Page 105 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

“He assuaged them excessively.”

She laughed—and there was something about its timbre that reminded me a little bit of Ellery. If Ellery ever let herself laugh so freely. “My son is more of a romantic than I realized.”

“I think he’d say he was being very practical.”

“Of course he would. In any case, Arden, you made a young artist an overnight success and raised a lot of money for malaria prevention.”

I cringed from approval I didn’t deserve. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Nevertheless, good is good.” She smiled at me with unabashed sweetness. “And I hope you’ll ask Caspian to show you the pieces. They’re by an Icelandic painter called Ragnar Vilhjálmsson. The collection is called Let Us Compare Mythologies.”

“Is that…is that a Leonard Cohen reference?”

She nodded. “You know, if it wouldn’t be the…” For the first time, her grace faltered, a delicate flush brushing the fine arch of her cheekbones. “The uncoolest thing in the world, would you like to come to lunch with me someday?”

“I’d love to.”

“Wonderful.” She leaned in and kissed me once on each cheek. It was effortless—a level of confidence and sophistication I could never imagine attaining—and it was only by holding very still that I managed not to Bork the whole thing up. “I’m already looking forward to it.”

Then, with a final smile and a little wave, she was gone.

And I was left terrifyingly alone at a grand social occasion.

Snagging some champagne from a passing waiter, I scurried into a corner. Stared at the glass—the rise and fall of the little golden bubbles—so I didn’t have to stare at the party. Which was nothing but strangers, and spaces Caspian wasn’t.

I was already starting to give up on him coming back.

He’d just…abandoned me. And I had no idea why.

Except that Nathaniel had called his name. And Caspian had gone.

Suddenly: a click and a whirr. And a voice drawling out, “Smile, poppet. Butterflies make poor wallflowers.”

I glanced up into another click and nearly dropped my champagne when I realized I was being photographed. And by George Chase no less. “Oh my God, don’t. I probably have eight chins or red eye or something.”

The photographer raised a perfectly arched and devastating eyebrow. “Most people get to know me before they insult me.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean you, I meant me—”

She silenced me with a single finger—the nail, I couldn’t help noticing painted dark green—and stepped up close, turning the camera so I could see the screen. Sure enough, there was me, half in shadow, my gaze downcast, looking kind of feral and kind of fragile at the same time, with the butterfly mask a bright splash across my face.

Definitely no red eye.

Definitely only one chin.

Even my hair was behaving itself.

It was honestly best picture of me anyone had ever taken. So good, in fact, it was hard to believe it was me.

I couldn’t help feeling a little bit flattered. I’d been on the verge of dying of nobodyness. And yet someone had seen me and found something…worth seeing. Something beautiful.

“Oh wow,” I said. “That’s…you’ve made me look amazing.”

“Well, of course I have. I have two talents. Sex and art. And this one happens to be my job.”

She raised the camera and snapped another picture. “Besides, you’re such a pretty little thing.”

“I’m not—”

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