Photos of her mother held a sacred space in Gemma’s emotional life. Paulina had died before the world went social media crazy—before the iPhone had even been invented. Interestingly, and somewhat disturbingly, a few Paulina Pavlin fan accounts had popped up on Instagram where people curated the paparazzi and ad photos from the era just before Gemma was born. Paulina loved to be photographed, but once she became a mother, she lost interest in the spotlight. There were only a few truly candid images of her mother, and they were all held in her grandmother’s photo albums boxed away in a storage space in New Jersey.

“I might,” Gemma said slowly. “I’d have to look.”

“Great! I’ll loop in Elodie about the photos and your cut of the proceeds.”

On the surface, all of this made sense. There was something in it for both of them: The auction would boost Sloan Pierce’s career. It would make Gemma some money. But as logical as it sounded, this wasn’t the way she wanted to fund her business. In fact, it was the opposite. But all she could think about, the one thing she couldn’t let go of, was the chance to see the Electric Rose again.

“I’m willing to give this a shot,” Gemma said. “So . . . to be continued?”

Sloan uncorked the champagne, the cork flying off in the direction of the pool. She poured a glass and handed it to Gemma.

She sipped it uneasily. She felt like she was dancing with the devil. She wondered what her mother would want her to do. She suspected she would tell her to keep dancing.

48

Constance, 2004

Her husband had been right about one thing: All of Manhattan showed up to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the Electric Rose.

At one time, nights like this were the highlight of her year. But since her daughters had stopped speaking to one another, she couldn’t enjoy any of it. A diamond might say love, but what did it say when a diamond divided the entire family?

All day long she’d gone through the motions, slipping into her Ralph Lauren gown, getting her hair done by Orlando Pita. Laura Mercier stopped by to do her makeup. Constance knew she’d never looked better. And she’d never felt worse.

Sitting in the back of the limo, one block away from the store, Alan reached for her hand. She snatched it away.

“What’s with you tonight?” he said—as if the problem were just that night. With their daughters locked in conflict, the family they’d built together falling apart, she felt their relationship withering.

“What do you think?”