My Dark Romeo: Chapter 1

“Oh, Lord, they weren’t bluffing, were they? He really is in town.” Emilie latched on to my wrist, coffin nails sinking into the tan flesh.

“So is Oliver von Bismarck.” Savannah extended her arm. “Someone pinch me.”

I did so with pleasure.

“Ow, Dal. Stop being so literal.”

I shrugged, fixing my attention on the catering beside us. The real reason I’d appeared at the debutante ball tonight.

I plucked a chocolate-covered pomelo peel from a crystal tray and crushed it between my teeth, savoring the bitter-sour nectar.

God wasn’t a man.

God wasn’t a woman, either.

God was probably a piece of Godiva-covered fruit.

“What are they doing here? They’re not even from the South.” Emilie stole Sav’s debutante program and fanned her face. “And they’re definitely not here to meet women. Both are die-hard bachelors. Didn’t Costa dump a whole-ass Swedish princess last summer?”

“As opposed to a partial-ass Swedish princess?” I wondered aloud.

“Dal.”

Where were the Portuguese custard tarts?

I was promised Portuguese custard tarts.

“You said there’d be pastéis de nata.” I snatched a consolation prize—melopita—and waved it at Emilie. “Serves me right for trusting you again.”

Her hawk eyes caught me slipping two Polish donuts into my bag. “Dal, you can’t hide that in your Chanel. You’ll ruin the calfskin.”

Sav shoved a frantic fist into her clutch, retrieving a tube of lipstick. “I heard von Bismarck is in town to buy Le Fleur.”

Jenna’s daddy owned Le Fleur. They manufactured percale sheets for five-diamond hotels. In eighth grade, Emilie and I ran away from home and slept in their showroom for a week before our daddies found us.

“What does he need Le Fleur for?” I picked a kanafeh next, my back still to the mythical creatures my best friends had collectively lost their minds over.

Judging by the urgent whispers around us, they were not the only ones.

Emilie snatched the Bond No. 9 from Savannah, applying a generous coat to her lips. “He’s in hotels and hospitality. Owns a little chain called The Grand Regent. You might’ve heard of it.”

The Grand Regent began as an exclusive, invite-only resort before metastasizing into more branches than the Hilton. So, I gathered Pompous von Fancypants wasn’t strapped for cash.

In fact, obscene generational wealth was the unspoken entry ticket to tonight’s event.

The 303rd Chapel Falls Royal Debutante Ball was a glorified dog show that attracted every billionaire and mega millionaire in the state.

Fathers paraded their cotillion-bred daughters around the Astor Opera House in hopes they’d perform well enough to be courted by men in the same tax bracket.

I hadn’t come here to find a husband.

Before my birth, Daddy had already promised me to someone, which the diamond ring on my engagement finger reminded me.

This always seemed like a problem for the future—up until I discovered the official announcement on the society pages two days ago.

“I hear Romeo is dead-set on becoming the CEO of his daddy’s company.” Lord, Sav was still droning on about him. Were they planning on penning the man’s Wikipedia? “Already, he’s a billionaire.”

“Not just a billionaire. A mega billionaire.” Emilie fingered a marquise diamond on her Broderie bracelet, her poker tell. “And he’s not the type to blow it all on yachts and gold toilet seats or funding self-indulged pet projects.”

Sav snuck a desperate glance at them through her compact mirror. “Do you think we can be introduced?”

Emilie’s eyebrows pinched together. “Nobody here knows them. Dal? Dallas? Are you even listening to the conversation? This is important.”

The only grave situation I’d witnessed was the lack of shortbread, too.

Reluctantly, I fixed my eyes on the two men that parted the thick crowd of silk chiffon and frozen updos.

They both stood at least six-three. A towering height that made them look like giants trying to squeeze into doll houses.

Then again, nothing about them was conventional.

Their similarities ended with their height. Everything else was arctic opposites.

One was silk and the other leather.

If I had to guess, the live-action Ken clone was von Bismarck.

Dirty-blond, square-jawed, and adorned with shabby whiskers of stubble, he looked like something only a Walt Disney illustrator could sketch.

The perfect European prince, down to the scandalous blue eyes and Roman-like structure.

Silk.

The other man was a polished savage. Menace decanted into a Kiton suit.

He wore his inky hair in a gentleman’s cut, trimmed into submission. Everything about him seemed carefully crafted. Intentionally designed to deliver lethal doses straight into a woman’s bloodstream.

