“I heard her hair stylist has less Instagram followers than she does.” Tabby snapped her gum from the backseat of the Mercedes GLE. “And she has, like, four thousand? I mean, just let the butcher at Balducci’s do your hair and be done with it.”
“She’s flaunting those bangs like it’s 1999. No one has the guts to tell her they look awful on curly hair.” Reggie snickered. “And her balayage is downright orange.”
Tabitha and Regina Ballantine, ladies and gentlemen.
My stepsisters.
Between them, they produced enough venom to kill a well-populated island.
My stepmother Vera tutted from her spot behind the steering wheel.
“Now, now, girls. That’s not very charitable.” The words didn’t match her vicious giggles. “Sylvia is a nice girl. A little plain, but that’s not her fault. Have you seen her mother?”
Tabby scoffed. “Unfortunately.”
I bit my lip as hard as I could, stifling the urge to point out that Sylvia Hall had just passed the bar after graduating magna cum laude from Georgetown. Her head had more to offer the world than an overpriced haircut.
But I wasn’t in a position to say anything.
One, because the Ballantine women hated my guts, and everything I said would be used against me.
And two, because I was quite literally not in a position to speak—nestled in the trunk, balled into a fetal position, breathing as shallowly as possible to keep my presence unknown.
The SUV rolled past Potomac’s manicured lawns. Outside, the air had thickened with blooming flowers. All I smelled was Tabby’s riding boots. A mixture of manure, hay, and whatever stable boy she’d wrapped her legs around this week.
“Are we almost there?” Reggie smacked her lips, snapping something shut. “I’m low-key excited, you know? I’ve never been to Zach Sun’s house.”
“Take a picture, because this’ll be your first and last time.” Tabby snorted. “I don’t even know why you’re making us go, Mom. Everyone knows Constance Sun would carve out a kidney if it meant her son will marry whomever she chooses.”
“Zachary Sun has a mind of his own. If he decides he wants one of you ladies for a bride, no one will stop him.”
If nothing else, I admired Vera Ballantine’s eternal optimism. Tabby and Reggie were about as desirable as chronic wasting disease. A lethal combination of high maintenance and low IQ.
“Besides…” Vera switched the station to classical, even though she didn’t know Yo-Yo Ma from Yo Gabba Gabba. “There’ll be other rich, influential men there, ready to be bagged. There’s that duke… Oliver something?”
“Von Bismarck.” Tabby gagged. “The man is a certified skirt chaser. He’ll probably give me an STD if he breathes in my direction.”
Reggie snorted. “It’s cute how you pretend you’re not interested.”
“Pulling out my Uno reverse card, sissy.”
“For your information, he once invited me to his mansion on the Amalfi Coast.”
“Only you and every other woman with a pulse.” Tabby clucked her tongue. “Wow. If I were you, I’d start designing those wedding invitations right away.”
I tightened my arms around my knees, mentally sifting through months of research.
My plan was bulletproof.
Go in. Take back what’s mine. Slip out unnoticed, cloaked by the night and a designer gown I’d commandeered from Reggie.
It wasn’t my first hustle, and it wouldn’t be my last.
I’d been a survivor since birth. From the moment my no-show egg donor placed me in a Costco cardboard box outside Dad’s door with the note:
All yours.
Should’ve answered my calls, asshole.
An abortion doesn’t cost as much as a kid.
— Tammy
By that time, Dad had already married Vera after a whirlwind romance. According to Tabby, Vera urged Dad to “get rid of the thing.”
How can you even know she’s truly yours? she huffed throughout my childhood, knowing full well I heard her.
But I didn’t need a DNA test.
Mother Nature vouched for me.
I shared Dad’s arctic-blue eyes. The golden hair that curled in thick waves, framing our faces and ears. The same delicate bone structure, long-limbed body, and even the same beauty spot just under our right eyes.
Vera sighed. “It’s a shame Romeo Costa is off the market.”
“As if we ever had a chance.”
Reggie yawned. “As if we wanted a chance. I heard he’s a sociopath.”
