Maxine and Lena are breathtaking in gowns made by the DuPre family’s Parisian couturier. Lena swishes her silk emerald-green skirts to the door and asks, “Are you ready?”

“Frances looks as green as your dress, but I have never been better,” Maxine replies.

Oliver and Pascal are standing in the drawing room, their shiny shoes sinking into the thick carpet, nervous smiles on both their faces.

From the outside this moment must look sweet. It’s easy to squint and imagine my life reflected through a mirror. This moment should be pretty, instead of warped and fake.

Oliver draws in a soft gasp when he sees me. “You look beautiful.” The cuffs of his jacket brush gently against his wrists. I want to place my fingers where the fabric meets skin and see if his pulse is hammering like mine. But Greta would never approve of such an unladylike show of affection, so I clutch my beaded bag instead. It matches my dress exactly, the same shade of purple so pale it’s nearly gray. Silver beads swirl into flower patterns around my neckline and waist.

“You as well.” I turn my head to hide my blush and accidentally meet Lena’s eye. She swallows a laugh.

Oliver takes my arm. “I can nearly imagine this is a normal evening.”

“But it’s not.” The words are sharper than I mean them to be.

As if to remind us, Finn comes padding into the room, grinning and infuriatingly casual. He’s made no attempt to tame his curls and is clearly wearing a tuxedo borrowed from Maxine’s stepfather. The valet has done his best to tack up the pant legs, but the shoulders are visibly too big. It has the effect of making Finn look gangly and young, so different next to pristine Oliver. There’s a shadow of purple around his right eye, fading to sickly green, still healing from where Oliver punched him.

“Shall we?” Oliver looks as if he still wishes to hit him.

Oliver’s driver is idling outside, so he takes the boys, while Maxine, Lena, and I pile into the back of the DuPre family’s vehicle.

The back seat is tense with nervous energy.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask.

“No,” Maxine and Lena answer in chorus. I do appreciate their unwillingness to lie to me.

The drive isn’t long, but each pitch of the vehicle over cobblestoned streets has me threatening to spill my guts.

Maxine places a hand on my bouncing knee. “It’s going to be all right. We have a plan.”

“We have half a plan.”

“I think at least two-thirds of a plan,” Lena replies. It does nothing to quiet my nerves.