I was standing in the bathroom of the Riverstone Hotel, staring at a stranger in the mirror. My lip was split, there was blood on my teeth, and my scalp throbbed where clumps of hair had been yanked out. My dress—white satin, sleeveless, stupidly
optimistic—was torn at the shoulder. Outside those doors, seventy people were still sipping champagne and toasting my sister, Fallon Blake, America’s sweetheart entrepreneur. They’d just watched her punch me in the face and drag me
out by my hair. And they did nothing. Most of them, anyway. My mother smiled.
I didn’t even want to come. After six months stationed in Hawaii, all I wanted was a week without protocol or people treating my uniform like a charity case. But the cream-
colored invitation arrived, my name scribbled on the bottom in ballpoint ink like an afterthought. Love, Mom. A stupid, loyal part of me thought that maybe this time, they’d act like family.
I flew into Denver and went straight to the venue. The Riverstone Ballroom was as over-the-top as Fallon herself.