There's something terribly empowering about walking around a one-hundred-and-fifty-million dollar penthouse in my socks.

I ascend another glass staircase with Cal and his grandmother. The uppermost story of the penthouse is taller than the others, as though there's no standard definition of how tall a room should be. It stretches up and up, its perfect creamy ceiling situated as high as the Academy's stage rafters.

The stairs lead to a small library of no more than five hulking bookshelves, their expensive wood stretching up fifteen feet. The books, looking like boring business texts to me, are accompanied by a rolling library ladder. A little area composed of leather green ottomans and chaises waits alongside the shelves. We weave between two, and past the alcove and around a corner, I find a scene that Mom would faint. The penthouse is far too high in the air to have a balcony, but it possesses no shortage of windows.

The grand piano, sleek and black and lovely, stands past the bookshelves. It's the simplest part of the Calores' formal living room, stretching some seventy feet. A massive grey area rug frames a sitting area with twin pristine white couches facing one another. Royal blue wingback chairs, silver lamps, and two narrow coffee tables dance around the space. The artwork upon the walls, abstract and muted upon gargantuan canvases, lines the cream wall that parallels the windows.

The heaping white curtains probably cost more than my entire apartment building in East Harlem.

Taking up two massive window panels of its own, a dining room consisting of a glassy table and eight pale chairs waits before the living room.

There's little else to it. It's minimalist, I suppose.

Magnetized, I step towards the dining table, where Mister Calore and Elara already sit at either of its ends. Maven and Cal's dad wears a pair of reading glasses along with a henley, newspaper in his hands. He looks too domesticated. Maven and Shade sit opposite one another on the side closest to Elara. Lucas, content to watch chaos unfold in silence, sits next to Maven, grinning ear-to-ear.

" . . . I'll say it again, Calores," Shade says, glancing between Elara and Tiberias. "I thought that I was just coming here for brunch. I thought that I'd get to insult my sister a little and try to convince you guys to cut her pay. No way is she worth three-hundred Gs per year, okay? I didn't realize that this was a meet-the-parents brunch. And now I have to deal with this. With him." Shade points an accusing finger towards Maven.

I ignore them for a moment.

The windows stretch from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, their great panes framed in narrow strips of bronze. Two blocks away from the southern border of Central Park, the views from the Calores' living room are stunning.

I see Central Park from start to finish. Its dying grass and gorgeous autumn trees stretch three miles north, but I see far past that, to where Manhattan bleeds into the Bronx before giving way to the blue horizon. The Lake, its blue waters embedded deep into Central Park, glistens in the morning, and the stretch of grass where Maven and I went on our first date gleams proudly under the sun. Walking paths and bike lanes cut through the park like arteries.

The modest yet beautiful buildings of the Upper West Side link the greenery to the Hudson. The Upper East Side, no longer so impressive, and East Harlem, never impressive with its stocky red-bricked buildings, link the other side of Central Park to the East River.

Numbed by the views that make me so small, I forget to say hello as I sit down next to my brother. Cal chooses the seat between me and his dad, and Anabel sits on the other side of Mister Calore.

"Miss Barrow," Mister Calore says. His eyes, identical to both Cal's and Anabel's, peer back at mine. They seem so open, so relaxed, so unlike anything that Farley's ever said about the Calores. He smiles at me, exposing very white teeth in a kind grin. "Welcome."

"Maven talks about Mare all of the time. He's quite smitten with her."

Shade stares back at Elara. "Let's not throw around words like smitten, Elara. For the forty-five minutes that I've known my sister has a boyfriend, I prefer to think that Mare and Maven are just confused. They like to kiss, so they assume that they have to be girlfriend and boyfriend too."

Breaking our rule of no prolonged eye-contact, I watch Maven from across the table.

God knows what Shade said to Maven before I got up here. I imagine that he alternated between grilling, mocking, and intimidating my boyfriend with talk about Bree and Tramy.

Maven's so good at hiding his emotions with stage faces, but today, he's crippling under my brother's glares and words. His combed hair has since become a little ruffled as he's run his fingers through it, and Maven's blue eyes reveal a bit of fear. They're probably imagining scenes of what'll happen when Farley gets a hold of him.

