Immaculate

A tall, slightly older man wearing a black suit steps out of the car. I'm surprised by the wave of disappointment that suddenly overwhelms me. Though James said he would send someone to pick me up, I realize that I still hoped he'd show up, wearing that conceited smile of his.

"Ms. McLewis?" the man asks in an official tone.

I take a step forward. "You can call me Serena."

For some reason, I didn't expect James Cohen, the founder of several high-tech and Internet ventures, the epitome of all things modern, to be employing a driver. One that wears a uniform at that.

"Peter Sullivan, at your service. I was sent by Mr. Cohen to pick you up." He opens the back door and gestures to me to get inside.

I nod and hop inside the car.

When Peter takes his place in the driver's seat I ask as casually as possible, "How long will the trip take?"

He starts the engine and drives onto the main street, and though I can only see his eyes in the mirror when he answers, I'm pretty sure he's trying very hard to stifle a laugh. "I was instructed not to give you any information that might disclose our destination."

I lean back, recognizing defeat. What is James playing at? What difference does it make whether I find out now or in half an hour?

But I won't find out in half an hour. Or in one hour. Three hours pass before we finally get off the highway. By that time I've bitten all my nails, and the thought of calling the police to notify them of my kidnapping has passed through my mind at least half a dozen times.

I relax a bit as we enter Nelson Bay a few minutes later. It doesn't take me long to realize this is the wealthiest neighborhood I've ever seen. To my left and right lie houses—palaces really, each more grandiose than the previous one.

But we don't stop in front of any of them. Peter drives by house after house, until the houses get farther apart, and finally, fields replace them. It's a while before the first sign of civilization begins to appear: a row of black, spearheaded metal bars—a fence. Behind it lies a neat garden, adorned with so many roses that it looks more like a nursery. There is no house in sight.

The car comes to a halt in front of the huge double gates. I still see no house behind them. My stomach gives a slight jolt when the gates open and we drive inside.

"Wow," I exclaim when the house finally comes into view. "Wow," I repeat as I stumble out of the car.

This isn't a house. It's the ultra-modern, almost futuristic version of a palace. Except for the ground floor, it seems to be made entirely of glass, with the odd wooden wall here and there. Its owners must be fascinated by square forms, because the entire building is an amalgam of smaller and larger cubes, the part observable from here, at least. The place must be swarming with people, judging by the number of cars all around me.

"You are expected inside, Ms. McLewis," Peter says, obviously amused by my reaction.

"I am?" I ask in amazement and start walking with trembling steps toward the entrance.

I close my palm around the handle of the massive oak door and expect to have to put some energy into pushing it, but it opens effortlessly.

Of course, it does.

The moment I step inside, the simplicity of my white dress slaps me in the face. There are no words to describe how many levels of underdressed I am compared to the sleek, shiny surfaces and exquisite paintings on the walls, each with a picture light above it.

And this is just a hallway.

"Name," a deep voice calls, startling me. I turn around and locate the source behind the door.

"Serena McLewis," I answer.

The man scans the long list he's holding, then continues to the next page. And the next page. I count four-page turns. "You're not on the list."

Everything from his polished shoes to his perfectly knotted tie and his neatly gelled hair tells me he's not the type to let me in if I'm not on the list.

"James Cohen invited me."

He raises an eyebrow.

"You think I sneaked in?" I ask him incredulously.

His expression tells me that is exactly what he thinks. My casual, beach-appropriate dress isn't helping my case, either.

"Let her in, Loren," a young girl squeaks from the far end of the hallway, hurrying toward us. Loren instantly lowers the list and gestures to me to proceed.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't have time to put you on the list," the girl says, looking genuinely distressed. As she comes closer, I realize she's not as young as I thought. Her round, dark eyes and the slight fullness of her face are misleading, but she must be at least seventeen. To my relief, she's wearing a robe. A beautiful one, made of silk, but a robe nonetheless.

"I'm Dani," she says.

She takes my hand before I get a chance to introduce myself and pulls me in the direction she came from. "We need to get you changed," she says. "You can't go to the party dressed like this."

I stare at her black, unnaturally perfect curls, biting my lip. I know my dress isn't much, but coming from someone dressed in a robe, the comment seems a little off.

"What party?"

"Ooh. You're British." Her eyes widen with delight. "My brother didn't tell me that. And he didn't tell you anything," she says, smirking, and opens the door that marks the end of the hallway.

"James is your brother?" I ask blankly.

"I know, the similarities between us are auto

funding. I—"

The rest of her sentence gets lost in the explosion of words and laughter filling the room in front of us. Two dozen women, most of them around my age, sit on a long row of chairs in front of a mirror that covers the entire wall. Behind each of them is a hairstylist, turning their hair into curls just as unnaturally perfect as Dani's. Three of the girls are fully dressed, and the mystery surrounding the party—or at least part of it—dissipates.

"It's a themed party," I say.

"Eighteenth-century Venice." Dani winks. "My mother throws themed parties every year for charity. It's Venice this time. Let's get you a dress."

On the other side of the room are rows and rows of metal bars with clothes hangers holding long, festive chiffon and velvet dresses.

"I set some dresses aside for you," Dani calls over her shoulder as we make our way through the rows of dresses. "Let's look at those first, and if you don't like any you can look for something else. Unfortunately, there won't be time to have your hair done because my lovely brother sent Peter far too late to fetch you."

"No problem," I say, trying not to sound too relieved that I get to keep my hair as it is. "So, um... you live here with your parents?"

"Yep. James sometimes comes here on weekends. When he's not working," she says, rolling her eyes, clearly disapproving of her brother's workaholic tendencies. "But I prefer it if he doesn't come here. Gives me an excuse to go down in San Jose."

Of course, Silicon Valley's capital. Where else could he live? The back of the room is marked by yet another mirrored wall. Thankfully, there's no one in front of it. In the left corner is a small open wooden closet containing five dresses.

"Which one do you want to try on?" Dani claps her hands excitedly.

"The red one," I say without hesitation. In addition to being the prettiest dress I've ever seen, it's red. Red is my favorite color, but I don't wear it often. I don't know why, probably because I feel I attract too much attention whenever I wear it, something I'm not very comfortable with. But today—tonight, actually—is different. And wearing red seems like the right thing to do.

"It's perfect," I say when Dani holds the dress in front of her, faking a bow.

She giggles. "I'll help you with it, then you can help me with mine. I tried getting dressed on my own and nearly wanted to tear the damn thing apart."