Selena Gomez’s breathy, ethereal soprano cut off mid-high-note as I smacked the radio off. The way her airy voice lapsed into silence made it sound like she was climaxing. I smirked, thinking that it was probably engineered to sound that way by some pervy record executive, but my smile faded as I turned out of my parent’s neighborhood.

The manicured lawns of Waterloo, Pennsylvania lured my gaze to the half-hidden McMansions beyond. Peeking out from behind leafy green trees and tall, wrought iron gates, each stately, brick edifice was as elegant as the last—and just as bland.

Selena’s girlish voice wasn’t the right soundtrack for this place at all. Waterloo, an affluent suburb on the edge Philadelphia, should be accompanied by something properly stuffy. Something classical and self-important. What composer was appropriately pompous and full of himself… Handel maybe? Or better yet, Wagner. Perfect. Wagner: the Nickelback of classical music.

I maneuvered my rented Range Rover down the wide, empty streets. After spending three months in Port-au-Prince, everything here radiated an overly clean and ordered artificiality. The US in general may have looked naïve and well-fed by Haitian standards, but Waterloo’s privilege was now jarring to me.

Glancing at Kevin in the back seat, I successfully managed to banish my feelings of American guilt, replacing them with relationship anxieties. My fiancé Kevin was deeply engrossed in his phone, as usual. He’d been staring at that thing almost every second since my return from Haiti, except when he took occasional breaks to talk about how much he wanted to move to California to work for his friend’s tech startup. He was tapping away on it constantly, barely acknowledging my presence long enough to be disinterested in it. The light from it reflected on the surface of his glasses, obscuring his eyes as thoroughly as the thoughts and feelings he’d been hiding from me.

“I really like your dress, Maddie,” my best friend Clara said from the passenger seat, filling the awkward silence in the car, “that’s the Betsey Johnson you found in that Queens thrift shop right?”

I hadn’t physically seen my best friend Clara in almost two years, although we talked three times a day on Snapchat and had group chats with our extended friend group that were almost a decade old. Our schedules just never lined up. It was a rare treat to see her tonight.

“Yes!” I replied, proud of my find, “I just wish it fit a bit better. I lost some weight in Haiti. Their portion sizes are a lot smaller.”

My dress was a teal-colored silk chiffon with a deep V-neck and a knee-length scalloped skirt. It was vintage Betsey Johnson. This was the only truly nice dress I owned besides the sedate evening gown I wore for work sometimes, and this was the perfect opportunity to wear it. I had piled my heavy, dark cloud of curly brown hair into a messy bun that showed the vivid purple streak normally hidden at my day job, and added some dangly, colorful earrings. My dainty unicorn tattoo stood out on my left ankle. This was the most dressed up I’d been in ages, but Kevin hadn’t noticed.

Clara smirked. "You could probably go naked. With that rack, no one would care. Except my bitch of a sister. She’d get you tossed out for violating the dress code.”

“Angelica’s coming?” I gasped in horror.

“It wasn’t my idea!” Clara squealed, her voice equally defensive and contrite.

Clara’s gorgeous, sociopathic older sister was not a welcome addition. Angelica married super rich and nasty old a few months ago. When her crypt-keeper husband died, she would become a thirty-year-old billionaire widow with Kardashian aspirations. I’d always despised her, although she mostly acted like I didn’t exist. When I was invited to her wedding, she had me down as ‘Morgan Clark’. I’d been her sister’s best friend since second grade.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Clara said a moment later as we parked, chewing her bottom lip in apparent discomfort, “I’m pretty sure she’s just here for Alexander. Like I said, he got back a day earlier, so he’s coming tonight as well. Angie invited herself as soon as she heard. As if he’d every be interested in her.”

Mention of his name made a chill run through me, but I kept my gaze on the road ahead of me. I refused to be rattled.

The Waterloo Country Club, known to locals as merely ‘The Club’, was busy that night when we made our way inside a few minutes later. We grabbed ourselves a set of lent-forbidden cocktails from the bar and waited for the rest of our party to arrive. I settled into my club chair uncomfortably, not touching my drink as the minutes ticked by.

Of course, they’re late. Of course, he’s late. Alexander fucking Durant.

I couldn’t concentrate. I needed to be thinking about the deal, not a man I hadn’t seen for ten years. But my stubborn brain would not cooperate. I made myself concentrate fully on the Deal. The big, huge, career-changing Deal. The one and only reason I just hauled my butt back a week early from the most important work in the world.

My father’s law firm, Clark and Jefferies, was representing two massive clients, Durant Chemicals International and Durant Properties, in the joint transaction. The project was directing investment to overhaul the chemical manufacturing infrastructure of the entire developing country of Columbia.

I was here to provide expertise in international law, and to lend social and humanitarian credibility to all parties. My work at Lifebuild Corps, an NGO that facilitated infrastructure opportunities that helped developing nations thrive long-term, basically a fancy way of saying we helped people in poor countries get access to clean water and reliable power, was my reason for being here. I was an independent consultant hired by Clark and Jeffries, the idealistic accessory to an otherwise capitalist venture. Most of my work was complete at this point, but the deal wouldn’t be done for five more days. This could transform my life if I could pull it off.