I'm surprised that he hasn't gotten sweat stains under the armpits of his T-shirt.

Forgetting Shade for a moment, we smile at each other. Maven looks so cute with his nerdy smile, messed-up hair, and eyes full of hope that has yet to be crushed by my brothers.

Smitten.

That's kind of cute.

Blood rushes to my neck and cheeks, and my face gets a little warm. Still smiling, I force my head down.

"So Maven," Shade starts.

Maven remembers himself, looking towards my judgmental brother again.

"I don't just like kissing your sister, Shade. I like her a lot. Like, I like spending time with her." Maven's eyes go wide, as though he's misspoken. "I . . . I like talking and doing things with her," Maven blurts.

Shade narrows his eyes.

In a rare moment of exhaustion, I slump into my seat.

"Like what kind of things, Maven?"

I shake my head, putting my hand on my forehead. Under the visor of my hand, I glare at Maven.

I told Maven to never say anything that could be used or twisted against him in any possible way. Bree and Tramy are going to slaughter him.

Maven shakes his head frantically as the rest of the table's occupants either smile or cringe.

"We like going on walks together in Central Park and eating. At restaurants," Maven clarifies, as though it wasn't clear. "We try new things together. Like, a few weeks ago, Mare showed me how to use the subway. Now I know how to buy a ticket and get onto the train."

For all he is, Maven sounds like a total and utter idiot right now.

"For the record," Shade says, sighing, "I know that all of this is scripted. Mare," he adds, glaring at me. "You're just telling me what my sister thinks that I want to hear. You already mentioned that her favorite food is my five-cheese grilled cheese and that you'll throw yourself down your elevator shaft if you break her heart. Not that Mare has a heart, but . . ."

Elara, thank God, interrupts my brother.

"Your sister's nearly eighteen," Elara reasons as she stares down Shade. "I think that it's fair to say that she can make her own romantic decisions, just our son can."

The ballet mistress leans around the corner of the glass table to give her son what appears to be a pet on his head of curly hair. Maven cringes, swatting his mother away.

"When you said that you were the cool brother, Shade, I don't feel like you meant that in earnest. You need to let go and accept that your sister is a grown woman."

Mister Calore nods at his wife's point. "As we've already told you, several times now, Shade, neither Elara nor I has a problem with our son dating Miss Barrow. Why would we? She's a talented ballerina who high society has become enthralled with. Everybody at my gala loved her."

Mister Calore and Elara are apparently the cool parents.

And Shade's allegedly the cool brother. Compared to Bree and Tramy, anyway.

At the Calores' dining table, where glass is rimmed in gold and eight plush chairs with armrests sit, my brother's pissed. Shade's pissed, worried, and bewildered, barely covering it all up with his easygoing grin and kind eyes.

If I ever had to worry that Mister Calore and Elara wouldn't accept me as their son's girlfriend, those fears have washed away. Nobody particularly cares that I'm from East Harlem or that I'm a high school dropout. They only care that I'm a self-made, magnificent ballerina who's made headlines in The New York Times and can hold herself well at galas.

If somebody had ever told me this June that by October I'd be sitting in a Billionaires' Row penthouse eating brunch, I'd probably laugh in their face before slipping a hand into their pocket.

With Shade on one side of me and Cal on the other, I sit before the most majestic scene of Manhattan that money can buy. On the table awaits wine glasses of orange, pineapple, and cranberry juice, sparkling and stinging my throat with carbonation. Porcelain platters of breakfast cakes; toasted bread heaped with cheeses, bacon, and eggs; and fresh fruits line the table, accented with shallow vases of blue hydrangeas and expensive silverware.

Elara sits at the head of the table to my left, Mister Calore to my right. Lucas sits right across from me, Maven, to his eternal displeasure, sits across from Shade, and Anabel sits across from Cal.

