“You trippin’. If it’s ’cuz you need something to wear, we got you covered. Right, girls?”

Angel cut through a round of excited offers. “No! That’s not it.” She bent over the box, tugged sheets of tissue free, and then slowly withdrew a red cocktail dress with a low back and crisscrossed material covering the breasts.

“Oh. My. God. Is that a Balmain?” Gabriela’s eyes bugged out. Her addiction to fashion magazines was evident.

“Yes. How do I send it back?”

“You are joking, right?”

“I would stick out like a sore thumb at this party. A freaking country mouse. There will be movie stars and rock stars. Kinley’s family’s business is listed in the Fortune Five Hundred. Can you see me standing in a living room, chatting it up with a hedge fund manager? Or Jay-Z? Wearing this ridiculous dress?”

“Yes!” six women yelled at once.

“No, no, no. I have got to study. I can’t go running off to parties in the middle of the week.”

“You don’t go to parties on the weekends. Or ever.”

“How do I find his address? His phone number? I need to tell him no and send this back,” she said stubbornly. But her hand caressed the material of the dress. So soft. So fine.

“Honey, even if I knew how to find that information, I wouldn’t help you. Take that stick out of your ass. You will not be struck down by lightning if, for once in your life, you give yourself a night off. And what a fucking night, woman!”

Latisha jumped in. “She being nice. Let me tell you what the rest of us are thinking: No one needs to go out and party more than you. You the tightest-wound bitch I know.”

“No! You guys don’t understand! He doesn’t even like me!” She stopped. She had to be careful with what she said. She’d promised not to say anything that could get Duke in trouble. But he was pushing this too far.

“You was fine leavin’ Jose with me if you was workin’,” Gabriela said. “And every man who walks past you pants like a dog. Of course the Duke wants you. He kissed you! Don’t play dumb.” She took the dress and held it up to Angel. “Do you have shoes?”

“There’s a pair in the box.”

The box was practically ripped apart. The women fell back with a collective sigh as Latisha held up a pair of spike heels with onyx straps.

“I think … I think those are Tom Fords,” said one woman in a hushed whisper, her eyes glazed over.

Latisha dug out her phone, took a picture, and dropped the photo into Google Images. The results were immediate. “No. Those are Zanottis. The pair Kim Kardashian wore to a fund-raiser in Paris a few months ago. How much is twelve hundred lira?”

“Don’t you mean francs?”