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Back When We Were Bright and Beautiful Save as PDF
Chapters (72)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. Part One
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. Part Two
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. Part Three
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. Epilogue
  68. Author’s Note
  69. Acknowledgments
  70. About the Author
  71. Also by Jillian Medoff
  72. About the Publisher

“Thank you, Officer.” I start the car. Rocketing forward, I go from zero to sixty in a single shot. I glance back every few minutes, but when there’s no sign of him, it’s both a relief and a letdown. A half hour later, I cross the bridge into Manhattan, still checking to see if he’s behind me.

4

HEADING UP PARK AVENUE, I SPY THE VALMONT’S FAMILIAR Gothic spires. In a city that thrives on exclusivity, the Valmont is one of the earliest and most private luxury residences—and has been since the streets of New York were first paved in gold. Finished in 1880, the building was designed to look like a European castle with turreted towers, medieval-style doors, endlessly high ceilings, and stained-glass windows. Since then, it’s housed Mayflower descendants, captains of industry, and political scions. Here, in the kingdom of old money, the Valmont is the most desired castle, and my family holds the keys.

When I pull up tonight, I see the grounds crew working on the exterior. They’ve positioned Klieg lights along the semicircular driveway, and smoke billows off the glass, bathing the limestone façade in a soft, dreamy mist. Despite its pedigree, the building is only twenty floors high, and one city block wide. It’s basically ten mansions stacked on top of each other, with long hallways, hidden alcoves, and doors that lead to doors that lead to secret rooms. The Valmont is Manhattan shorthand for an exclusive way of life, and while our neighbors might appear in the society papers or financial news, we aren’t celebrities. Indeed, my parents pay PR firms a sinful amount to keep us out of the press (and have forbidden my brothers and me from social media). Even so, our wealth makes us a sideshow act, even among our own gilded circle, so I can’t say we’re anonymous either.

As I pull into the driveway, Anton Rivera, head of resident relations, strolls out to greet me. Like the carved statues of Venus that line the walkways, Anton is a permanent fixture.

Opening my door, he bends at the waist, as if I’m a visiting diplomat. “Good evening, Miss Cassandra.” Anton has the regal bearing of an aristocrat, and it’s only when his shift is over and his tie is loose that you hear the Bronx in his speech. Raised somewhere near the Grand Concourse, Anton is a “barrio boy made good” (his words, not mine).

“Anton!” I greet him as I climb out of the car. “You’re working late.”

“Miss Valmont is getting a facelift. I’m just here to ensure there’s no scarring.”