I obediently kiss my mother’s cheek when she turns to the side. She’s the host of this event. But I’m the one who works with the caterers, the decorators, the waitstaff.

Every single person in a white dress shirt and black pants has a job tonight. They bustle efficiently through the large service kitchen, dropping off empty glasses of champagne and leaving with fresh trays of canapés. I can’t take them off their current jobs—and besides, this is too important to pass to someone else. I’ll need to fix the mince pies myself.

Whipped cream, I decide. With plenty of nutmeg. I can pipe it into a neat swirl on top of the pies. No one will even know they were altered from how the caterer made them.

“What’s wrong?” My younger sister Daphne looks grown up in a black sheath dress. Her expression, however, is anxious. Sarah Morelli has that impact on us. We may be adults now, but we still obey our mother.

“The mince pies. I need to make about two tons of whipped cream for them.”

She makes a face. “I’ll help you.”

“No, go back out there. The more of us missing, the more people will notice.” I’m already pulling out jugs of whole milk from the industrial sized fridge.

“Ugh, if only I knew how to make whipped cream.”

Neither of us really enjoy the formal events our parents host, but we’re both used to them. The fake smiles. The drunken laughter. “If it were a kind of paint, you could make it.”

“Or a color.” She eyes the mince pies dubiously. “That shade of brown is not inspiring.”

She’s always preferred chocolate desserts. “Besides, this is the first Christmas gala that has Constantines. I need someone standing guard in case trouble breaks out.”

A snort. “What would I do if trouble broke out?”

The Constantines have been our family’s archenemy forever. None of us know exactly how it started except our parents, and they aren’t talking.

Then my brother Leo fell in love with Haley Constantine.

For that reason we extended an invitation to a few of her family members. Reluctantly. Begrudgingly. And we’ve been tense the entire time, wondering if something will go wrong. A verbal altercation would be bad. A physical altercation would be worse.

Even between high-society billionaires, violence is common enough.

“Pretend to faint,” I advise. “Someone will have to call an ambulance.”

“More likely I’d get trampled.”

“You’re right. If anything sketchy happens, come get me.” I locate a large bottle of nutmeg. If this were the family kitchen upstairs I’d be lucky to find a half-empty jar of dried spices, but we’re downstairs where the staff works so it’s fully stocked. “I’ll be done here soon, and I’ll come out.”

She sighs. “I’ll make sure Sophie isn’t bothering Mom.”