Page 7 of The Princess and the Fraud

I was stupid tired, and not the sort that I could take a shot of espresso and keep chugging along. No, if Ichugged, it was because I was a car completely out of gas, only running on fumes.

“Lovey.”

I hadn’t realized my eyes had fallen shut until they snapped open, finding the mimosa seconds away from flooding over the rim of the plastic flute. I jerked the champagne bottle up just in time, turning at the sound of my nickname.

Caroline Holland, daughter of one of the elites at Alderton-Du Ponte, smiled at me where she lingered over the threshold of the kitchen. Her floral maxi dress had ties at her shoulders, the material a billowing cotton that looked as comfortable as it did cold. “Sleeping on the job?” she teased.

“I wish.” I craned my neck to one side, and then the other. “What are you doing here? Today’s a private party.”

Her kitten heels clicked on the floor as she entered the kitchen. “A private party mymomis hosting.”

“A private party your mom is hosting for theboard of directors,” I replied as she came closer. “Last I checked, you’re not one.”

“I should be, though. My first order of business would be giving the Princess of Alderton-Du Ponte a raise.”

We shared a grin.

Caroline was only three years older than me, but she didn’t quite look it. Her features were still youthful, but the elegant styling of her clothes paired with the pristine way she always pinned her light hair back into a bun made her appear older, more mature. She’d looked younger with her dark hair, but she dyed it blonde a few months back. She teased it was because my blonde inspired her. You might’ve thought she blended in with the older ladies of the club until you realized she hadn’t had her wrinkles smoothed away by Botox.

Despite being on drastically different social levels, she was my best friend.

“I’m actually here on reconnaissance.” Caroline lowered her voice and came closer. “Mom said today’s party is really an emergency meeting.”

I figured as much. The board of directors weren’t allowed to meet without an official posting on the Alderton-Du Ponte website, and theydefinitelyweren’t allowed to meet without the owner present. Instead, they’d found a loophole—to throw an “exclusive garden party” and the owner wouldn’t be the wiser.

Especially not the new owners, whom they hated with a passion.Rhythms of Hope.

Caroline reached for a mimosa flute. “Buying out a charity is harder than they thought, I guess.”

Yeah, the board of directors hated acharity. All because it would be relinquishing the control they’d been eagerly panting after leading up to the death of the former owner, Nancy Du Ponte. The charity was coming in and demanding so many changes already, and the board of directors despised them.

A bad look, if you asked me. Except no one did.

I glanced around, paranoid about anyone overhearing. “They’restilltrying?”

Last June, when Nancy Du Ponte passed away, she left the building in its entirety to Margot Massey, the daughter of Massey Hotel & Suites. Unfortunately for the board of directors, everyone had treated Margot like an outcast her entire life, which meant she wasn’t generous in handing it over. Instead, she’d gifted the country club to a charity based in California—Rhythms of Hope. The official documents and everything hadn’t cleared until this past January, and for the last month and a half, the country club’s pre-existing board of directors had been doing everything in their power to coax it from the charity’s fingers.

And had apparently been unsuccessful.

“My dad said that the board’s been offering ‘inordinate amounts’ of money, but they’re not biting.”

“I wouldn’t either. Can you imagine the sort of revenue this place rakes in?” I paused. “Wait, you said reconnaissance? On the gossip?”

Caroline rocked onto the balls of her feet before falling back onto her heels. Her expression was smug. “I got wind that the charity figureheads are coming today. Are probably here already.”

“Got wind from where?”

“My sources.”

I frowned. “What sources?—”

The kitchen door that led outside swung inward, and a stout man rushed in with the lingering spring chill. Mr. Roberts was the head of staff at both Alderton-Du Ponte and the attached Massey Hotel & Suites, typically an organized, calm, commanding role.

“Lovey,” he seemed to blurt, voice erratic. “What’s taking so long?”

For any event, I channeledpeace. Calmness. Guests wouldn’t notice an easygoing staff member, but theywouldnotice someone tense, jittery, and dripping with sweat. For example, Mr. Roberts.

“Oh, Ms. Holland.” He straightened when he registered Caroline, skidding to a stop. “H-How are you today?—”

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