My heart is pounding, but I try to keep my voice as steady as possible. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"Oh, you know," she whispers, and I find I'm leaning in to hear every one of her words. "We work for a newspaper. We're supposed to work in journalism, not fiction."

"Everything I write in my columns comes from my heart," I say, and it's not a lie. Really. All the sentiments I put on paper are real, it's just the details that are a little, well, embellished. "It's just easier for me to write about these things, rather than talk about them out loud. That makes me shy, not a liar."

Blythe just nods, smiling sweetly. "Okay…"

Except she says it in a way that means everything but. Maybe if I get her angry, she'll crack. I lick my lips, nibbling on the lower one a little, thinking.

Just go for it.

"You're jealous," I remark flippantly. "You were working there before me, and instead of giving you a column of your own, Victoria hired me."

"Jealous of you?" Blythe asks, only it's not a question, not at all. "Please. I just don't like the entire city reading about my brother's private life every week."

"I don't even write out his name, only initials. There is no way anyone knows who he is unless he wants them to."

"I know who he is," she says just as the car pulls to a stop outside of a gorgeous brownstone on Fifth Avenue, right across the street from Central Park. "And as soon as I can, I'm telling Victoria who you really are. I just have to wait for my brother to break up with you first. And trust me, Skylar, it's only a matter of time."

And then the driver opens the door so Blythe can make a perfectly grand exit, while I scoot ungracefully across the seat, catching my coat button on a buckle and practically falling out of the car. By the time I get to the front door, Patrick is already there holding it open for his sister.

"Hey, Skylar." He leans down, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Hey," I murmur, trying to hide the fact that anything is the matter. "I was worried you'd be late."

He shrugs. "I actually have a conference call in about half an hour, so I thought I would come for the introductions and then while you guys have cocktails, I can take the call from my father's study."

My heart sinks. Feed me to the wolves, why don’t you? But on the outside, I just smile warmly, pretending it doesn’t bother me.

"Where are Mom and Dad?" Blythe asks, handing her coat to a maid who just appeared out of nowhere. I do the same, unused to being helped with such menial tasks. I mean, I can hang a coat on a rack myself.

"Upstairs," he says, taking my hand and leading me to the grand staircase a few feet away.

Now that I have a second to look around, I have to admit, I'm pretty much speechless. This house is amazing. Like, could have its own television special amazing. The Queen of England would find this place impressive. The walls are covered in warm, rich wood. The ceiling is painted—painted! Artwork is displayed in intricately carved golden frames. The upholstered furniture is crafted of shimmering silk, pin tucked and with feet carved like little claws. I can just tell that everything in here is from an auction house, infused with history. The grandfather clock. The grand piano. The marble fireplace. And when I look up, the stairs keep winding for at least two more floors. I mean, it's a mansion—a mansion in the middle of one of the most expensive cities in the world. A dozen of my apartments, heck maybe more, would easily fit in here. I knew Blythe was a socialite, I knew Patrick had some money to burn, but I had no idea they came from this.

"Blythe," a voice calls softly.

I look toward the sound to a woman dressed in a beautiful green woven dress with a matching jacket, and I've learned enough at the style section to know it's vintage Chanel and crazy expensive. By her side is a man in a dark gray suit, complete with a tie.

I swallow, smoothing my hands down the front of my black work dress—from the sale rack, obviously. At least I wore a bright scarf with it today to add a little color, Bridge's suggestion of course. And I'm in designer flats—I mean, they're a few years old, and a gift from my mom, but still recognizable with a bright gold buckle over my toes. For me, this is about as dressed up as it gets. But I feel a little bit like a toddler in a room of adults.

"And you must be Skylar," the woman says, giving me the once over. I can't decipher her expression enough to know if she approves or not—I see now that Blythe is just the ice princess, the queen is right here, hiding away in her castle.

"So nice to meet you, Mrs. Keaton." I reach out and shake her hand, which is a little awkward since she's still seated, sipping on a cup of tea. I turn to her husband, who did at least politely stand, towering over me with the same height of his son. "And you too, Mr. Keaton."

"Welcome to our home," he says after releasing my fingers. "Patrick speaks very highly of you." I sneak a peek at Patrick, who is smiling warmly in my direction. Maybe tonight won't be so bad. "Would you like a cocktail?"

I look around realizing he has a crystal scotch glass beside him, and another one waiting to be filled for Patrick. But somehow, alcohol just seems dangerous in this situation. I need all my wits about me. "Um, maybe just a glass of water, if that's all right?"

"Not a problem," he says and then nods to someone over my shoulder. I can't help but feel as though I've been transported to another century. These people have servants working for them.

"So, where did you grow up?" Mr. Keaton asks once we've all settled on the cushions. Patrick's arm is draped lightly across my shoulders, and I'm drawing comfort from the warm touch of his skin.

"In a small town in Pennsylvania, outside of Philadelphia," I respond. Let the interview begin.

"And what do your parents do?"

"My mom owns her own stationary store, and my father works in advertising," I murmur, waiting. But no snide remark from Blythe comes. No comment that my parents are divorced—something I'm sure the Keaton's would not approve of—or that the small town I come from is in the middle of farm country—something I'm sure they would find quaint but not acceptable.

Confused, I scrunch my eyebrows, glancing at Blythe. But she is sipping her cocktail, smiling politely in my direction. And I realize something when she meets my gaze—there are clock hands ticking in the center of her pupils. She's biding her time. I'm safe for a little while. But my stomach tightens in knots—when exactly is that countdown in her head going to hit zero?

"Your mother owns her own business?" Mr. Keaton nods approvingly.

"Yes," I say, jumping on the opportunity to impress while I still can. "The shop is sort of a cross between a design studio and a retail store. A lot of the cards we sell are from other merchants, but she does a lot of custom invitations for local events and weddings. I'm trying to help her expand, so I just recently put together a website for her to help reach a broader customer base."

Dang. That sounded pretty legitimate.

I sit up a little straighter.

"Very savvy of you," he comments. I grin, sipping my water.

But then a rumble vibrating against my thigh distracts me. Patrick shifts, reaching into his pocket, stealing the warmth of his body heat away and I'm left cold. He stands, signaling that he has to go with his fingers, pointing to the side.

The conference call.