"I know that my sister seems prim and proper and like she'd be an excellent choice for your son, but she isn't. Mare is manipulative, has no regard for the law, doesn't respect her big brothers, and—"

"Maybe if I found something respectable about you, Shade," I cut in, popping a strawberry into my mouth, "I'd show some respect. But until then, I don't think that I will."

Shade glares at me for so many reasons. "I get it, Mare. Now that you're a professional ballet dancer living in Midtown, you think that I'm too lowly for you. I get it. But the least you can do is not slam me in front of—"

"I've always thought of you as lowly. My change in address didn't change that."

Shade's one of the few people that can keep up with me in a verbal sparring match. He knows me so well, always anticipating what I'll do next to provoke him.

Still, he seals his lips together. Shade returns his focus to Maven, who struggles to keep his composure.

It turns my stomach, and I find myself sipping at my orange juice if only to hide my frown.

"I would've appreciated a bigger heads-up about your romantic situation, little sister. But no." Shade rolls his eyes, taking a bite of egg and bacon. "You decided that it would be a good idea to tell me that you had a boyfriend in the lobby and then spit out the entirety of your love story in the elevator."

Another bite. "But I get it. You didn't want to give me time to plan how I was going to derail your relationship at brunch. But I would never do that. I'm the cool brother, remember? I'm chill. Super chill."

Shade deposits his fork with a resolute clink against his China plate.

Shade's taken to silently staring at Maven, which allows the rest of the table to enjoy some semblance of a normal brunch.

Or as normal as brunch with the Calores can get.

"Miss Barrow," Mister Calore says, and I shift in my seat. Behind his glasses, amusement flashes in his eyes. "It's my understanding that you are indeed a manipulative businesswoman. You recently stole my son's Monopoly robe. You should know that it was very important to him. He's devastated over it."

A low chuckle exits my throat as I take my knife to the pastry on my plate, filled with strawberries and sugar. I would've eaten it with my hands had Anabel not grabbed one too and started slicing it with her knife.

Next to his dad, Cal scowls. "I'm doing fine, Dad."

Mister Calore grins at his son. "Are you though, Cal? Are you really?"

Cal shrugs. "Mare abuses me in other ways too. I'm used to it."

Anabel sets down her fork, putting on a grin of her own.

"Well, it was about time that somebody put Cal in his place. He isn't all that he thinks he is, and he didn't need to be flaunting that robe all over the place anyway. But it's good, Cal, that you finally found somebody that can challenge you."

Just like that, Anabel returns to her pastry.

"It wasn't that hard, actually," I tell Mister Calore. My words pick away at Cal's skin, considering that he thinks that I cheated to win. "Yes, I lied to and manipulated Cal a little, but honestly, I don't think that he's that good at Monopoly. Cal had a streak of luck for a long time. It's over now, though."

Sipping at a wine glass that's been filled with his lime-colored kale smoothie—apparently, there's pineapple in it too—Cal eyes me. His tongue brushes over his lip.

"You won under false pretenses. If we played again, I would win."

"No, you wouldn't," I snip back.

Cal gives me a charming smirk. "If you're confident, Mare, why don't we play again? We'll play after brunch before you leave."

His response is too quick, too eager. I see it coming from a hundred miles away. Cal would love to play with me again. I've wounded his pride, and he needs redemption.

So there's nothing better than denying him that chance.

"I think that one game was enough to prove that I'm the superior Monopoly player," I return. "There's no need to play again."

Cal nods, irritation bubbling under his skin. "I get it. You're afraid that you're going to lose. We don't have to play if you don't want to."

I blink at Cal. He's right, but I don't let him see that fear. Cal's the best Monopoly player I've ever encountered, and our game last week came down to pure chance. I'll never tell him that, though.

"I'm the Monopoly Queen, Cal," I return. "I'm finding that I really like the robe, too."

Pleased to see that I make his lips twitch, I continue, peering into his fiery eyes.

"My sister returned it to me last night when I saw her. She's cut it down to the proper dimensions. It won't fit you anymore. She ripped out your name, replaced KING with QUEEN. She added this black lace trim to its hems. It's a lovely robe."

"It's my lovely robe," Cal seethes, taking another drink of his smoothie.

