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“Old first names and even older last names. Old money that will always be on top because of their sons and daughters. They’re everything this dull lot wants to be,” Topper says, pointing to a small group entering the ballroom.
There’s a couple in front. The woman is tall, skinny, and dressed in a tight black silk dress. Her hair is dark brown. If it was a few shades darker, it would have been black. Her hair is cut short in a bob. She screams elegance and beauty, but the pursing of her lips and her eyes staring straight ahead show a woman who believes everyone else is beneath her.
And the man, who has his hand on her back, looks just as pretentious. He’s taller than her, and his hair colour is but a few shades lighter than hers.
“That’s Sebastian Callahan and his wife, Moreen Van Doren. She’s the obscenely rich one, and Sebastian married straight into it and took over everything her daddy built. I bet Moreen didn’t like that, considering the woman stopped smiling the day she tied the knot with Callahan,” Topper says, and this time, I take a second look at the woman passing by with her head higher than normal.
Maybe it isn’t arrogance on her face, but rather boredom. Maybe Moreen is as uninterested as me. Her life might have been stolen from her just like mine will be. I had dreams, goals and a future, but everything I wanted no longer mattered the second my brother said I have to marry someone of his choosing.
A marriage lacking love can turn a person into a shallow version of themselves. Dreams turn into nightmares or distant memories to occasionally visit. Moreen might be a brilliant mind lost in the world of men. She doesn’t deserve that. Neither do I.
“They’re both horrible though, and some even say they’re a perfect match, but I’m pretty sure they hate each other’s guts. And that disaster of a couple has a daughter,” Topper continues, and somewhere in the back of my mind, something is sparked. They sound familiar, as if I’ve heard or read their names before while scrolling through my Instagram feed, and that’s when it clicks.
I know these people. Not personally, but their names are everywhere. In magazines, on billboards, but most of the time, they’re on my brother’s lips. And every time one of their names has been said, it’s alongside hatred and jealousy.
Because they have what my brother wants — the life of a one-percenter. Frederic believed we were close to it once, but then Dad died and we packed our bags, not a few months later, to live a different life in New York. A life Frederic detested because of the lack of wealth.
But the famous London Six, who’re entering the ballroom, rule the tabloids and will keep on doing so for a long time to come.
“And next on the list is Ada Van Doren, Moreen’s younger sister. She doesn’t fit in the picture of an elegant, graceful trophy wife. Ohno, rumour hasit she pierced her nipples and shagged some politician on a Christmas holiday to the Bahamas. But she’s good and kind.”
Ada has the same dark hair as her sister, but that’s where the similarities end. Ada is tiny with a vibrating smile on her lips as she waves and mouths ‘hello’. Her dress is large like the one Cinderella wore to the ball, including the puffy sleeves. But instead of royal blue, Ada’s is white with the smallest dots of multicoloured drawings on the expensive thick fabric.
“Are those…?”
“Yeah, those are boobs,” Topper finishes for me because I can’t look away from the vision in white with pencil-drawn boobs all over her dress. “I told you. Ada doesn’t fit in.”
Maybe not fitting in is exactly what half of these women want. A chance to show their true colours while the rest of them set the bar for what a perfect high-class woman is. One I tick all the boxes of, while hating the criteria.
I want to have the freedom to walk around in a dress with boobs on it. It sounds wonderful, and Ada … she looks like she’s enjoying every second of it because her smile has not slipped once.
A hard jab against my ribs takes my focus off the fearless woman in front of me and falls back on Topper.
What?I mouth excitedly. He nods his head toward the entrance multiple times. When I finally turn my head, I straighten my back because the woman entering the ballroom now is royalty. Royalty amongst the business world.
“Jocelyn Hansley,” Topper says in awe, as if he can’t believe it himself. “She wears the fucking crown. And I mean, one made from gold with multiple diamonds and emeralds on it. The heavy shit kind of crowns only worn by extremely important people. Jocelyn is on top, likeliterallyon top. There’s no one close to her net worth. Jocelyn Hansley is a shark and she rules her empire with an iron fist.” Every fact or assumption Topper made about Jocelyn is one I know already and one I believe as well. Jocelyn is the quintessential image of a successful woman pushing through that inevitable glass ceiling, reaching further than anyone had expected of her.
She is not old money. That’s a woman who got it all by hard work, intelligence, and dedication.
But it isn’t only Jocelyn’s money that makes her memorable. The way she conducts herself is all about power, importance and strength. She’s a plus-size woman with curvy hips and a voluptuous chest. Her soft pink suit is elegant but alluring at the same time. Her ears are pierced, from top to bottom, with gold earrings, and a heavy necklace hangs around her neck, matching the multiple gold bracelets. Her strawberry-blonde hair is high up in a top knot, and it sometimes looks light brown.
“I would shag her,” Topper mumbles dreamily.
A small smile forms on my lips before I look his way.
“You’regay,” I remark pointedly.
“I would still fuck her.” He blinks repeatedly, fluttering his eyelashes like a butterfly. “But I’d rather shag those two,” Topper says, pointing toward a pair of men bringing up the rear.
“To the right, you have Prescott Adler. Owns way too many nightclubs, bars, and restaurants. But rumour has it the guy even works his own bar at his favourite club, Apollo. He doesn’t fit in as well, but the man is… drool-worthy.”
Prescott Adler truly is just that. The buzz cut and the short beard he wears give off a strong military vibe. He looks all the more imposing because of his regal features and the scar slicing through one of his eyebrows. But his piercing blue eyes are what have my heart skipping a beat. He’s dressed in a black pin-striped suit with a brown vest underneath it, but it’s the dark ink slipping out of his collar that holds my attention.
“He has tattoos.”
“Oh God, no,” Topper exclaims loudly, dropping his hand on his chest dramatically. “Not tattoos.”
“Shut up, you fool,” I say, rolling my eyes. The average age here is fifty or older, and all of them still believe in the idea that tattoos don’t belong on the body of high-class, posh gentlemen.