Sharp cheekbones, thick brows, lashes I’d risk jail time for, and the frostiest gray eyes I’d seen to date.

In fact, his eyes were so light and frosty, I decided they had no business coupling with his otherwise tan Italian features.

Leather.

“Romeo Costa.” Savannah’s voice curled with longing as he breezed right past us, heading toward the table reserved for VIPs. “I would let him ruin me as thoroughly and impressively as Elon Musk destroyed Twitter.”

“Oh, I would let him do heinous things to me.” Emilie toyed with the blue diamond on her neck. “Like, I’m not even sure what they might be, but I’d still be down for them, you know?”

It was a problem. Being church-going, Bible-thumping, virginal Southern girls in the twenty-first century.

Chapel Falls was known for two things:

1) Its filthy-rich residents, most of them conglomerate owners of high-profile Georgian businesses.

And 2) being extremely, outdatedly, lock-your-daughters-up conservative.

Things worked different down here.

Virtually all of us never went further than sneaking a few sloppy kisses before marriage, even though we all scraped the age of twenty-one.

While my well-mannered friends kept their glances discreet, I had no trouble glaring.

As a nervous host led them to their table, they surveyed their surroundings. Romeo Costa with the dissatisfied detachment of a man who had to feast on back-alley garbage for dinner; and von Bismarck with amused, cynical playfulness.

“What are you doing, Dal? They can see that you’re staring!” Savannah nearly fainted.

They weren’t even looking our way.

“So?” I yawned, swiping a flute of champagne from a tray hovering in my periphery.

While Sav and Emilie gushed some more, I set off, passing banquet tables lined with imported sweets, champagne, and goodie bags.

I did the rounds, greeting peers and distant family members if only to access the catering trays on the opposite end of the room. I also kept an eye out for my sister, Franklin.

Frankie was here somewhere, probably setting a small fire to someone’s toupee or losing the family fortune in a game of cards.

If I was branded the lazy one, with the lack of ambition and abundance of free time, she was the designated banshee in the Townsend household.

I had no idea why Daddy brought her here. She was barely nineteen and interested in meeting men a little less than I was interested in chewing unsterilized needles for a living.

Strutting in my limited-edition Louboutins—five inches, black velvet, and needle-thin heels made of stacked pearls and Swarovski crystals—I offered smiles and blown kisses to everyone in my path until I bumped into another body.

“Dal!”

Frankie wrapped her arms around me like she hadn’t seen me just forty minutes ago when she’d sworn me to secrecy after I caught her shoving nips of Clase Azul into her padded bra.

The plastic edges of the miniature bottles dug into my boobs as we hugged.

“Are you having fun?” I righted her in place before she toppled over like a goat. “Do you want me to get you some water? Advil? Divine intervention?”

Frankie smelled of sweat.

And cheap cologne.

And weed.

Lord, help Daddy.

“I’m fine.” She waved a hand, peering around. “Did you see there’s some duke from Maryland here?”

“I don’t think monarchy exists in the U.S. of A, Sis.”

Just because von Bismarck’s last name sounded made up didn’t mean he was royalty.

“And his super-rich friend?” She ignored me. “He’s an arms dealer, so that’s fun.”

Only in her universe would an arms dealer be something enjoyable.

“Yeah, Sav and Emilie were so pumped, they were ready to wrestle a mountain lion. Did you meet them?”

“Not exactly.” Frankie scrunched her nose, still surveying the ballroom, probably for whoever made her smell like an oopsie-baby in the back of a drug dealer’s car. “Guess whoever invited them wanted to make an impression, ’cause their table has shortbread specially prepared by the late queen’s beloved baker. Flown here straight from Surrey.” She flashed me a crooked grin. “I stole one when no one was looking.”

My heart squeezed.

I loved my sister so much.

I also wanted to kill her right now.

“And you didn’t steal one for me?” I nearly shrieked. “You know I’ve never tasted authentic British shortbread. What’s the matter with you?”

“Oh, there’s still plenty more there.” Frankie dug her fingers into her tight updo, massaging her scalp. “And people are lining up to talk to these jerks like they’re the Windsors or something. Just go there, introduce yourself, and casually take one. There’s a mountain of them.”

“Shortbread or people?”

“Both.”

I craned my neck above her head.

She was right.

A line of guests waited to kiss the rings of these two men.

Since I wasn’t above lowering myself for something tasty, I marched to the cluster of people haloing Costa and von Bismarck’s table.