“Really?” Tabby’s hair swung over the headrest. “I heard he donated a new maternity ward to Johns Hopkins as soon as his wife got pregnant.”
“Probably because they’ll need to bulldoze the entrance to wheel her in on delivery day. My facial girl told me Dallas Costa ate her way through half the bottom layer of a three-tiered cake at the White House dinner yesterday, and the entire thing collapsed on some oil baron.”
Things 1 and 2 disintegrated into a fit of giggles.
“Does anyone else smell bleach?” Reggie sniffed. “I swear, the scent of Farrow clings to my nostrils these days. You have to kick her out, Mom. She stinks up the whole place.”
“And where would I put her, exactly?” Vera cranked the A/C up to max. “We need the rent money for all the shitholes your father left behind. People are already starting to talk. When I signed the lease on this car, I didn’t even opt for the AMG.” She paused. “I suppose we could stuff her in the pool house…”
“Not the pool house.” Tabby jerked forward, by the way the entire vehicle bounced. “I’m converting it into a second closet.”
I couldn’t believe I intended to plow through hundreds of people as self-obsessed and superficial as my stepsisters for the next hour.
But I had no choice.
Zachary Sun possessed something of mine.
The jade pendant should’ve never ended up inside the sprawling Sun château. Naturally, this had the telltale fingerprints of Vera’s greed all over it.
When Dad passed, she’d auctioned off his belongings, biding her time until the insurance money kicked in. Apparently, Zach Sun bid three times higher than the closest offer.
Now this spoiled billionaire possessed the only memory I had left of Dad.
Not for long.
Vera flicked on the turn signal, jouncing the vehicle over a gravel path. “Here we are. Goodness gracious, look at the line.”
Finally.
She shushed an argument between my stepsisters, tsking as we waited. “Christ alive, look at the security at the gate. A bit much if you ask me.”
I scooted deeper into the backseats and swathed myself in black fabric. The handmade material I’d sewn blended so well with the rest of the empty trunk, I knew they wouldn’t rummage around.
“Open.” A security guard rapped the trunk window.
It popped out, creeping up at an excruciating pace. The flashlight’s intense ray impaled the fabric that cocooned me before the door slammed shut.
“All clear. Next.”
Vera threw the vehicle into park with a screech. My step-monsters evacuated the car, swapping places with a valet.
Just as I’d predicted, he parked it on a driveway furthest from the two-acre property’s entrance on Dark Prince Road. He joined a golf cart packed with other valets, hitching a ride back to the main road.
As soon as the headlights faded, I crawled from the trunk to the driver’s seat and cracked the door open.
The Sun terrarium glared down at me, lit up from end to end with blinding floodlights, daring me to trespass. Even a few hundred feet away, it cast a menacing shadow across the trimmed lawn.
I tiptoed on a bollard-lit path to the main house, crouching between rows of luxury vehicles when a valet cruised by in a Lotus Evija.
Reggie would kill me once she saw the state of her dress. Cool sweat made the satin cling to my flesh. I’d torn the slit several inches higher while squatting in the trunk.
Another thing I’d discovered during my research: this party marked the official inauguration of Zachary Sun’s bride hunt.
Quite literally.
I had no doubt the prospective brides in attendance intended to go Hunger Games on each other’s asses until one victor remained standing.
If the DMV rumor mill was to be believed, Zachary Sun—to appease his fed up, desperate-for-grandchildren mother—would begrudgingly select a single candidate to date by midnight.
They were all lovely in different ways. Tall and short. Curvy and slim. With their silky gowns and silkier manners.
Daughters of Singaporean billionaires and former Salvadoran oligarchs. Of Korean chaebols and Hollywood producers.
But they all shared one thing in common…
They wanted to be the next Mrs. Sun.
I ducked my head, hoping to blend with the crowd as I shouldered past ballgowns and tuxes.
I excelled at being invisible, a skill I’d honed by preschool. Mainly to save myself the abuse Vera and Things 1 and 2 hurled at me whenever they had a bad day.
