balayage is fierce.”

I didn’t turn around to look. “Not sure a good balayage is going to fix the ugly that’s her soul.”

“Aww. When God made you pretty, he forgot the R.” Keller hopped off his stool. “I’m gonna go say hi.”

“But she is so basic, Kel.” I scrunched my nose.

“Behave while I’m gone.” Keller’s eyes flicked toward his own reflection dancing along a stainless-steel wine bowl before he headed toward his target.

Perry Cowen was an up-and-coming fashion designer and a woman I didn’t like. Mainly because she was designing my sister Hera’s rehearsal dinner dress. And anyone who was a friend of my sister’s was an enemy to me.

Perry had also sold a story about me to The Mail, after an unfortunate incident involving me, a bridesmaid dress, and an unexpectedly spicy pizza sauce. I knew it was her, because no one else in the room would leak it. My mother was horrified we were even related, Dad wasn’t an ass, and Hera…well, she hated how I always made headlines for the wrong reasons.

I flagged Frederik, ordering two more cocktails and a shot. I needed some liquid courage to get through the night. Even though I was in a room full of people, I felt desperately alone.

Perry was a reminder that a flight away from me, in Dallas, lived the most perfect First Daughter to ever grace the face of the earth.

My twenty-nine-year-old sister.

An androgynous, sylphlike creature. The type you see on the cover of Vogue magazine. Put-together, quick-witted, and impeccably mannered.

Hera finished med school at Stanford University with her fiancé and high school sweetheart Craig, and was currently planning their upcoming wedding while slaying an internship at Baylor University Medical Center.

Hera’s whole life was meticulously planned.

I couldn’t even control my breasts (which were still wrestling the chiffon of the corset, trying to break free).

I downed the two cocktails and the shot, then snuck a look at Keller and Perry, standing in the corner of the room, laughing. Perry swatted his chest. Around me, masked people swirled and danced. Some kissed in darkened corners of the room. This was my life. Stilettos and overpriced drinks. An empty mansion, full bank account, and blank dance card. There was a hole in my chest that kept on growing, taking more space, until it felt like that hole was real and visible and see-through.

I signaled Frederik for another shot. My drink arrived promptly. Unfortunately, so did Wes Morgan, celebrity trainer extraordinaire.

Wes was the co-host of Big Fat Loser, a TV show as horrible as its name. He “helped” celebrities lose weight, normally by yelling at them while running shirtless by their side, as they keeled over and vomited mid-exercise. He’d tried to recruit me to season three of his show, promising to get me to a size four within two months. I hung up the phone on him, but not before keeping him on the line for fifteen seconds, while I alternated between laughing and munching loudly on a sleeve of Thin Mints.

Apparently, our last interaction had left him craving more.

“Howdy, Hallion.” He braced his elbow on the bar, next to my drink, flashing me a blindingly white smile. Hallion was the nickname the tabloids gave me for my antics. “Did I ever tell you I’m a fellow Texan, too?”

He had enough wax in his hair to sculpt a Madame Tussaud figure. I wasn’t talking young Dakota Fanning, either. More like Dwayne Johnson.

“You don’t have a mask,” I commented blandly.

“Don’t need one.” He shrugged, grinning wider, still. “You’re looking at a man who just donated 10k to help a veteran get his surgery.”

I examined the paint job on the ceiling, waiting for him to go away.

“D’you hear what I said?”

“Yes.” I scooped a cherry from my empty cocktail glass, sucking it clean of alcohol. “You said it a second ago.”

“I meant about both of us being Texans.”

“I’m not a Texan,” I said flatly, tying the cherry’s stem in my mouth and dropping it back into my hand.

“Oh, yeah?” He leaned closer, so I could truly appreciate the eye-watering scent of the five gallons of cologne he’d bathed in. “Coulda swore President Thorne was—”

“From Dallas, yes. But I was born in D.C. and spent the first eight years of my life there. Then my parents tossed me into a boarding school in New York, Swiss summer camps, British winter camps, and French soirees. Texan, I am not. A cultural mogul, however…”

I could tell from Wes’ vacant stare that I’d lost him at ‘culture’. Perhaps even ‘soirees’.

I’d spent some time in Texas over the years, never by choice. My parents would beg, bargain, and drag me “home,” encouraging me to attend local schools, stay close to the family. I always dodged their efforts. Texas was too hot, too wholesome. All in all, I considered myself a Texan no more than I considered myself a neurosurgeon. And besides, I knew why they wanted me around—it was better optics for them. Showed they at least tried to rein in their wild child.

“Tsk.” Wes clucked his tongue, his megawatt smile intact. His teeth couldn’t be real. In fact, I’d wager his biceps weren’t, either. “I’d be happy to give you a tour sometime. Though I was born and bred in Houston, I sure know Dallas inside out.”

“I’m not planning any trips there.” I stared at the bottom of my empty cocktail glass.

“Then maybe we can meet here, in L.A.” His elbow touched mine. I jerked back immediately.

“Busy schedule, eating all those pies.”

“Don’t be so touchy, Hallion. Business is business, yeah?” He ran a hand through his hair, but that thing was stiffer than concrete. “I thought you’d make a great contestant.”

“You’d make a great taxidermy,” I drawled.

“Tell you what. I’ll work around your schedule. I really think we could benefit each other.”

He was just another person who saw me as a walking, talking meal ticket. He was just another user, and possibly an abuser. People like Wes reminded me why I’d sworn off men. They all wanted something, and that something was never to have an actual relationship with me. I was their leg-up. Their key to unlock an opportunity.

My stomach churned.

I want to go home.

