Broken By The Heir, Claimed By Power

n Furstenberg, navy blue silk, found two weeks ago at a consignment shop in Brooklyn for eighty dollars. She had spent another fort

ed coffee on Spencer Kensington's loafers at a charity gala she was covering for the City Chronicle. Two y

and history. She had eaten instant ramen for three months to afford it. Spencer collected vintage cameras, usually lea

d against the w

from a number she didn't recog

on't be late. "Operat

ey'd had their first real date, away from the prying eyes of the gossip columns. Only Spencer would use that phrase. It was his way of telling her

t of romance, the way it made him feel like the director o

d stepped out into the cool October air. The wind bit at her exposed calves. She hailed an Ub

e slid into the backseat that smelled of

ing aggressively into the stream of yel

cer's circle usually got engaged at the two-year mark. She tried to push the thought away, but it lingered, sticky and sweet. She wasn't sure

and ivy, a place where the city's elite went to eat food that cost more than her rent. A

vement, and she stumbled, catching herself just before her knees hit the co

quick, practiced sweep of her-the frayed cuff of her coat,

for the evening, Miss,"

Kensington," Elena s

deferential apology. He stepped aside, pulling the heavy brass door open

lro

candlelight, maybe a violinist if Spencer was feeling particular

ented with lilies and money. A massive crystal chandelier hung overhead

A hostess with a clipboard gestured towar

sound. Beside the double doors stood a sign on an easel. It w

a st

ad them again, because her brai

Van Der Woodsen

ingly high-definition. The texture of the paper. The serif font-Spencer's favorite

physical rejection of what she wa

age

en

laugh that sounded like breaking glass. The one Spencer had c

l the rope handles dug into her palm, cutti

was what a sane person would do. A sane per

ore she was a girlfriend. She need

ed the d

k of crystal, a jazz quartet playing something upbeat and s

f the room, under the larg

blue tuxedo she had helped him pick out for his cou

tightly around the waist o

made in a year. She was beaming, tilting her head back to laugh at something Spencer said. Spence

chest, sharp and hot, as if someone h

encer lo

over the heads of the well-wishe

saw

the color of ash. The champagne flute in his hand tilte

She stopped laughing. Sh

r thrift-store dress and frayed trench coat, Van

, tight, victorious

n to die down. Heads turned. Whispers star

is

the repor

is going t

the intruder. The glitch in the matrix. The dir

ook a step forward, his hands raising slightly,

is eyes. It wasn't love

as p

g her. He was afraid she

f hors d'oeuvres. She didn't move, but t

a group of investors. Victoria Kensington. Spencer's mother. Her face was a m

uard start to m

replaced by a cold, hard fury that settled in her

ed her knees. She stared straight