Chapter 1

Kalista

Being this wealthy should be illegal.

It probably is.

They can say what they want about the von Knopfs—yes, those von Knopfs—but don’t let anyone try to tell you that Kalista von Knopfs’ twenty-first birthday was anything but pure and undiluted style.

Champagne. Silk. Diamonds—ooh la la—to the most decadent extreme. The caviar at the buffet is of the highest quality, as are the hard, hot bodies of the nude Italian male models that it’s being served on.

The brass band was smuggled out of the palace of the Middle East’s most ruthless Sheikh Prince by an armed guard, under the cover of a moonless night. The red wine, rescued from a sixteenth century Spanish galleon sunk by British privateers under order of the Queen herself, so the world would never learn the glory of that year’s Valencian vino tinto. And the chocolate-covered strawberries, hand-picked from a Hungarian field watered exclusively by the blessed tears of a secret sect of blind nuns, who weep constantly out of adoration for God.

Essentially what I’m saying is, this party is very swish, darling.

But of course, I’m Kalista von Knopfs, so I demand nothing short of the very best.

Not many hotels can get away with calling themselves The Luxury. This venue lives up to its name. It’s the finest accommodation the French Rivera has to offer, so naturally, mom and daddy insisted that I have it for tonight.

The whole hotel has been rented out and decorated to perfection. It was styled into my own personal Casino Kalista, for my birthday. We’re only a few hours into the evening, and it’s already proving to be an epic success.

Not that it matters, but I even saw that snide little tart, Porshetta Rossolini-Humpsfield, enjoying herself at the roulette tables earlier. I know that it’s just so difficult for her to have fun these days, what with the enormous stick up her ass and what not.

“Kitten, don’t scowl like that.”

Mom reaches over and smooths the furrow out of my brow. “You’ll get lines, sweetheart, and then what eligible young bachelor will want you for a wife?”

“One who knows what’s good for him.”

Daddy swats mom’s doting fingertips away from my face.

“Our Kalista is a clever girl, aren’t you, Kali? You’ve got more than just your looks to fall back on, thank god. A man could only dream to be so lucky.”

Of course, even as the words leave daddy’s mouth, his eyes are on Archibald Huxley-Rollins’ new trophy wife, whose most valuable assets are largely based in silicone injections and implants. Luckily, mom doesn’t notice, and I make a point of not pointing it out.

“Still, mom’s right, I shouldn’t scowl,” I agree with a wistful sigh. “I’m adoring my party, honestly. And I love my present even more!”

My fingertips dance along the pendant settled just beneath my collar bones. It’s like touching the face of God himself—if God was insured for over a cool ten million dollars.

The Kalista Canary.

The real star of the party isn’t me, really—it’s this gorgeous, priceless gem.

Ten carats of canary yellow diamond set in Harry Winston’s signature pirouette style. It’s surrounded by eight exquisitely flawless, marquis-cut white diamonds in a swirling sunburst pattern that made Porshetta Rossolini-Humpsfield choke on her champagne when she saw it.

Daddy had it designed specially, just for me, and it’s the most beautiful thing that anyone has ever owned in the history of humankind. The fact that it’s disastrously expensive doesn’t hurt either, of course.

“Nothing but the best for my favorite girl.”

Daddy presses a kiss on my forehead, then gives me a push out onto the dance floor.

“Now, go on, mingle. No respectable twenty-one year old should be spending her whole birthday talking to her stodgy old parents.”

I blow them both a kiss, as I trot away on my gun-barrel silver stilettos.

I might be a bit of a daddy’s girl, but when it comes to partying, no one needs to tell me twice.

Out on the dance floor, I find myself immediately lost in a sea of color, cashmere, and silk. My parents spared no expense on the festivities, and my guests have responded by sparing no expense on their outfits for tonight. Ball gowns and tuxedos of the finest cuts and most beautiful colors, do the foxtrot and the tango, to the delectable wailing of Sheikh Pompadom’s stolen band.

I let myself become engulfed by it. After all, a party without dancing isn’t a party at all. I dance with a mixture of my own friends, social rivals, potential suitors, and daddy’s business associates until my feet are sore.

And then it’s champagne, gambling, champagne, more dancing, and more champagne.

As I find myself in the ancient arms of Archibald Huxley-Rollins once again, I couldn’t possibly be more distracted. Not by my partner’s crypt-breath or his chronic case of two-left-feet.

But by, well…him.

Tall. Dark. Handsome.

It’s like whoever wrote the clichés used him as their muse.

He’s six foot four, with angelic blue eyes and a devil’s grin. His hair is slicked back like ocean waves on a pitch-black night. Military-grade, clean-cut, but looks like he knows exactly how to get nice and dirty.

And maybe it’s the champagne talking, or maybe it’s just my ten-carat ego, but unless I’m mistaken he’s looking right at me.

He’s looking right at me as I run my finger up the thick, rippling thigh of one of the Italian caviar models, scooping the rich black caviar up onto my finger and sucking it clean with my perfect red lips.

He’s looking right at me, as the American Vice President offers me his dice to blow on at the craps table for good luck—and he’s still looking right at me, as I win the VP a fat pile of golden casino chips, too.

He’s looking right at me, as we wind our way through the party, effortlessly navigating both the landscape of the drunken festivities and the treacherous social waters, with class and flair.

And when I’m sitting at the poker table with a royal flush in my hand, he even sits right next to me, close enough that I can see the silver gryphons on his cuff links and the ace up his sleeve.

But even though I can feel his eyes all over me, I make it a point of not looking at him.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that cheaters never prosper, Mister…”

“Abernathy,” he retorts, with the world’s most natural and dreamiest London accent. “And they have, in fact. I’ve just found that—ah.”

The other players at the table clap politely as Mr. Abernathy beats my hand by a single ace—hearts suit.

“It rarely ever holds true.”

“Most men as frank as you wear their hearts on their sleeves, rather than beneath them.”

“Most men aren’t as anything as me.” I can feel his breath on my shoulder, as he turns and leans forward, collecting his winnings. “But the name’s Griffin, sweetheart—not Frank.”

I run my tongue across my back molars, tasting a mixture of my own amusement and disgust. I’m just about to turn my head to tell him what a terrible, horrible joke that was, but when I do, he’s already gone.

Like a thief in the night.

“Griffin Abernathy.”

I weigh his name on my tongue, as I scan the party for him and come up blank.

Instead, I catch the eye of Archibald Huxley-Rollins again, and judging by the toothless smile on his gummy face, he thinks that I meant to do it, too.

Dirty old geezer. He must think he’s seeing wife number seven, when he looks into my eyes—and frankly, rich as he is, he’s dreaming, and he ought to know it.

My grandfather was an enterprising man, and for him, family always came first. I suppose that’s why when I was born, he set up a trust fund for me, that’s now easily worth hundreds of millions. This birthday, mom and daddy might have paid for everything—but next year, I turn twenty-two, and every penny of that trust is mine, to do with whatever I see fit.

Until then, daddy is the co-trustee, and whatever I want, I need only ask. That money is mine—not my non-existent husband’s and not even daddy’s. Hundreds of millions of dollars set aside and legally untouchable—unless they’re being spent on yours truly.

Don’t get me wrong. The Huxley-Rollins fortune is big.

But the von Knopfs fortune is bigger.

“Oh, hello again, Mr. Huxley-Rollins!” I coo, saccharine, as my wizened admirer approaches.

But all the while, I can’t help but wish that it was him instead.

The handsome stranger with the gryphons on his cuffs and the Ace of Hearts up his sleeve.

Maybe I’m the one dreaming now, but that guy?

He can steal me away any day of the week.