Anger is a powerful force. It has started and ended wars, won the vote for marginalized groups like women and people of color, and inspired artists to create masterpieces ranging from Picasso’s Guernica to Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist.

Anger was currently powering me and Kate through the twelfth department of the evening, our arms draped to the brim with thousand-dollar watches, purses straight from Paris fashion shows, and dresses so exquisitely crafted that future archaeologists would probably deem that they had been created for royalty.

“And then he just smirked and said, ‘It’s not about money!’” I ranted to Kate as I slung a tennis bracelet into the cart; had to stock up on stocking stuffers early! “You know who says things like ‘it’s not about money?’ People who have so much money they’ve never had to worry about it in their entire lives! It’s like a fish saying ‘it’s not about water’ to a dehydrated camel!”

“Oooooh, look at this!” Kate held up a retro skirt in an adorable floral pattern that complemented her eyes. “Girl, keep hating Grant for as long as it takes for me to get this to the checkout counter.”

“I’m serious!”

“Oh hon, I know you are,” Kate said. She out skirt over the rack, and patted my shoulder. “But I also know that there’s a pretty thin line between love and hate sometimes. Stevie’s reading The Taming of the Shrew right now: ‘And where two raging fires meet together—’”

“Please, Katie, do not do Shakespearian analysis on my relationship with my boss!”

“‘Relationship,’ huh?” Kate waggled her eyebrows. “Sounds like it’s getting more serious. Have you two hooked up again? Was it as super-hot as last time?”

I was beginning to regret telling Kate about the hookup, but it had been unavoidable. When we met up after work, she had refused to budge one single inch until I dished about why I was so pissed at Grant, and somehow, between all the other stuff about the keys and credit card and the five hundred guest engagement party, the revelation of Grant eating me out against the hallway wall had come spilling out of my lips.

“No, we did not ‘hook up’ again, and believe me, I wish I could forget the last time.”

“Girl, never regret good sex,” Kate advised. “So it’s making your life rough right now, yeah, but ten years from now, when you’re in a tight spot and you need a little memory nudge to push you over the edge, you know what memory’s going to be your friend? Good sex is the gift that keeps on giving.”

I just shook my head. Kate had always been better at the sex-without-feelings thing than me, so how had I ended up the one in a loveless relationship while she was happily settled down?

As we rounded the corner into the jewelry department of the store, an advertisement caught my eye: a life-size photo of two ridiculously attractive models, the man on one knee with a ring box in his hand as he gazed adoringly into the eyes of the woman, her lips framing the word ‘yes.’ Little gold roses twined around the diamond of the ring he was offering her, and red roses twined around the edges of the billboard, framing the perfect couple.

It’s just a stupid advertisement, I told myself. It has nothing to do with you.

But there was something about the fairytale imagery they’d used, the roses and slight princessy cut of the woman’s dress, that made my heart twist. Maybe my dreams of love were childish, but sometimes those dreams were the hardest to let go of. Someone to kiss my forehead, someone to hold me tight, someone to look at me as though I were the most beautiful—no, the only—woman in the world…

It probably didn’t help that the male model in the picture had sun-kissed brown hair and blue eyes, and thus bore a slight but telling resemblance to Grant.

I didn’t want him! Not really. Not in my heart. I just liked his body, and the way he smiled, and the way he fit into that silly fairytale dream…

God, but it was hard when the man of your dreams was also the asshole who’d pressured you into a fake engagement.

My extended interior monologue gave Kate the opportunity to spot the ad, too. “Has he gotten you the wedding ring yet?”

“I’m sure he’s got an entire team working on it right now,” I said waspishly.

Kate rolled her eyes at me, but I was saved from further lecturing by the arrival of a salesperson. “Hello, ladies! May I just say you are looking divine today? Can I help you find anything, anything at all? I was just so excited to see the news about your engagement! You are just looking fabulous!”

There’s something a little alarming about being suddenly fawned over by people who would have turned up their nose at you before. It makes you start looking around for the mad scientist with the mind control ray.

“We’re fine, thanks,” I said, hoping the salesperson would just go away.

As though my words had been a magic spell, another salesperson popped up, this one identified by her name tag as the manager. “Jane, why don’t you take five.”

She smiled at me, not a fawning smile, just a regular smile like a normal human.

“Sorry, ma’am. She’s a bit of a gossip mag junkie. I’ve had to ask her a couple times to tone it down with the customers.”

“It’s all right,” I said, not wanting to get Jane in trouble.

“So, finding everything okay?”

The manager managed to treat me like a human being for our whole interaction, and in the end, I ended up buying so much stuff that most of it had to be shipped to my new address: shoes, dresses, almost every single item that had reminded me of what Portia had worn to our lunch date (I was going to outclass that icy bitch if it gave me hypothermia and I died), and a whole boatload of thanks-for-being-such-a-good-friend gifts for Kate, including about seventy pounds of lingerie that she was intending to cut up and analyze for research. Weird girl, but I love her.

I was just dithering over a potential gift for my mom, a necklace of emeralds cut and polished into the shapes of leaves—on one hand, she might feel that it was just a representation of capitalist alienation and oppression, but on the other hand, emeralds were supposed to resonate with positive energy and help align her aura or something—when I heard my name called in a voice like a puppy being strangled.