By Wednesday evening of next week, I will have bought myself more influence and notoriety to than I had in the last five years at Lifebuild. My consulting fee alone could provide Lifebuild with the means to afford to build an office in Port-au-Prince. No more meeting with contractors in my apartment. No more groveling at black ties. No more taking every call from every no-name staffer for every big-name asshole donor between Connecticut and Florida. No more flirting with the boring guys at parties to get access to the interesting ones (and by interesting, I mean the ones who are rich and generous to my NGO). Finally, I had a chance to make a real difference.

Clara and Kevin made shallow, meaningless conversation as I twitched at every noise, glancing uneasily into corners. I examined each shadow like a monster might explode out of it.

“Hello Madison,” a cool, deep voice remarked, “it’s nice to see you again after so long.”

Speak of the devil.

My heart fluttered in my chest. He was tall. Taller than I remembered, towering over me by at least thirteen inches. He was every inch as attractive as I remembered. His body, with broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and long legs, would look as appropriate in an underwear ad as a boardroom. But it was his face that drew me in and held me breathless. Alexander was classically handsome and symmetrical, with a strong, square jaw, aquiline nose, and piercing brown-black eyes. If he had any flaw at all, he was almost too masculine looking, the planes of his face too aggressive.

His gaze drew my attention in like a black hole. The more I gave him, the more he took. He could have taken everything from me, every iota of my thought and focus, and I hated him for it. I hated him for making me so weak in the past, and I hated him for still having that power over me now.

His cousin, David Breyer was by his side. Nathan Breyer, David's twin was supposed to be joining us, but he was nowhere to be seen. Each of the Durant heirs were unspeakably gorgeous, incomparably rich, and thoroughly reprehensible in their own way. But Alexander was the only one that could make my skin crawl and my pulse race at the same time.

“Hello Alexander. David,” I replied as smoothly as I could. My voice only caught slightly in my nervous throat, causing the corners of Alexander’s mouth to draw up knowingly—he heard it. Still, I was proud that I was able to meet his eyes without stuttering. Or fainting. Alexander’s dark, inquisitive eyes had always been hypnotic, so I simply tried not to look at him more than necessary. “This is my fiancé, Kevin Schmidt. Obviously, you know Clara.”

The appropriate handshakes were exchanged, and I could see Alexander’s attention rake over Kevin and then move on. For his part, Kevin seemed distracted. I followed his gaze over David’s shoulder. The object of his attention was obvious. And headed right toward us.

Shit.

Angelica waltzed into the club like she was at a party thrown just for her. She carried herself with an arrogance that rivaled Alexander or David, but also with a lurid, aggressive sway to her hips that only someone who thought it was a shrewd business move to leak her own naked selfies could find appropriate. People turned to look at her, whispering behind their hands and taking candid photos.

Her black bodycon dress was obviously Herve Leger. It looked like it was painted on her surgically enhanced figure. The black, pointy toe heels were red-soled Louboutins. She carried a black, crocodile Hermès Birkin bag. In total, her outfit probably cost six figures. Totally inappropriate for an austere Black Friday dinner. She looked like she should be going to a party in the Hollywood Hills. The worst part? She totally pulled it off.

Angelica was the most beautiful woman that most people would ever see. She’s the most beautiful woman I could even imagine. She had the face of Grace Kelly, the body of Charlize Theron, and the personality of a vindictive, rabid weasel. Her younger sister Clara was only half as pretty as Angelica, which means sweet Clara easily took second place in the global beauty contest. Next to them I felt like a short, top-heavy troll.

I didn’t really blame Kevin for going slack-jawed at Angelica, although I certainly didn’t appreciate it. Her decisive click-clack approach over the marble club floor, combined with the general decrease in ambient noise, and Kevin’s intense stare, caused the whole group to turn. Alexander's face turned away from me, but I thought I heard him swear under his breath.

“Hello everyone,” she said when she got close, slipping an arm around her younger sister and squeezing her shoulders, “Isn’t it nice that we’re all together again? Madison, darling, you look adorable as always.”

Oh, she knows my name now?

I forced a smile. Poor Clara gave me a look that begged my forgiveness.

“Thanks Angelica. You’re completely stunning as always. What have you been up to lately?” I replied, hoping she would talk about herself for a few minutes and give me a breather. Conversing with Angelica was always like a fistfight. I’ve had screaming, hour-long fights with people that were less exhausting than a five-minute chat with Angelica.