The château towered over me in commanding splendor—stretches of pale French limestone, imperial columns, and polished gardens that rivaled Versailles.
I swallowed the lump clawing my throat and flowed inside, carried by the volume of eager bodies. Curved grand staircases flanked the foyer.
My eyes crawled up the one leading to my target.
Zachary Sun’s office.
Suited guards blocked the bottom, hands clasped at their fronts, Bluetooths tucked in their ears.
In the corner, my stepfamily laughed too loudly at something men in designer suits said.
Vera clutched an hors d’oeuvre to her chest, attempting a frown past a barricade of Botox. She’d aged like milk in a sauna and flaunted a sour personality to match it.
I needed to avoid being seen, but I wasn’t overly worried.
No one else here knew me.
Dad had been too mortal to brush shoulders with this crowd. As for me, I always avoided any event that involved sucking up to Potomac’s deepest pockets.
Marrying seemed like a total waste of time. You should only ever have one love of your life. Yourself. And, perhaps, a dog.
I waited until a staff member rushed up the steps to shadow him. The symphony of voices below chased us upstairs.
I moved my lips without sound, feigning a conversation to thwart the guards’ suspicion. Once we rounded the corner, I redirected to the library that housed the office.
I’d memorized the mansion’s floor plan by heart.
Thank you, Zillow.
When Zach had purchased the manor from the Swiss royals who had occupied it before, he’d barely made any changes, other than converting the subterranean garage into a high-tech art gallery.
Initially, I thought I’d have to somehow break into that.
Alas, I’d stumbled upon last month’s Wired cover. A feature on Zach’s latest hostile takeover.
There it was.
Immortalized on the magazine’s shiny double-spread, almost unnoticeable under the power of his soulless glare.
The pendant.
Perched on a shelf.
Secured by glass.
Lo siento, sucker. You’re about to be one piece of art short.
I sauntered down the hall, passing paintings that probably cost more than the entire Ballantine estate.
Especially now, with Vera and her daughters sinking Dad’s company to depths even the Titanic hadn’t reached.
I had no idea what he was thinking, splitting the ownership of the cleaning company four ways. Three of us had never worked a day in their lives.
The library door loomed before me. I white-knuckled the handle, expecting it not to budge. I’d spent two months learning to pick endless locks with the kit tucked into my bra.
But the door slid open effortlessly without a sound.
A burst of crisp air lapped my skin, raising goosebumps across my flesh. I edged inside, closed the door, and plastered my back against the wood, allowing myself one quick moment to regulate my heartbeat.
This wouldn’t be the first time I did something that could land me in jail. But it marked my first time stealing from one of the most powerful men in the world.
I didn’t take the time to appreciate Zach Sun’s office, even though I’d never stepped foot anywhere this extravagant before. Not with the pendant beaconing me like a lighthouse. In the same glass box from the Wired spread, right beside an identical copy.
A his-and-hers set.
Well, this seems fitting. One of them is his, the other is mine.
There would be no confusion.
Dad’s pendant bore one imperfection that made it uniquely ours. As a kid, I’d given the tassels a “haircut.” The strands dangled about an inch shorter than they should.
I whizzed past the desk, ignoring paperwork as it somersaulted to the rug with the gust of wind.
Finally—finally—my fingertips kissed the thick glass.
Right above Dad’s pendant.
“Sorry it took me so long,” I whispered, tears pricking the backs of my eyes. “He locked you in a golden cage. Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here.”
Since Dad died, I’d kept his favorite pendant in my nightstand to hug close whenever I woke up in the middle of the night, missing him.
Before Vera sold it, a waft of his scent still clung to the intricate knots. I bet the scent was sullied by now by Zach’s clinical existence.
I’m getting this back, Pops.
I promise.
Hiking up the tattered hem of my pale-blue dress, I unhooked a portable glass cutter from the waistband of my underwear.
The blade clicked as I swung it out, spearing the corner of the glass. Violent thumps hammered between my ears as I began whittling a circle around the small lock.
Then I heard it.
Loud enough to pierce my heartbeats.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Fuck.