“…disastrous tax plan that would create economic mayhem…”

“…surely, Mr. Costa, there must be an off-ramp for all this spending? We can’t keep funding these wars…”

“…true about their lack of technological weapons? I’ve been meaning to ask…”

While the men of Chapel Falls blabbered their way into giving these two a coma and the women leaned down to show off their cleavage, I weaved into the thick crowd, my eyes on the prize—a three-tier tray full of mouthwatering shortbread.

First, I casually planted my hand on the table.

Nothing to see here.

Then I inched deeper toward the British treats—the centerpiece.

My fingers skimmed a square when a biting voice turned my way.

“And you are?”

It came from Leather.

Or rather, Romeo Costa.

He sat lounged back on his chair, staring at me with all the friendliness of a Nile crocodile.

Fun fact: they considered humans a regular part of their diet.

I bent my knees with flourish. “Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my manners?”

“Not in the shortbread tray, that’s for sure.” His voice was dry and disinterested.

Okay. Tough audience.

But I did try to steal his biscuits.

“I’m Dallas Townsend of the Townsend family.”

I flashed him a warm smile, offering him my hand to kiss. He appraised it with repugnance, ignoring the gesture.

Totally disproportionate to my alleged crime.

“You’re Dallas Townsend?” A tinge of disappointment marred his godly face. Like he’d expected something entirely different.

That he would expect anything at all was a stretch.

We didn’t move in the same circles. In fact, I was ninety-nine percent sure this man only moved in squares. He was a sharp-edged kind of guy.

“For the past twenty-one years.” I eyed the shortbread.

So close, and yet so far.

“My eyes are up here,” Costa bit out.

Von Bismarck chuckled, snatching the largest square, possibly to spite me. “She’s darling, Rom. Quite the pet.”

Darling? Pet?

What did he mean?

With much reluctance, I dragged my gaze up the length of the table, from the shortbread to Romeo’s face.

He was so handsome.

Also—dead in the eyes.

He leaned forward. “Are you sure you’re Dallas Townsend?”

I tapped my chin. “Hmm, now that I think about it, I’d like to change my answer to Hailey Bieber.”

“Is this supposed to be funny?”

“Is this supposed to be serious?”

“You’re being obtuse.”

“You started it.”

Gasps pinged from every corner of the table.

Romeo Costa, however, appeared more indifferent than offended.

He sat back, forearms meeting each seat handle. The posture—and his perfectly tailored Kiton suit—granted him the aura of a terse king with a flavor for war.

“Dallas Maryanne Townsend.” Barbara Alwyn-Joy rushed forward to intervene. Emilie’s mother was a chaperone for the event. She, like the rest of them, took the job way too seriously. “I should get your father to escort you out of this ballroom right this minute for speaking to Mr. Costa like that. This is not the Chapel Falls way.”

The Chapel Falls way would have every redhead in this town burn at the stake.

I made a show of lowering my head, tracing the shape of a round shortbread on the marble with my toe. “Sorry, ma’am.”

I wasn’t sorry.

Romeo Costa was a prick.

He was lucky we had an audience, or he would have gotten the unfiltered version of me.

I turned, about to extract myself from the premises before I caused even more commotion and Daddy canceled my black card.

But then, Costa just had to speak again.

“Miss Townsend?”

Bieber, for you.

“Yes?”

“An apology is in order.”

Swiveling on my heel, I glowered at him with every ounce of wrath I could muster. “You’re high if you think I’ll apo—”

“I meant I should apologize.”

He stood, buttoning his blazer with one hand.

Oh.

Oh.

Dozens of eyes ping-ponged between us.

I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I did think my chances of getting my hands on that shortbread just increased tenfold.

Also, I really needed to get in on his talent for being controlled and confident to the nines, even when delivering an apology. Apologizing always made me feel so helpless.

Costa, on the other hand, treated an apology as a tool to catapult himself further up the hierarchy of humans. Already, he seemed an entirely different species from his peers.

I knotted my arms over my chest, ignoring everything etiquette classes taught me, per usual. “Yeah. I’d be open to that.”

He didn’t crack a smile.

Didn’t even look at me.

Rather, he looked straight through me. “I apologize for doubting your identity. For uninformed reasons, I thought you’d be…different.”

Normally, I’d ask who told him what, but I needed to cut my losses and run before my mouth got me into more trouble. There was a reason I kept it munching on something eighty percent of the time.

Plus, I couldn’t stare directly at that man without feeling like my legs were constructed of instant pudding.

I didn’t like how woozy he made me.

Or how my skin flushed wherever his eyes rested.