"It's a women's robe," I reply.

Shade, finished up with a bite of cinnamon-sprinkled pastry, leans forward on his forearms. He's rolled up his sweater sleeves to show his tanned forearms, and I'm pretty sure that Maven took it as a signal that Shade wants to beat him up.

"Cal, dude, I'm sorry. I knew that my sister abused you, but I didn't realize that it was this bad."

They both lean forward so that they can look at each other.

"Don't worry about it," Cal says, offering Shade a defeated shake of his head. "Like I said, I'm used to Mare's abuse. She takes my robe and laughs in my face, tells my brother that I'm a seven-out-ten teacher, knowing that it's going to get back to me. She mocks contemporary. She's always icey to me too. And I would've liked to know that she had been kissing my brother sooner rather than later."

I roll my eyes. "Are you done listing your grievances, Cal?"

Content, Cal stoically nods before spearing his own toast with his fork.

"Mare, you should respect Cal," Shade tells me. I feel his mocking gaze in my temple. "He's done so much for you. He gives you lessons so that you can learn how to dance with a partner. He's basically the reason that you're here at all. And he's your boyfriend's older brother."

I've been expecting this.

Shade and Cal are going to ally against me, and then they're going to ally against my relationship with Maven.

"If I thought that there was a way to control Mare, I would tell you, bro. But Mare can't even control herself. All she cares about is making you suffer in the short-term with no regard as to how that may negatively impact her in the future. You wrong her once, and you're done. She hates you forever."

I don't hate Cal.

I just dislike him.

"I'm still unsure of how I wronged Mare, Shade." Cal takes another sip of his kale smoothie, apparently enjoying it with a smile on his face. "And the push-ups haven't changed anything. Mare treats me the same."

"I like the push-ups," I tell Cal.

I don't enjoy having Cal watch me from his chair as he corrects my form, but the push-ups are good for me.

Shade turns on Mister Calore now, who wears a broad grin as his eyes glance between his eldest son, me, and my brother.

"Mister Calore," Shade implores, and I have to hold back another eye roll. "Look how poorly my sister, your Principal dancer, treats your son. You need to get her in line, cut her pay. Don't you think that you have to do something?"

Tiberias just chuckles. Indeed, he seems more amused than concerned. At his side, Anabel pinches her lips together in a smile.

"On the contrary, Shade. Mare's simply too talented. I can't cut her pay, even if I wanted to. She can treat Cal however she wants.

"Everybody sucks up to Cal and treats him like a prince. All of the ladies at all of the parties that we attend follow him around, complimenting him and batting their eyelashes at him. All of the young Wall Street men treat him like their best friend. That's because of our social standing, but . . . I would prefer that Cal learns what it's like for somebody to dislike him and make his life difficult. You know what I say, son?"

"That adversity builds character," Cal hisses. "Except I didn't realize that adversity came in human, breathing form."

Maven's fallen prey to a comment he made about how Cal's a loser.

Shade's currently scolding Maven, telling him that the disrespect towards his big brother is really disconcerting. Shade's saying something about how if Maven doesn't respect his brother, he might as well not respect anything or have any values.

I've taken to staring out of the gargantuan window that I'm seated before. Between the bronze framework, a brilliant picture of Manhattan is revealed. The world's so different up here, and everything seems less important. It doesn't feel like I have to go run off to rehearse ballet or study with Julian.

It feels light, if that makes any sense.

Manhattan is reduced to a picture that fits within a single pane of glass. Central Park sprawls, its rectangular shape cast golden in the fall light. The buildings of the Upper West Side, the Upper East Side, and East Harlem loiter at its fringes. At a glance, the neighborhoods might look the same from so far away, but they aren't. The Upper East Side is for the rich, the Upper West Side is for the educated, and East Harlem is for people like my family.

East Harlem, barely two miles away, beckons in my vision. I blur it out, focusing instead on the pretty colors of Central Park and the way that the clear horizon melds with the buildings of Columbia University.

Everything glitters here. Everything glitters on Billionaires' Row, and everything glitters around the Calores.

