“Don’t be such a grandma, Silver.” My friend, Jane pulls a face at me, one that’s half exasperated, half hopeful, like maybe she can shame me into a night of debauchery.

“I’m not a grandma,” I counter, without bothering to look at her, focused on the television in from of me.

“It’s your birthday.” She says it like I have dementia and it’s her job to remind me.

“Right. It’s my birthday.” I frown up at her when she purposely steps in front of the television. “I should be able to spend it how I want.”

“You’ll never turn twenty-one again.” This from my half-sister, Delilah. “I refuse to let you sit here and waste the best years of your life, wearing…” She wrinkles her nose at me, her gaze drifting down my legs. “Sweatpants, watching Pretty Woman for the millionth time, and eating pizza-rolls.”

“It’s a good movie.” I have no defense for the sweats and the junk food.

Delilah rolls her eyes at me. “Do you know what Dad would do if he knew you ate stuff like that?”

Yes, I do. Our father, Davino Fiorella is the most celebrated chef in history. He makes Ramsey and Robuchon look like Laurel & Hardy. Food is his religion. Its creation his worship. If he knew I own a microwave, let alone used it to commit sacrilege via pizza rolls and frozen burritos, he’d disown me.

“First of all,” I say, stuffing a pizza roll in my mouth, “Are you even old enough to get into Level?” I shake my head while chewing. “You’re, like seventeen.”

“I’m nineteen,” she says, planting a hand on her hip. “And I’ve been on the VIP list at Level since I was seventeen.”

Such is life when you’re New York royalty.

Her mother is hotel heiress, Astrid Hawthorne, or as I like to call her, wife #5. My mom was #4.

“Second—” I shake my head. “it’s not even my birthday yet.”

My sister grins at me. “It will be by the time we get you dressed and out the door.”

Shooting Delilah a bland look, I turn my attention on Jane. “You’re contributing to the delinquency of a minor, you know that, right?”

“You’re kidding?” Jane all but laughs in my face. “Have you met your sister?” She gives me her best Vanna White, framing Delilah between her hands. Barely-there mini skirt. Top so small I have bras that are bigger. “This kid could show me a thing or two about delinquency.”

“That’s beside the—” My argument is suddenly cut off by a flash of blinding light. A camera flash. Right my face. I look at my sister. “What the hell?”

Delilah lowers her cell and taps the screen. “Go get dressed or I’m sending it to Dad,” she says without even bothering to look at me.

I look at the litter of frozen burrito wrappers and scattered pizza rolls and feel my eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t.”

“Are you kidding?” she says, her perfectly shaped eyebrows shoot up on her forehead. “The opportunity to knock Princess Silver down a peg or two in Daddy Dearest’s eyes?” Something flickers across her face. It looks a lot like resentment. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Okay.” I stand up, brushing pizza roll crumbs off my hands on the seat of my sweats. It’s not the fear of her outing me and my fake food addiction that gets me to agree. It’s guilt. My father has eleven children, split between five wives. I am the only child he fathered with my mother and I am his favorite. We all know it and he’s made no attempt to deny it. I think it’s because I’m the only one of us he actually had a hand in raising. My mother couldn’t be bothered with something as mundane as motherhood, with or without an army of nannies. “I’ll go.”

“Great!” Delilah says, threats and resentment forgotten. “Put this on,” she says, picking up the shopping bag she dropped at her feet when she and Jane came in.

It’s not a request.

I take the bag and head to my room.

Dumping its contents out on my bed I stare at it while contemplating just jumping out the window and ending it all. It would be an easier, quicker death than the slow torture Delilah obviously has planned for me.

I rush back into the living room. Jane and Delilah are sitting on the couch. Eating pizza rolls and watching Pretty Woman.

Jerks.

“You can’t be serious.” I say, holding up the dress my sister has seen fit to punish me with. It’s not even an actual dress. It’s more of a contraption. “There is no way this is going to fit me.”

“Yes, I am,” she says, licking pizza sauce off her fingers. “And yes, it will.” She looks up at me, her beautiful face lit with an angelic smile. “Happy birthday, bitch.”