There’s a reason Whitney and I are thick as thieves.
It all starts here.
And it’s a time we’ve both tried very hard to forget.
I’ve never even told Bennett about that night—the one that nearly destroyed us. Whitney and I have always operated on a need-to-know basis.
And this?
This is something our husbands never needed to know.
McCullough is coming to the debutante ball with me!
The excitement practically leaps off the page.
Both of our mothers were debutantes at The Pierre, and now we get to do it together. We’ve already gone shopping for dresses and have fittings in New York next month.
I know debutante balls and society galas are ridiculous. McCullough didn’t even want to do it at first—but I wore her down. I promised we’d make our own fun. Just us.
I huff out a quiet breath.
She did more than that.
Neither of us wants anything to do with the other debs—their attitudes are unbearable. They’re all mini versions of Kathy and Veronica, talking about their “introduction to society” like it means something.
Honestly, I’m most excited for the people-watching. Only a fraction of girls get invited. Your mother has to be a former debutante, and the “donation” alone could buy most people a house.
McCullough wasn’t even sure she’d be welcome—“they won’t want a rez kid among all those WASPy blondes,” she said.
My throat tightens.
But I pushed. Hard. I even wrote to the chair of the committee and told her I wouldn’t attend if they weren’t willing to welcome diversity. McCullough doesn’t know I did that—the chair is a family friend, and with the amount of money my family has donated over the years, I figured I was entitled to a few demands.
Now I just need to find her the perfect escort… and all our fairytale dreams will come true.
I close the journal, pressing my palm flat against the cover as emotion swells behind my eyes.
It’s been one day.
One day since the explosion.
One day since Whitney disappeared.
One day since my world tipped sideways.
Whitney is the only person who knows the deepest, ugliest parts of me.
The only person who ever sees me clearly—and chooses me anyway.
My parents gave me everything that matters on paper. A home. Stability. Opportunity.
But in the quiet moments?
They were absent.
By twelve, I already understood what it meant to be a Williams. There are expectations. Appearances to maintain. Standards to meet.
We present well,my mother always said, voice soft and polished.