"Hey." Shade's fingers snap in my face, and I flinch from my reverie. "What are you looking at?"

Home.

"Can you see our apartment from here?" I ask, taking another sip of my juice.

Shade clucks his tongue, squinting a little. "Well, it's there. I just don't know if you can see it."

I have a vague idea of where our street is. It's a few blocks north of Central Park, but up here, blocks blur together and ebb into the horizon.

"How is East Harlem?" Anabel asks, smiling. She seems to want to get to know me. "It's a very beautiful area, isn't it?"

At least Anabel's trying to get this brunch on track. The whole purpose, supposedly, of me coming here was for Mister Calore and Elara to get to know me. Instead, it's mostly consisted of Shade interrogating Maven and bashing me in front of the Calores.

"It's fine," I say. I wouldn't call it beautiful, but I won't correct Anabel. "There's a lot of interesting culture and foods in our neighborhood. Some of the red brick buildings have these beautiful murals on them, and . . ."

I trail off, realizing that I have nothing else good to say about where I grew up.

"Yeah. We had fun growing up in East Harlem. It was simple, easy."

I smile, remembering when we were too young and dumb to care about how small and old our apartment building or how Mom told us that we couldn't go outside at night. We slept through police sirens and didn't notice how Will drew down his metal shutters when he locked up.

I just lived, running and playing with my brothers and Kilorn when I wasn't dancing. I take another sip of my orange juice, letting sugar and citrus slide down my throat as I remember those summer days before I realized that East Harlem was different than Midtown.

"I mean, you just have to watch out for the thugs at night. They'll abuse you for sure."

At that very moment, caught off guard by Shade, I inhale a breath with orange juice in my mouth.

And then I'm choking on my orange juice. It gets in my nose, my eyes, down my windpipe. The citrus stings, no longer tasting so sweet. I struggle to breathe, somehow drowning in a mouthful of juice.

The dining room blurs, and I barely have the sense to set down my glass.

"Oh, Miss Barrow," Elara says, sounding like I have an illness.

"Mare," Maven says. In my stinging eyes, I see him push back his chair as though he intends to get up and help me.

The table watches, and curse him, but Shade's unfolding his napkin and pressing it up against my face. My entire face, so that my teary eyes, nose running with orange juice, and mouth struggling to breathe are all covered by Shade's hands and a napkin.

"Mare Bear, are you okay?" He presses the linen napkin into my nose, and I bring my own hands to it so that I can wipe my eyes. I cough over and over. I can practically see Shade looking around the table, smirking.

"Oh my gosh, this is so embarrassing. See, she can't even drink juice. This happens all of the time. You can't possibly accept her into your family, Calores."

He did this on purpose. He waited to say what he did until I had a mouthful of juice and then told his little joke that only he, Cal, and I understand.

I'm the thug you have to watch out for at night.

My brother just called me an abusive thug.

I feel Maven's hand on my shoulder, who's rounded the table to stop between me and Cal.

"There was pulp in the juice," I hiss when Shade lets up on my face.

My eyes still sting. I probably look deranged. I don't look at Cal.

Whatever I do, I don't look at Cal, even as I feel his constant, mocking, aggravating presence at my side. I just fell onstage, and now I have to pick myself up and act like it didn't happen.

"There's no pulp in the juice," Elara reasons, taking a sip of her own. "But don't worry, Mare. It happens to the best of us."

Fucking Shade. He doesn't hide his grin. This is what I get for having a Calore as my boyfriend.

"There's pulp in the juice," I say again with a little desperation. "I was just thinking about how dangerous the thugs in East Harlem are, and then I inhaled the pulp, and then—"

"I've always considered some of East Harlem's thugs to be rather harmless and just nuisances," Shade adds."

"There's no pulp in the juice, Mare," Maven repeats. He runs his hand along my shoulder.

Shade neatly folds his napkin, the white fabric stained with a bit of orange.

"I think that there's pulp in this juice," Anabel announces, raising her glass to her eye as though to examine it.

What the hell? There's no pulp in the juice. I'm just saying that to lessen the embarrassment.

