Camille Vorhees had been bred to turn heads. She was classically beautiful with honey blond hair always chicly styled. Her wide gray eyes had a beguiling innocence to them. And she’d been blessed with a bottom-heavy mouth and the sharp cheekbones that came from generations of aristocratic breeding.

She was elegant, lovely, and apparently she had lost her damn mind.

“Alessandra,” Camille said, reaching out to take Remi’s hands.

“Camille.” They leaned in for an embrace. “What are you doing here?” Remi whispered in her ear.

“I couldn’t stay at home another second knowing I was missing out on this,” her friend said, pulling back and giving her a wavering smile.

“You didn’t have to be here.”

“Ladies, would you mind a picture?” a blogger asked, his camera already raised.

They paused and smiled while Remi ran through the questions in her head. She thanked the photographer and turned back to her friend.

“He’s going to find out,” Remi said, a tickle of panic climbing her throat.

She’d grown up fearing nothing. Never having to fear anything. She’d had her parents, her big sister, her community, Brick. All ready to have her back whenever necessary. But here. Now. She didn’t have their protection and neither did Camille.

“We’ll talk about it after,” her friend insisted. “For now, this is your show, and we’re both going to enjoy it. Now lead the way so I can tell you how brilliant you are.”

Remi linked her arm through Camille’s and plastered on her brightest smile. If anyone could put on an act, it was Remington Fucking Ford, even if she was starring as Alessandra Ballard.

They admired her art. Drank champagne. Talked to art lovers and critics. Camille stood by her side while she answered the same questions over and over about synesthesia.

Yes. She actually saw the colors.

No. It wasn’t like being on LSD.

No. She didn’t have brain damage.

Remi didn’t let Camille out of her sight the entire evening. Every time the door opened and a man in a suit stepped inside, a shiver skated up her spine.

Warren wouldn’t let this pass. Not without a reminder of who was in charge.

Remi had never hated before. Sure, she’d temporarily despised. She’d even attempted a few voodoo curses in her early twenties. But she’d never hated anyone until Warren Vorhees.

At the end of the night, instead of elation at how many subtle sold stickers appeared next to her work, she felt a grim kind of fear.

“Want to come back to my place with me?” Camille asked, digging through her clutch for her keys.

“Sure,” Remi said.

“We can celebrate your huge success by packing.”

Remi choked on the last gulp of champagne she’d been about to drain from the glass.

She sputtered it down her chin and into her cleavage.

“I beg your pardon?” she said, eyes watering.

Camille handed her a cocktail napkin with a smile. “I’m ready.”

“Really?” Remi squeaked. She grabbed her friend by the shoulders and looked into her eyes.