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“Daddy.” My voice is low and high with terror. “Don’t do this.”
“Then change your application.”
“It’s too late. I’ve already submitted all my applications.”
“Then you can kiss your trust fund goodbye. I’ve let you do what you want for too long. It’s about time you remember who’s in charge here. I should have known this would happen. Spoiled brats like you only learn the hard way.”
Terror and shock give way to a sudden flare of bright anger, blinding as a mercury explosion.
“You’re not in charge of my life, daddy. I’m an adult now. You can’t tell me what to do, and using money to control me is so low of you.”
“Low?” My father’s laughter whips through me in a stinging blow. “Do you think I care? Do you think I got where I am by being afraid of going low?”
I know little about my father’s business or about what he’s done to get where he is. But he works on Wall Street, where nobody has clean hands or a clear conscience.
So I don’t need to know the details of his career to know he’s telling me the truth. He’s not the kind to joke or make idle threats. If he says he’s spoken to Rasheed, our attorney, about my trust fund, then he’s definitely done that.
I never really thought he would ever cut me off because I never thought he’d sink so low as to force me to do what he wants by using money. Not when I’ve always done everything he asked—not when what I want is so innocuous, soreasonable.
With every year that passes, I discover new ways of hating my father or realising what a horrible person he is. Ruthless, heartless, completely devoid of guilt or conscience or empathy for others.
But he’s forgetting one thing: I am his daughter. A true Rosenthal—whether I like it or not. And just because I refuse to follow in his footsteps doesn’t mean I can’t learn from him.
“Fine, daddy. You’re right. You might not be afraid to go low—but I can go lower. You’ll see.”
Chapter 2
Scandal Material
Ineedmoreroses.More roses, more tulle, more drama.
It’s a recurring theme whenever I’m creating an outfit for a party. But today it holds particularly true. Today, there’s a party in the peace garden, and I’m finally going to get the boy I’ve set my sights on.
I have a plan and it’s going to go perfectly.
“Oh my god, what’s happening here?”
Cammie stands in the open doorway, her dark eyes wide. I glance up from the floor where I’m sitting, stitching roses onto a corset. It’s painful work, the boning of the corset fighting the needle, which keeps stabbing my thimble-free fingers.
“Obviously,” I say, gesturing impatiently around me, “I’m making my outfit for tonight’s party.”
“Making an outfit?” Cammie says, aghast. “It looks like a florist has just had a psychotic episode in here! Why are there so many plants?”
“Because, Camille!” I glare at her, holding up my corset and its pitiful handful of roses. “Look at it! It’s not ready yet—not remotely. It needs more roses!”
“Rose, we’re going to a party in the peace garden, not the MET fucking Gala.” Camille steps over a pile of discarded fabric with a grimace and joins me in my corner, kneeling next to me to place a concerned hand on my shoulder. “Is this about your dad? Or is this about Evan?”
I roll my eyes and smack her hand away. “It’snotabout Evan,” I say, even though it’s a little bit about Evan.
Evan Knightisthe plan.
In fact, Evan Knight hasalwaysbeen the plan.
He’s rich, athletic and breath-takingly gorgeous. We’re both from the US, and both our families operate in New York. We’re the picture-perfect couple.
I’ve always known we would end up together. It’s the ending that makes the most sense for us. I’ve been willing to wait for him to make his way through the hottest girls in the year and get it out of his system. I even conceded him to Giselle, for fuck’s sake, and I despise Giselle—so that was especially generous and patient of me.
But if there’s anything my English Literature GCSE taught me back in lower school, it’s that the best plans of mice and men often go awry. In my case, it went especially awry, because apparently, Evan fucking Knight doesn’t have a clue what’s good for him.