“Hmm, sure. That’s okay. Happens to the best of us. Enjoy your evening.”

With that, I beelined back to my table.

Luckily, Daddy sailed through dinner in a great mood, talking business with his friends. Barbara must not have acted on her threat to narc, because shortly after the fourth entrée, he granted me permission to dance.

And dance I did.

First, with David from church.

Then, James from high school.

And finally, Harold from one street over.

They spun me, dipped me inches from the marble floor, and even let me lead in a few waltzes.

All in all, I almost restored my confidence that the evening was a success. Until Harold bowed his head when our song ended and I started for my seat.

Because when I turned, Romeo Costa was there again.

Like a summoned demon.

About two inches from my face.

Sweet Mother Mary, why must sin always be so tempting?

“Mr. Costa.” I placed my hand over my bare collarbone. “Sorry, I’m rather dizzy and exhausted. I don’t think I can da—”

“I’ll take the lead.” He swept me up, my feet hovering over the floor, and began waltzing with me without my participation.

Hello, red flag the size of Texas.

“Kindly put me down,” I requested through pursed lips.

His hold on my waist tightened, the contour of his muscles engulfing me. “Kindly drop the lady façade. I’ve seen Olivia Wilde performances more convincing.”

Ouch.

I distinctly remembered wanting to bleach my eyeballs after watching The Lazarus Effect.

“Thanks.” I loosened my muscles, forcing him to hold all my weight or render me limp on the marble. “Being a respectable member of society is honestly exhausting.”

“You came to my table for the shortbread, didn’t you?”

Perhaps any other girl would deny it through her teeth. As it happened, I liked the idea of him knowing he wasn’t the main attraction for me.

“Yes.”

“They were spectacular.”

I peeked at his table over his shoulder. “There’s still some there.”

“Very perceptive, Miss Townsend.” He twirled me with the frightening expertise of a competitive ballroom dancer. I wasn’t sure whether I was nauseous because he moved too fast or because I was in his arms. “I don’t suppose you’d also be interested in champagne to go with it? Oliver and I just attained a bottle of Cristal Brut Millénium Cuvée.”

That thing was thirteen thousand dollars a pop.

Of course, I was down.

I tried to match his lackluster tone. “Actually, I think a glass would be a perfect companion to the shortbread.”

His face remained impassive and still.

Lord, what did it take to muster a smile out of the man?

I was faintly aware of people staring at us.

It occurred to me that Mr. Costa hadn’t danced with anyone other than me. It made me uneasy.

Savannah and Emilie had mentioned he wasn’t here for a match, but they’d also told me brown cows made chocolate milk when we were in preschool.

They were clearly an unreliable source of information.

I cleared my throat. “There is something you should know.” He peered at me through his English winter-grays, his expression telling me there couldn’t possibly be something I knew that he didn’t. “I’m engaged to be married, so if you’re looking to get to know me—”

“Knowing you is the least of my intentions.”

As he spoke, I noticed, for the first time, the tiny ball of gum crushed between his incisors.

Spearmint, by the scent of it.

“Thank God.” I relaxed into the waltz. “I don’t like turning people down. It’s a pet peeve, you know?”

I didn’t love the idea of marrying Madison Licht, but I didn’t hate it, either.

I’d known him all my life. As the only child of Daddy’s college roommate, he showed up during holidays and the occasional dinner party.

Everything about him was adequate.

Adequately attractive.

Adequately rich.

Adequately mannered.

He did, however, tolerate my brand of quirkiness. Plus, his eight extra years gave him the shine of a worldly, experienced man.

We’d gone on two dates, where he made it clear he’d let me live my life as I pleased. A rarity among arranged couples in Chapel Falls.

Romeo Costa stared at me like I was flaming poop at his doorstep he needed to stomp on.

“When’s the wedding?” His voice was mockery tightly wrapped in velvet.

“No idea. Probably when I graduate.”

“What are you studying?”

“English Lit at Emory.”

“When are you graduating?”

“Whenever I stop failing my semesters?”

A bitter smile touched his lips, as if he recognized it was supposed to entertain him. “How do you like it?”

“I don’t.”

“What do you like, other than shortbread?” He seemed to humor me just so I wouldn’t leave.

I had no idea why.

It didn’t look like he enjoyed my company all that much.

Still, I gave it some genuine thought, since I didn’t have to concentrate on getting my steps right. He did all the work for us.