Only one person had ever called my name like that, and I’d really hoped to never run into her again.

“Laaaaaaaaaacey!”

Annabelle Featherstonehaugh bleated my name again, like a sheep in gastric distress. She spread her arms wide in what could have been delight, but was probably just a calculated gesture to show off her exquisitely woven merino wool jacket.

“Oooooooh, it is you! I saw you and I thought, ‘could that be Lacey Newman? Oh it just couldn’t be Lacey Newman! It’s completely impossible that it could be Lacey Newman!’ But just look at you, Lacey—it’s you, Lacey Newman! This is too, too thrilling!”

She’d only been talking for thirty seconds and already I wanted to strangle her with my mom’s emerald necklace.

“Oooh, Lacey, you are just looking too gorgeous,” she gushed. “You finally grew into that fuller figure of yours—” because why compliment someone without taking the opportunity to draw attention to your relative slimness?—“and that dress you were wearing last night was divine! Wherever did you get it? You must tell me your secrets.”

Hard to believe that this was Annie Featherstonehaugh, the girl who had marked up all the girl’s restrooms in our high school with such witty aphorisms as ‘Lacey’s parents take welfare money’ and ‘Lacey gives blowjobs for cash.’

She’d ended up going to the same college as me—thanks to her mother’s money and regular donations, not any academic standing—where she’d refined her techniques; instead of out and out telling any potential friends or boyfriends that I was an ugly, desperate, money-grubbing loser, she just insinuated it.

Kate and I exchanged looks, and like the telepathic best friends that we are, formed an evil plan.

“My dress?” I echoed. “You’d have to ask my fiancé, he got it for me.”

“Oh, whatever have I been thinking, congratulations! Such a catch, with that jaw-line, he reminds me of when I was dating Chris—you remember Chris, from that superhero film? They have the same jaw-line, don’t you think? Oh, same taste in men! We’re practically twins!” She giggled. “What are the wedding plans? Chosen a honeymoon yet?”

“Paris,” I said. Thank heavens for that seventh grade scrapbook. “Or possibly the Caribbean. It’s so difficult to decide. Grant wants to do both, but I said to him, sugarplum, just because you have the money doesn’t mean you have to flaunt it, and we’re already planning to go to Tokyo for a fashion show the week after, I’ll be absolutely exhausted.”

“Tough luck with that break-up with Chris, though,” Kate jumped in. “It got pretty ugly when he accused you of stalking, didn’t it?”

“That never went to court,” Annabelle said, her smile going down a notch. She turned to the side, trying to block out Kate. “So, how did you meet him?”

“Oh, that is quite a story,” I said. “So there I was, crying in the office parking lot because some complete bitch had Facebook-stalked me just to message insults at me—” Annabelle’s face froze for a second here, and she blinked rapidly, presumably trying desperately to remember whether she was the one who had done that to me—“when Grant came along. I didn’t want to talk about it at first, but he insisted on treating me to dinner at this lovely local restaurant—Rama, have you heard of it?”

“You got dinner at Rama?” Annabelle interrupted, the look on her face as though I had claimed to have grabbed some nectar and ambrosia at Mount Olympus.

“Yeah, it was pretty decent,” I said offhandedly. “Anyway, before I knew it, he was asking me on a date, and then another date after that, and showering me with tickets to the opera and gold-dipped roses, and well, the rest is history! Such a sweet, generous man, and not a bit two-faced or opportunistic, like some people. My knight in shining armor.”

“Wow, that’s such a great story,” Annabelle chirped. “I’m so happy for you; I’ve missed you so much since school. Remember how we used to kid around and tease each other? Are you all set for the maid of honor—”

“Kate,” I interrupted.

“Oh, well, of course, but maybe bridesmaids…”

“Oh, I’ll think of some people,” I said. “People who have always stood by me and been my friend, not just when they thought they could get their greedy little paws on a piece of money and fame.” I smiled as sweetly as I could, showing all my teeth.

And for the first time that I could recall, Annabelle Featherstonehaugh was completely speechless.

“Oh, Lacey,” Kate said, “isn’t that your phone going off? We better get going if we’re going to make the party at that underground club Grant’s taking us to.”

And we swept away, leaving Annabelle behind, as wilted as a year-old prom corsage.

* * *

The numbers on the cash register climbed higher and higher until I thought they might take up mountaineering.

“You know,” I started, reaching for one of the more expensive pairs of shoes, diamond-encrusted vermillion Louboutins with seven-inch heels, “I don’t really need this stuff. When would I wear it? This is Grant’s money, and I don’t really have the right—”

Kate’s hand shot out to stop mine, faster than a striking rattlesnake.

“Oh no you don’t, Lacey Newman. Did you even read those articles I brought you? Have you been paying attention in meetings at all this week? The share price of Devlin Media is going up like a freaking hot air balloon. Grant probably made, like, eight million bucks from the engagement while he was sleeping last night.”

Well, when she put it like that, a few dozen thousand dollars on pretty clothes and gifts didn’t seem like such a bad thing. Guilt? What guilt? This was couch cushion change to Grant.

“Excuse me?” I said to the cashier. “Do you mind holding all this for just one moment?” I grinned at Kate. “I do really love these shoes, and I think I’d like to get them in black, too.”