The table sports two separate pitchers of orange juice, one that Mister Calore, Anabel, Cal, and I have been sharing. The other half of the table has had the other.

"Cal, why don't you try some?" Anabel asks her grandson, offering him her own glass across the table. "I think that Elara had this pitcher filled with pulpy orange juice."

Breaking his rule of artificial sugar intake, Cal raises his grandma's glass to his lips. I watch as his throat bobs as he takes one, two sips. His eyes knit together.

"Yeah. There's pulp in this juice." Cal's lying voice is steady, like his grandma's.

Mister Calore just happens to be drinking cranberry juice.

Anabel narrows her eyes at Elara. "You know we don't like pulp in our orange juice, Elara."

Elara narrows her eyes right back. "Impossible. I ordered—"

"There's pulp in the juice, Elara." Anabel flicks a hand at the waiter who's been here all this time, patiently standing at the elevator across the room. "Please take this pitcher away, sir. We require a new one."

Anabel's knowing smile tells me all I need to know.

Cal told his grandma how we met.

Grandma knows.

Shade's honey eyes shimmer with hysterical laughter as they again shift towards me.

"I mean, I guess I'm just wondering what Dad, Bree, and Tramy think about Maven. I want to make sure that our family is as on board with your relationship as the Calores are. What are Bree and Tramy saying about Maven? And Dad, too. What's he saying?"

Having expected the topics of Bree, Tramy, and Dad to come up long ago, I nod along to myself.

"Yeah, you know, Shade, Bree and Tramy actually don't have much of an opinion about Maven. They don't really like the fact that he's a Yankees fan, but other than that, no opinion."

"Really."

"No opinion," I say again.

"So by no opinion, I'm assuming that you're telling me that you haven't told your other brothers that you have a boyfriend."

A nervous, high-pitched laugh comes out of my throat. Slowly, I shake my head.

Shade pinches his lips together.

Elara narrows her brows. "Mare. You haven't told your older brothers about your boyfriend? I know that your mother and sister know. Does your father?"

Another nervous laugh and a shake of my head.

"I'm . . . currently working on that."

Save for Maven, everybody at the table raises their brows.

I take my time to slice another piece of toast—some marvelous sort of French bread seasoned with oils and savory spices—and spear it with the smoked ham and salted and peppered eggs.

"Dad doesn't know," Shade acknowledges.

"I'm telling him soon," I mutter. "Don't worry."

My voice drips with dread. When I look at Shade, he's not smiling. I wish that he would smile, so I would know that he finds some aspect of my situation humorous.

"Mom and Gee know."

I nod at my brother. Shade already heard about how Mom slapped Maven.

Shade's mouth opens, having something to say but then forgetting it.

The orange juice in my stomach starts to swirl.

"My dad and I aren't really close," I tell the table before somebody starts asking questions. With seven pairs of eyes on me, my skin starts to crawl. "We haven't been in a long time, and there are reasons for that. He's not going to be happy when I tell him that I have a boyfriend, so I've sort of . . . stalled in telling him. But I'm actually going home this week, so he'll know soon enough."

Yes.

Mom's decided that a week and a half has been long enough. She can't keep my secret anymore from Dad, and it's only a matter of time before Gisa slips up and exposes me. So I'm going home on Thursday evening.

"Dad's not going to like Maven," Shade tells me. "He's going to . . . hate him."

His eyes speak of a secret that only he and I know. It explains why Dad can't walk.

I shrug my shoulders, letting them go for a moment. "That's too bad for him, then. But it's not going to be my problem or Maven's. I'll deal with Bree and Tramy, but I won't deal with Dad. He can think what he wants about Maven, but I am a grown woman. I'll make my own decisions."

Of course I'd like Dad to like Maven. But he won't, and it doesn't matter. I'm almost eighteen, and I'm financially independent. I'm paying Dad's bills, in fact.

Shade only stares at me, seeing years and years worth of pain and bitterness that our dad has inflicted written deep in my eyes.

Shade decided to talk to Maven a while longer.