Tragically, I didn’t have one. The mansion was a stack of expensive bricks and nothing more.

“I’ll have my PA contact yours.” I hopped off the stool.

“I don’t have a PA,” he said, confused.

Neither do I. That’s the whole exercise, Einstein.

I signaled Frederik for the check. Screw Keller. I was tapping out. He could mingle with Perry, who did, in fact, sport great new highlights that complemented her cheekbones. I tossed them one last look. Perry’s friends were now asking Keller all kinds of questions about his juicery. He was basking in it. Was I the only one who was upfront about his fake job?

I paid, tipped Frederik forty percent, and made my way out, weaving through people who tried to stop me for a chat. Wes followed me eagerly. He’d officially graduated from a pain in the neck to a stalker.

“Wait, where are you going?” He tried to put his hand on my shoulder. I hissed, shaking him off almost violently.

Don’t touch me. Do not touch me. Never touch me.

“Home.” I quickened my steps. My heels slapped the dark floor.

I loathed myself for forgetting to grab a jacket on my way out of the house. I could use something to cover my boobs with, ensure my breasts weren’t peeking out of the corset. Though now that I thought about it, said boobs weren’t feeling so constrained anymore. Just oddly cold. I looked down and realized why—my right breast had torn through the fabric. It was literally hanging out. Flapping in the wind like a half-mast flag just as I was about to exit the hotel and call myself an Uber.

Gasping, I frantically tried to tuck it back into my dress.

“Man, oh man.” Wes chuckled, leaning against a nearby wall. “Looks like the ladies came out to get some fresh air.”

“Shut up.”

I made a beeline to the hotel reception to see if I could borrow someone’s jacket. There were so many people. Everywhere. And the mask made it impossible to see anything. I ripped it off my face and dumped it on the floor. Panting, I looked around me.

Jacket. I needed a jacket. But this was L.A. People hardly walked around in layers.

A voice beside me soothed, “Don’t be so angry, Hallion. Let me drive you home.”

“No, thanks.” I folded my arms over my chest and strode faster. I was almost at the reception.

“If you ask the concierge for a jacket, they’ll know what happened and sell the story.”

I stopped cold in the middle of the lobby. Wes knew he had my attention.

“Do you really want to be humiliated again? Especially after the pizza stain story Page Six published about you.” His voice slithered behind me, sinking into my skin like claws.

He was right. If I admitted my dress had burst, it could be leaked. Hera would have a fit, and my parents… God knew what they were going to do. Cut off my allowance. Force me to move to Texas.

I had no actual life skills, other than peeling tangerines in one long piece. Which was impressive, but not exactly the kind of stuff you put on your résumé.

I whipped around, sizing Wes up, still protecting my modesty by resting my arms over my chest.

“I don’t trust you.” I squinted.

He raised his palms up. “You should. You’re President Thorne’s daughter. A national hero. I’d never hurt you. Do you think I’m that dumb?”

The answer, unfortunately for Wes, was yes. But since he gave himself more credit, maybe I should do the same. Just for tonight.

Every bone in my body told me it was a bad idea, but I wasn’t exactly swimming in options.

“Promise me no funny business.”

“Promise me a photo-op, and you’ve got yourself a deal. I need to get back on the headlines before season five premieres.”

I closed my eyes, breathed hard. I was furious.

“Wouldn’t it be counterproductive to be seen with a curvy girl when your job is to make people thin?” I opened my eyes, smiling innocently.

“So, about that.” Wes let out an exaggerated sigh. “I might’ve gotten a rep as a fat phobic after one of my episodes went viral. Can you believe this woke bullshit?”

Great. So I was officially his “some-of-my-best-friends-are” token. I wanted to scream.

“One coffee on Rodeo Drive.” I raised my finger in warning. “That’s all you’re getting.”

“Fine, but you can’t look like you’re revolted by me,” he bargained. “People need to think you’re having a good time.”

“If I had those kind of acting chops, I’d be winning Oscars, not advertising acne creams on Instagram.” I let out a sarcastic laugh.

“C’mon now, Hallie.”

I sighed. “I’ll be ordering a pastry.”

“I’ll tell the valet to get my car.” He winked and pointed at me. I, in return, flipped him the bird.

Wes ambled out of the lobby, swaggering like he owned the place. Minutes later, he returned to where I was standing tucked in a discreet alcove not too far from the entrance. It was a fairly secluded spot. My heart was racing, threatening to tear through my skin.

No one could know about my wardrobe malfunction.

“Goddamn, how much longer is it gonna take?” Wes craned his neck to see if his car had arrived. “My Tinder date is waiting down the street.”

My phone started buzzing in my fist. Keller, undoubtedly. I couldn’t answer, because I was firmly covering my breasts with my arms, and also because I was still riding the petty train of anger from him talking to Perry Cowen all the way to Beefville.

It was taking a long time—longer than it should—for Wes’ car to arrive. Every time he tried to start a conversation, I blocked it with, “Can we not?”

Finally, Wes announced that his car was waiting for us outside. He grabbed me by the elbow, ushering me to the entryway.

“Don’t touch me!” I whimpered, hating my voice, how lousy and whiny it sounded in my ears.

It all happened so fast from the moment we stepped out in the open. I let go of my boob, slapping his hand away. The flashes of the cameras hit me all at once. Instinctively, I raised my hand as a visor for my eyes. My right boob swung in the air and said hi to the dozen or so paparazzi photographers Wes had clearly invited here to catch us leaving together.

Oh, fuck.

I was so going to get shit about it from the forty-ninth president of the United States.

AKA, Dad.

Anthony John Thorne.