“Oh, you know,” She said, flashing her immaculate, white veneers at our group, “After Sundance, I ended up spending a month in Aspen. Vail is so last year. I met Amber Heard there, can you believe it? We. Had. So. Much. Fun. I’m just in town for a few days and then it’s off to L.A. I’ve got a date with Amber’s hairdresser, Ricardo. He’s a total miracle worker. A genius. He's so famous he just goes by one name. Like Madonna. Or Bono. Usually people have to wait nine months just for an initial assessment. Amber said Hillary Duff had to wait three. And all she wanted were some balayage highlights. Kortney Kardashian gets her eyebrows done there. You know those Armenian women are so very hairy. It’s just tragic. They're like orangutans. Anyway, I can’t believe my luck with Ricardo. Amber says that-”

"Look Angie—" Alexander interjected sharply, using the nickname Angelica despised, "Madison was just being polite. None of us want to hear your life story. And none of us give a shit about Amber whoever, either. Let's go sit down."

Not that I wasn't grateful for the interruption in Angelica's endless soliloquy, but it appeared that Alexander hadn’t become any more polite with the passing of years. Rudeness was a family trait; the entire Durant clan had a congenital lack of filter. According to Clara, they each had their good qualities, but I wasn’t going to waste my time looking for them.

Angelica's mouth snapped shut into a thin, crimson line. Her wide, famously sapphire blue eyes narrowed dangerously, but she recovered quickly enough to laugh the Angelica-equivalent of a lighthearted chortle. Alexander hadn't been joking. David laughed as well, but at Angelica, not with her. We collectively lapsed into an awkward silence.

"Alexander’s right. Let's go get seated," Clara ventured, breaking the tension of the moment, "Nathan can join us when he arrives."

"Nathan isn't coming," David said as we walked, "He heard Angelica was coming and said he'd rather gargle broken glass. Since none was available, he decided to go out with a couple of the hot interns tonight instead."

Jeez, I thought to myself, they’re really ripping into Angelica tonight. I almost feel bad for her. I’d been their target more than once in the past. It wasn't fun. Clara had warned that having so many Durant heirs in one place was a powder keg anyway. They didn't like anyone—including each other.

"Oh David," Angelica fired back, "I think we both know that Nathan's always been bored by charity. You know how he is. If it wasn’t a tax write off, Nathan would never spend a penny on the unwashed masses. Not that I blame him. It’s probably better he isn't here with little Madison. Pointless, middle-class do-gooders piss him off."

My pity for Angelica evaporated. That was just rude. I could feel my cheeks burn.

"No one in our family gives a damn about anyone until it benefits their bottom line," Alexander said in a low voice meant only for our group, "We both know the veneer of altruism is only part of the deal's appeal, but only you would be careless enough to say something like that in public. We may be at the club, but people listen. I would hate for tomorrow's gossip headline to be 'Senator's Spoiled Daughter Mocks Groundbreaking Development and Humanitarian Deal.' Then again when have you ever given a shit about not embarrassing your father?"

Angelica glared at him in response, but her anger quickly shifted to concern. Since Angelica's future was intertwined with her father's political career and the continued support of Durant Industries, she had no incentive to truly piss anyone at this table off (except me). Her father had his eye on the White House, after all.

"So, Madison," Clara asked, attempting to change the subject, "Tell us about your recent trip. You don’t have much of a tan, did you spend any time at the beach?"

The table's attention turned to me. As intimidating as the situation was, at least I could always talk about my work. It was my absolute favorite topic.

"It was incredible," I started, feeling myself grinning from ear to ear, "I was in Port-au-Prince during Carnivale this year. I've never seen anything so beautiful. Even now, Haiti knows how to throw a party."

"You were in Haiti?!" Angelica gasped, as if I’d just returned from hanging out with ISIS. "Don't you know everyone there has AIDS?"

"Approximately 2.1% of the population has HIV or AIDS," I replied honestly, "It's the highest in the western hemisphere, yes, but still much lower than most people think. Universal treatment and efforts to educate people about transmission vectors have—"

"I didn’t ask for a lecture," Angelica snapped at me, "I would certainly never go there. It's full of crime. And it looks filthy."

Thankfully, the waiter decided to arrive at that moment to take our orders. I swallowed my snide reply, opting instead to let Alexander and David direct the conversation for the remainder of the meal. Kevin remained silent; he still seemed transfixed by Angelica despite her bitchiness. The Durants weren't so different from the usual rich guys at benefits, I realized about halfway through the dinner. David, in particular, didn't seem to expect much from his female company but to smile, nod, and laugh at his jokes.

Maybe that’s the same thing that always frustrated me about Alexander, I thought to myself as I chewed my vegetarian risotto. I'm not generally content to smile and nod like all the other women seem to do around him. I stand up for what I believe in. I think. He’s probably so used to women being enthralled by him, so overwhelmed by his money and dazzled by his good looks, that they never argue or disagree.

Still, even as I flawlessly played the part of fawning sycophant and listened to him talk politics, current events, and pop psychology, I caught him glaring at me.

Did he want me to point out the many, obvious errors in his reasoning? Convince him that he wasn't being compassionate? That he wasn't being fair? There was a time when I would have definitely done so, but I was on my best behavior. I wasn’t looking for trouble.

So instead I smiled, and we made it through the meal.