Elara stayed upstairs with them to make sure that Maven isn't being treated too unfairly, and Lucas stayed for the entertainment. He barely spoke during brunch. I'm not sure why he's here.

Meanwhile, three generations of Calores and I have retreated downstairs to the more casual sitting room that I passed through earlier.

With the backdrop of Midtown behind me, I've taken to lounging on one side of the cozy grey loveseat in the Calores' living room. Cal happens to sit on the other side of it, leaving no more than a foot of breathing room between us. The warm throw pillows, the comfy furniture, and the fireplace, currently flickering with shades of orange and blue, make the room oddly homey.

As long as I'm not facing the windows. Otherwise, I only see Midtown, the hulking black drapes, the marble pillars, and the red and black area rug that spans half of the room.

"So Mare," Mister Calore starts. "What are you thinking of your contract these days?"

Having put up one of his ankles onto his knee, Cal watches me at my side. If it was just Mister Calore and Anabel, I'd feel less at ease in this big room. Cal makes it feel smaller, more normal somehow.

"I haven't thought about it a lot, honestly. I've been so busy lately, I've kind of forgotten about it." You know, between ballet dancing, studying with Julian, and breaking into my employer's office. "But I don't have an opinion about it."

Mister Calore gives me a charming businessman grin which looks a little too similar to Cal's own smile. "So you could be swayed by Cal."

"Potentially." I blink. Sometimes I forget that Cal's been charged with convincing me to sign.

"Have you started your house hunt yet?"

"No. I haven't."

"You're allowed to respond in more than three words at a time, Miss Barrow."

I feel like I'm playing some strange business game with Mister Calore. The worst part is that I can't tell who has the upper hand.

He'll give me the world in exchange for ten years' worth of service. He'll try to enchant me with diamond necklaces, with lavish brunches, with his approval of me as his son's girlfriend.

And he'll do it all with a smile.

"I worry that you'll use my extra words against me, Mister Calore," I return, smiling myself.

Understanding that he won't be using his usual tactics to get through to me, Mister Calore sighs. "You're a clever girl, Mare. Clever enough to beat my son at his favorite game. I guess I shouldn't expect this to be easy for me."

"Mare enjoys making things difficult," Cal says. He eyes me again. "But why haven't you started looking at houses?"

Between one blink and the next, I imagine a world where my family lives in some suburban house together. Where Mom has a kitchen where she could cook to her heart's content, where Bree and Tramy can play football together in the backyard, and where Gee has a room big enough to fit her own sewing table and racks of her designs.

Then I think of Dad and how that's never going to work out.

I'm fairly sure that the Calores see the light in my eyes gutter as I think of Dad.

"Once I start looking at houses, I'm going to want one," I say. "But I don't think that my dad will ever get on board with it."

Anabel is the first to raise her brows. "Well, why not?"

My tongue searches for the right works. When I don't find them, Anabel continues.

"You don't have a good relationship with your father."

A bitter smile works its way onto my lips. "No. I really don't. It's a complicated situation. We don't get along. We always had different ideas about what I wanted my life to be. He's not really . . . in a position to provide for my family, but he's fiercely independent anyways. I don't think that he'll leave East Harlem for a house that I bought with your money."

And now I'm spilling. I went from answering Mister Calore's questions with three words to spilling. My throat closes up, as though it's trying to stop more words from coming out.

"Your father doesn't like rich people."

I have to contain my surprise at how Mister Calore describes himself. He wears a knowing, unoffended smile with his words.

Balancing a fist on my chin, I lean forward. "Dad hates rich people. He hates the Upper East Side and Midtown. Wall Street, especially. Honestly, he's not going to want to meet Maven."

That one stings, but it's true.

Anabel's eyes darken. She looks like a scorned parent who finds it disgusting that Dad can't put aside his grievances with the rich to meet his daughter's boyfriend.

Now we're edging into dangerous territory.

Mister Calore saves me with a purely financial take on my situation.

"Well, Miss Barrow. If you aren't able to buy the house, then you still have your two-and-a-half-million dollar check. And you can do whatever you want with it."