When I get home the next day, Peyton and Slade are gathered around the dining room table squealing. Literally squealing, the sound so high-pitched it’s kind of hard to take.

Maybe there’s a new line of luxury eyeshadow, I think as I walk toward them.

“It’s so fancy,” Peyton breathes.

“It’s calligraphied and embossed,” Slade says authoritatively, as if she knows anything about either of those.

“Do you think he wrote it himself?” Peyton asks.

“He has such sexy handwriting.”

“Oh my god, what if he licked the envelope?”

I edge closer, wondering what they could possibly be talking about.

“What should we wear?”

“Oh my God.”

“Oh. My God.”

I walk into the room, and they both turn toward me, their mouths partly open, each holding a thick square of paper in her hand.

“Ella,” Slade says, her voice as serious as I’ve ever heard it. “We have a really big week ahead of us.”

I don’t respond, just raise my eyebrows.

“The prince. Is throwing. A ball,” Peyton adds, then holds out her piece of paper to me.

It’s an invitation.

I just read the invitation and don’t say anything for a long moment. It’s not like I know Prince Grayson even a little — we interacted for about five minutes total, and my extensive fantasies about him since don’t count — but he didn’t exactly seem like the formal ball type.

“Why do you think all eligible women are supposed to attend?” Peyton asks.

I hand the invitation back, keeping my mouth shut.

Slade gasps.

“Maybe he’s looking for a wife,” she says, her eyes going wide. “That’s why he sleeps around so much. He’s just been searching for the right woman this whole time, and now he’s almost given up finding her. This is his one last chance...”

She stares off into the distance, lost in her romantic reverie, and I leave and head to the kitchen before I laugh so hard I snort. Not that I know Prince Grayson beyond being shamelessly hit on, but I’ve got a feeling that he hasn’t been searching for his soulmate this entire time.

I’m pretty sure he’s just searching for his next conquest.

I make dinner, we eat, and then I clean the kitchen and do the dishes. Peyton and Slade don’t talk about anything but the ball, and their mother Livia actually encourages them.

They’re all being stupid. Whatever reason the prince is throwing this ball for, with such short notice, it’s not so he can find a wife. It’s not the fifteen hundreds any more, and that’s not how people date these days. It’s probably to announce his engagement to some high-born noblewoman or a princess from another country, and when Peyton and Slade realize what they’re there for, they’ll be crushed.

I almost feel bad for them. Almost.

But I keep thinking about the ball, like I’ve been thinking about Grayson almost non-stop. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I’ve replayed our interaction in my head at least a hundred times. I’ve thought endlessly about what could have happened if I’d said yes instead of no.

And weirdest of all? I think I’m beginning to regret my answer.

Not that I wanted to swipe my v-card in the bathroom at work or in the back of a limousine, but maybe if I had, I could stop thinking about it so much. Besides, everyone loses their virginity at some point, or almost everyone — why not get a good story out of it?

By the time I’ve done my chores and turned in for the night, I’ve decided.

I’m an eligible woman.

I’m going to ask Livia if I can go to the ball.

* * *

Livia purses her lips. The shape looks vaguely sea-creature like, thanks to extensive fillers and plastic surgery.

“You want to go to the ball,” she says, tapping a finger against one cheek.”

“I’m an eligible woman,” I say quietly.

“Well, technically, that’s a little bit up in the air, isn’t it?” she says, her gaze as cold as steel.

My stomach hardens into a knot, because she’s right.

Technically, even though I’m twenty-two, Livia is still my legal guardian and custodian. Any money that I have, she controls. If I run away, the cops deliver me back here.

I found out the hard way a long time ago that it’s better to just stay.

“My debt is nearly paid,” I point out.

She leans back in her chair, an off-white baroque monstrosity that she’s so proud of.

“Are you remembering to count interest?” she asks, her tone of voice not changing.

Instantly, my blood boils. The interest is new. She mentioned it for the first time last year when I pointed out that I was nearly paid off, and that was the first time I realized that I have no power in this situation. None.

After my father died, Livia paid for my room, board, and education. She paid for it from my dead father’s money, but she resented having to spend money on me at all, so she devised a scheme.

Livia decided that I owed her for all that. Tens of thousands of dollars.

And Livia’s got friends. Powerful, influential friends, and they’re the ones who granted her custodianship over me, even though I’m legally an adult.

I’m trapped here until I’ve worked my debt off, and when Livia decided that interest was included, my term got a whole lot longer.

“Yes, I’m counting the interest,” I whisper.

“You know that even if he’s looking to marry, he’s not looking for you,” she says, her voice still cool and casual. “He’s looking for a high-born noblewoman with good breeding and lots of money, and my dear Ella, I’m afraid you haven’t got either.”

I don’t respond. Livia’s specialty is being cruel for cruelty’s sake. Her daughters are mostly just stupid, but Livia is mean.

“All right,” she suddenly says. “You can go if you finish all your chores and make sure that Peyton and Slade are properly outfitted and ready first.”

My mouth drops open.

“I can?” I say, astonished that Livia is being nice to me for once.

A smile crosses her face without reaching her eyes.

“Why not?” she says, and stands from her ugly-but-expensive chair and walks for the door. I’m just standing perfectly still, amazed that she said yes.

In the doorway, Livia turns back to me.

“Oh, Ella,” she says. “You’ll have to find something to wear.”