“Books. Rain. Libraries. Driving alone at night with my favorite playlist in the background. Traveling—mainly for the food. But the historic stuff is decent, too.”

Chapel Falls knew me as the girl who spent her days upcycling Daddy’s money into luxury bags, frequenting fancy restaurants, and hunting down every decent novel in the Bible Belt.

It was a well-known fact that I possessed no worthy aspirations. But the gossip hadn’t gotten it all right.

I had one secret desire.

A clandestine wish that, unfortunately, demanded a man to fulfill.

More than anything, I wanted to be a mother.

It seemed so simple. So attainable. And yet, there were important steps required for such a goal, none of which I’d ever come close to achieving in stuffy Chapel Falls.

“You’re very candid.”

He didn’t say it like it was a good thing.

“You’re very curious.” I let him dip me, even when it brought us closer. “What do you like?” I asked after a beat, because it was the polite thing to do.

“Few things.” He spun us in swift circles, right past a slack-jawed Savannah. “Money. Power. War.”

“War?” I choked out.

“War,” he confirmed. “It’s a lucrative business. A steady one, too. There’s always a war going on in the world or countries gearing up for it. It’s extraordinary.”

“For the politicians, maybe. Not for the people suffering. The children soiling their beds from fear. The casualties, the families, the pain-stricken—”

“Are you always this taxing, or did you save this beauty-pageant speech especially for me?”

After being rendered speechless by his assholery, I answered, “All for you. Hope that makes you feel special.”

He snapped his gum.

So gentlemanly.

Not.

“Meet me in the rose garden in ten minutes.”

Everyone knew what happened in the rose garden.

I pursed my lips.

Was he not here for the last five minutes?

“I just told you I’m engaged to be married.”

“You aren’t married just yet.” He dipped me again while correcting the sequence of the sentence. Show off. “This is your last hurrah before you tie the knot. Your moment of weakness before it’s too late to try something new.”

“But…I don’t like you.”

“You don’t need to like me to let me make you feel good.”

Rearing my head back, I glared at him, my pupils running wild in their sockets. “What are you offering, exactly?”

“A reprieve from this mind-numbing event.”

Another spin.

More whiplash.

Or maybe it was from this conversation.

He kept his voice low and even. “Full discretion guaranteed. Ten minutes. I’ll bring the shortbread and champagne. All you need to bring is yourself. Actually…” He paused, giving me a onceover. “I wouldn’t mind if you left your personality at the table.”

With that, he broke off from me mid-dance, setting me down on the floor.

My mind reeled as I watched his back while he sauntered away. I didn’t understand what had just happened.

Had he offered me a hookup?

He seemed appalled by our conversation. But maybe that was just his default setting. Glacial, reserved, and offhanded.

Part of me reasoned I should take what he’d offered. Not go all the way, of course. I was saving my virginity. But a few fumbles in the dark wouldn’t hurt.

Not like Madison sat at home, working on our couple’s scrapbook.

I knew for a fact he went out all over D.C., enjoying brief affairs with models and socialites. My friend Hayleigh lived across the hall from him and told me about the women coming in and out of his condo.

I mean, we weren’t even together-together. We spoke on the phone once a month to “get to know each other,” per our parents’ request, but that was it.

A man like Romeo Costa was a once-in-a-lifetime event.

I should take advantage of it.

Of him.

And maybe he could teach me a few tricks. Something to impress Madison with.

Besides…shortbread.

As soon as Daddy turned to speak with Mr. Goldberg, I dashed toward the restroom. I white-knuckled the edge of the gold-specked limestone sink, blinking into the mirror.

It’s just a few kisses.

You’ve done this before with plenty of boys.

He was so new, so mature, so sophisticated, I didn’t even care that he was downright mean. Let’s get real here—Mr. Darcy wasn’t exactly swoon-worthy until the last twenty percent of the book.

“Nothing bad will happen,” I assured my reflection. “Nothing.”

Behind me, a toilet flushed.

Emilie escaped a booth, frowning as she settled beside me to wash her hands.

“Did you smoke the same thing that waiter gave your sister?” The back of her soapy hand rose to my forehead. “You’re talking to yourself.”

I dodged her touch. “Hey, Em, did you meet Romeo Costa?”

She shook her head, pouting. “He and von Bismarck are the main attractions. Always surrounded by herds of people. I couldn’t even get a picture of the guy. I saw you dancing with him. So lucky. I’d kill for the opportunity.”

A breathless, reckless laugh escaped me.

I shook my head.

“Where are you going?” she called after me.

To do something wild.