Unrefined. Uncultured. Untraveled.

Good to know how you really see me, Matt.

And today, I would meet more of the snobby Sky clan. Hooray.

I rolled out of bed and shuffled into the sitting area. A note lay on the couch.

Having coffee downstairs. Meet me in the lobby. Bought these for today. M.

Even his use of the letter—not Matt, my fiancé, but M., the great author—irritated me.

What he’d bought added insult to injury.

It was an outfit. Not just a necklace or shoes, but a complete outfit—suitable, I presumed, for wearing around the elite Aunt Ella and Uncle Rick.

I opened a Neiman Marcus box to find a cream-colored Herve Leger bandage dress—beautiful, of course—with eyelet trim, short sleeves, and a ruffled hem. A pearl necklace pooled in a crease of fabric. There were matching earrings, small, tasteful.

In a shoebox: powder-pink Fendi flats, the leather smooth as satin.

Pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Sky. I’m a cupcake.

I dressed in a huff, pissed at Matt’s elegant taste, pissed at his effort to control my appearance, and finally pissed at how stunning I looked in the mirror. A rosy blush completed the look. I fingered the pearls resting on my collarbone.

Matt had easily dropped three grand on this ensemble … not to make himself more comfortable, I guessed, but to make sure I felt comfortable.

I spent a few minutes unwinding, applying makeup and styling my hair, and I was smiling by the time I stepped into the elevator.

So what if he’d called me a simple girl? He’d obviously meant something else, or said it by accident. I was ready to bury the hatchet.

And Matt … was not.

Somehow, his mood had worsened overnight.

He took one dark look at me in the lobby. I knew that look, and I shrank from it: distrust.

“Very nice,” he said icily. His eyes flickered over me inventory-style: shoes, dress, jewelry, check, check, check.

“Th-thank you. You too…”

He had dressed to match me in cream-colored slacks and a blazer.

We drove to Moore Estate—tense, silent. In the driveway, he said, “Nate agreed to join us today. When he arrives, I’ll have to abandon you for a while.”

“Abandon me?”

“I have some business in the city.”

I shot a pleading look at Matt—he couldn’t leave me here!—and met his dispassionate, chilly profile. Oh yes, he could, and he would.

Ella and Rick greeted us at the door. They looked exactly as I remembered them from the memorial: Ella, a petite, crepe-paper-skinned woman with a thick black wave of hair; Rick, a barrel-chested man who stood as tall as Matt. A signet ring winked on his pinky finger. Ella’s bracelets jingled endlessly, a fine chime of wealth.

“Your hair!” she gasped, clutching Matt’s face.

He smiled at her with real warmth. I shivered.

“What do you think?” he said.

“Well, I—” Ella laughed, a quaver of sadness in the sound. “I heard you dyed it black. Black hair on my golden boy. We should have had you committed.”

Matt hugged his frail aunt gingerly. “My fiancée, Hannah.” He touched my shoulder.

Ella’s eyes dusted over me.

Rick pumped my hand and grinned. “Great to meet you, Hannah. Great. You gotta keep this boy in line.”

And that’s how the visit went. Ella ignored me as much as civilly possible. Rick pretended we were meeting for the first time and that the phony memorial service never happened. He tossed out words like “gotta” and “hafta” as a stand-in, I think, for a down-to-earth attitude, and he traipsed through the house in golf shoes.

We settled in the living room, which was small but opulent. Hanging tapestries, ambient light, and oil paintings with antique gilded frames filled the house.

Ella directed all her attention at Matt.

Rick, who must have long ago given up trying to control his wife, periodically threw me a bone. How d’ya like New Jersey, Hannah? How d’ya like Colorado? Ski much? No?

I wanted Matt to rescue me from this stuffy situation, or at least to acknowledge my existence, but he was oblivious—and blameless, laughing, charming. He chatted with Ella about cousins I didn’t know. With Rick, he spoke about stocks, soccer, and cars.

Who was this guy, and where was my fiancé?

Around one, I heard a knock at the door.

Nate let himself in and I sprang from the couch and launched myself at him, with Matt, Ella, and Rick all looking slightly appalled.

Nate, thank God for him, laughed and opened his arms. “Hey, stranger.”

I hugged him hard. He hugged me back just as hard. Whatever lingering grudge I held against Nate—last year, he’d known Matt’s death was faked, and he and Matt had kept me in the dark—dissipated on a wave of gratitude.

“Get me out of here,” I whispered.

Nate’s expression never faltered. He greeted Ella first—she clung to him and kissed his cheeks—then Rick and Matt. Two quick man-hugs.

“Hey, this looks better.” He ruffled Matt’s hair. “Golden boy again.”

Ugh. Fucking golden boy …

I could think of more appropriate nicknames.

“Yeah.” Matt shrugged. “Got rid of the black. Was Hannah’s idea.”

“Oh? She’s a keeper.”

“Sit with us,” said Ella, patting the couch.

“I’d actually like to take Matt and Hannah out for ice cream. You want to join us?” Nate glanced between Ella and Rick. He must have known they would say no.