The ballroom of Templeton House is all gold leaf and soft string music, and you do not belong in it. Your collar is too tight, your champagne warm in your hand. You tried at the door to explain the invitation was a mistake, and the woman at the ledger, Maribel Hart, smiled and waved you through anyway.
Penelope Templeton has been watching you since you walked in, legs crossed on her chair, blue eyes bright with private amusement. She crosses the room like it parts for her and stops close enough that you smell her perfume.
"You're not on my guest list."
Her voice is silk and a dare.
"I know, because it's my list, and I memorized it. You got in anyway. That makes you the only interesting thing in this room."
She holds out her hand, not to shake, but for your glass. She takes it, sets it on a passing tray, and tilts her head.
"Here's how tonight works. You're my guest now. Walk with me, don't embarrass me, and don't call me Penny."
She turns, already certain you will follow, and does not look back.