Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Bring that password to Mama.
As I hop onto the train, I mentally flick through my closet then rein in the grin of all grins when the magic words land on my phone.
The rest of the night, I fight like hell to focus on the screening—and not on The Scene.
After the longest and the shortest workday—I was nonstop from eight to six coordinating the upcoming location shoot for a hot new show the production company I work for developed—I stare at the Albrecht Mansion on the other side of this elegant Upper East Side block, freaking out that I’ll be exposed.
I’m supposed to be the confident one in my friend group. The bold one. That’s what they call me, though if they knew my sister I’m sure they’d call me shy. But now my mind whirs too fast for me to be bold.
Camden’s by my side. She walked here with me, and while she’s not attending, I can’t just head into a naughty masquerade without a good pep talk from my bestie. “What if they figure out I’m not just a piano player?” I ask in a whisper.
“Who’s they?”
I gesture subtly to the mansion. “You know. The…organizers. The people in charge,” I say quietly.
She arches a brow. “Fear of authority much?”
Just a little. “Well, you’ve met my dad.” He might have changed careers now, but once a cop, always a cop.
“First, you’re legit allowed to be here. Second, no one knows you’ve been dying for an invite for months,” she says as she tosses me a knowing smile.
She’s right on all counts. I’m seriously glad she walked over here with me. My overactive mind starts to settle. “You’re right. And I can’t believe I finally got one,” I say as I gaze up at the mansion, which is stunning, in a Vanderbilt kind of way. Ivy crawls up the burnished red bricks. A soft summer breeze rustles the trees hugging the staircase that leads to imposing double doors, the dark polished wood gleaming in the twilight. The doors are staffed by two big, burly men in black suits, muscles bulging. No one is getting past them without an invitation.
“I can’t believe I’ve walked by this mansion a million times,” I say as I soak in the secret society feel of this entire summer night. “And I had no idea what went on here just off Park Avenue.”
“That’s New York for you. City of Secrets.” Camden likes Manhattan’s mysteries too.
“It sure is,” I say to the one person who knows most of mine.
Camden was with me at Revel House in SoHo, a converted church turned into a nightclub, the night we danced till dawn and heard whispers about The Scene. Words like sophisticated and costume and never use your name intrigued me to no end.
Since then, I’ve searched for details, chased down clues, eager for an invite. Rumor has it these after-dark fêtes aren’t just masquerades. They’re elegant opportunities for people with the same desires to meet.
Everyone who walks past these doors wants the same things.
And tonight, everyone includes the piano player.
I draw a deep breath, clutching my shiny gold mask more tightly. It’s the price of admission, and I’m willing to pay.
I spin to face Camden. “How do I look?” I ask, flashing a check my teeth smile.
“Disgustingly perfect,” she says, faux annoyed. “No lipstick on your pearly whites.”
“That’s the worst,” I deadpan, but inside I’m grateful that I look good on the outside.
“I still can’t believe you just happened to have this sexy number in your closet,” she says, her bright eyes traveling in obvious approval from the gold sandals to the white dress visible through the gap in my cape, to the matching glittery headband. The only thing that doesn’t match is my silver anklet. It’s not part of the ensemble, and no one will see it under my dress, but it’s with me. Always.
I strike a playful pose, getting into the spirit at last. “A girl should be prepared for a costume party. I can’t just count on finding the perfect things at retail the night before.” It takes hunting to find my recycled pretties, but I do.
“Next time you find something that screams ‘hot rocker chick’ for karaoke night, get it for me.”
“Done,” I say. I love finding clothes for my friends, and gifting them.
“Anyway, stop stalling. I need to get to work, and you need to go in there. And seriously, thank god Scarlett thought of you and not, like, the grandpa at Bloomingdale’s who plays old songs for shoppers.” Then she gasps. “Ooh, what if he’s in there tonight? In a mask? And he tries to seduce you?”
I roll my eyes. “Enough of you.”
“Exactly. Go, you goddess.”
That’s the idea. My goddess costume seems perfect for the party’s theme—old-fashioned, but with a twist.
The old-fashioned comes from the character I’m playing from mythology—a Greek goddess. As for the twist? Well, that’s just a play on hair. My chestnut hair is hidden under this golden blonde wig, with long, luxurious locks, softly curled, one side twisted in a gold clip.