In a post-pandemic world where class and privilege are determined by immunity status, Seraphine, Isolde, Beck and Griffin are about to find out what they're made of. When a nightclub bombing and its aftermath challenge everything they thought they...
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Twenty-three minutes before a bomb detonates on the lower ground floor of the club known as Infamy, Seraphine Delacourt's gaze is fixed with morbid anticipation on her sister's right boob. Having found the VIP dance floor too crowded and too anonymous for her liking, Isolde shimmies with abandon on the white, marble-topped bar. As she twirls, shakes, wiggles, and struts, her long, dark hair swings like a hypnotist's pendulum. With each overhead wave of the loosely clutched crystal champagne glass, Issy's right breast is in increasing danger of escaping her silver corset. While a public nip slip is not exactly high on any girl's Saturday night wish list, it does tend to spell 'public relations disaster' when you're the heir to the throne.
Under different circumstances, Saph would clamber up onto the bar to subtly sort out Issy's wardrobe, her dignity, and the impending threat to her reputation. Or she'd do something to draw attention away from her sister – something scandalous, and noteworthy, and to be expected from the irresponsible second born.
That is, after all, Seraphine's lot in life.
Pig's balls to that.
To the right of the bar and its four-deep crowd, Saph stubbornly sinks further into a teal velvet lounge and sips her single malt with feigned disinterest. Her latest tattoo –a watercolour magnolia splashed across her left shoulder blade– is itchy beneath its bandages. She barely notices. Tonight, Saph's irritation with her sister burns far more intensely than freshly needled ink. If Isolde wants to blow up her life and soak her personal brand in champagne and public exposure, for once, Seraphine is inclined to let her.
The spare is not in the mood to rescue the heir.
Luckily for Isolde, a knight in black cashmere-clad armour rides in on his ego and saves her nipple from immediate doom. With hair the colour of fresh caramel and the innate confidence of the privileged, he's well dressed, and pretty, and exactly Issy's type.
Ignoring the jostling crowd, fresh caramel gazes up at Isolde like she's the perfect night sky. He offers her his hand and a suggestive grin. But Issy's no amateur – her time and attention are never so easily won. She ignores the proffered hand, instead gifting the stranger a small smile as calculated as it is gracious. It's the first move in a game of power-based flirtation which Saph knows will only end if and when Issy wills it so.
Throwing back the rest of her whisky so fast it burns, Seraphine resists the urge to roll her eyes.
This place is the worst.
The music is thumping, the crowd is pumping, and Saph would prefer to be at home in her pyjamas with a good book. Or scrubbing a public toilet in her underwear. Or having multiple teeth pulled without anaesthesia.
Sadly for Saph, Infamy is THE place where bright, young, society things come to see and be seen. Which is ironic when you consider the abysmal quality of the lighting and the fact that most of the patrons are too focused on themselves to truly see anyone else.
