Chapter 1: Skin and Ink

Let it be known, for the record, that my best friend traded me for a pair of limited-edition Manolo Blahniks.

You might envision a scene of tearful drama and slammed doors, but in our gilded world, betrayal is a much more civilized affair.

It is a quiet transaction, signed in triplicate and notarized, its scent not of brimstone, but of old money and the sharp, clean perfume of fresh ink.

Sarah Cartwright and I had been inseparable since we were six, when she pushed me off the swing set at Wellington Prep’s kindergarten playground and then, seeing the blood welling from my knee, offered me her favorite hair ribbon as a peace offering.

That was Sarah in a nutshell: she’d stab you in the back, then charm you with the knife still sticking out between your ribs.

I should have seen it as a warning. Instead, I saw it as friendship.

Tonight, as I lay sprawled across my canopy bed, my punishment throne, I stared at the water stains spreading like bruises across the ceiling.

Even our fifteen-room manor leaked, though of course that was the kind of flaw the Hamilton family would sooner commit perjury than admit existed.

God forbid anyone found out we weren’t structurally perfect.

Appearances above all.

I could still hear Sarah’s laughter drifting up from the garden. That laugh was bright, sharp, and deliberately cruel, piercing straight through the screened windows and into my skull.

She was probably draped across a lounge chair by the pool with Ethan Langford and the Pembroke twins, sipping the vintage champagne Mrs. Whitmore pretended not to notice had vanished from the cellar.

The four of them were doing exactly what I should’ve been doing: enjoying the night, the freedom, and the summer.

Instead, I’d been banished. Exiled. Sent upstairs like a bratty toddler for daring to have a life.

All because of the Argument.

“Annabel Hamilton, you are not leaving this house dressed like a common streetwalker!”
Mother’s voice still ricocheted in my skull, shrill and icy, like someone flicking a crystal goblet over and over just to hear it scream.

Three hours later, I could still feel the vibration in my bones, and what had sparked this operatic meltdown? A cashmere sweater from Bergdorf’s that showed the tiniest sliver of midriff if I lifted my arms above shoulder height. A blink of skin, barely enough fabric missing to qualify as a design choice.

But apparently, that was enough to launch DEFCON 1 inside the Hamilton household.

I rolled onto my stomach, pressing my cheek against the cool silk pillowcase, trying to suffocate the anger burning in my chest.

This room, this over-decorated, museum-curated mausoleum, was supposed to be my sanctuary. Instead, it felt like a heavily gilded prison cell.

Every antique wardrobe, every imported rug, every carefully positioned oil painting was another reminder: I lived in a world where perfection wasn’t optional, it was mandatory.

Where expectations were so thick they clogged the air and settled in my lungs.

Be seen, not heard; be elegant, not noticeable; be admired, not understood; be a Hamilton first, and yourself ... never.

By breakfast, the rage hadn’t cooled; it had fermented.

The next morning’s meal dragged on like a hostage situation.

The only sounds were the clink of silver against china and the grinding of metaphorical teeth.

Father hid behind his Wall Street Journal, that towering shield of stock tickers and market analysis he used to avoid engaging with anything resembling emotion.

Mother attacked her grapefruit with the precision of someone performing a dissection, removing each strand of pith as if it personally offended her sensibilities.

God forbid breakfast contain any imperfection.

Mrs. Whitmore stood rigidly by the sideboard, radiating disapproval so intensely it could’ve curdled the cream.

Her lips were pursed so tightly they practically inverted. I half expected her to start taking notes for the next time she tattled to Mother about something I’d worn, said, or breathed incorrectly.

Right on schedule, precisely at eight, as always, Sarah arrived. The Cartwrights might live in a mansion even more ostentatious than ours, but she’d basically colonized our east wing years ago.

The guest suite was hers in every way that mattered.

She breezed in like a duchess returning from holiday, glowing and smug, her night of freedom practically radiating off her. Her laughter still clung to her like perfume.
Meanwhile, I sat trapped at the table in my pressed, approved outfit, the obedient daughter, the chastised one, the disappointment.

All because a sliver of my stomach dared to breathe the same air as the rest of me.

“Morning, Judge Hamilton,” Sarah chirped, stealing a slice of toast from my plate. “Mr. Hamilton.”

Father grunted from behind his paper. Mother offered a tight, perfunctory smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

I stared at the congealing eggs on my plate, the events of last night curdling in my stomach. The humiliation was a live wire under my skin.

That’s when Sarah, my best friend, my sister in all but blood, dropped her bomb.

So I was thinking,” she began, swirling her orange juice in its crystal glass like it was a fine wine, “Annie and I should make a little wager. To settle her ... restlessness.”

She shot me a look that was all innocence, but I felt a cold dread. She must have snuck a peek at my journal last night, seen the furious, ink-blotted line I’d scrawled: ‘I wish something would just bind me to nakedness, to tell the truth, so I’d never have to choose another suffocating outfit again.’

Father lowered his newspaper an inch. A single, steely eye peered over the top.

Wagers, in the Hamilton world, were not child’s play. They were the language of business, of legacy.

Sarah’s grin turned wicked.

“It’s simple. If I win, Annie must remain nude until graduation. No clothes, no exceptions on estate grounds or in town. If she wins...”

She paused dramatically, letting the horrifying first half of that sentence hang in the air.

“I’ll tutor her in calculus all semester.”

Mrs. Whitmore gasped, a short, sharp sound like a mouse being stepped on.

Mother’s grapefruit spoon froze mid-bite. “That’s hardly an equivalent exchange, Sarah.” Her voice was frosty.

Which makes it interesting,” Father murmured, suddenly engaged.

I could see the legal gears turning behind his eyes, assessing the risk, the precedent, the sheer audacity of it.

For him, this wasn’t about nudity; it was about contract law.

Sarah leaned forward, her charm offensive in full swing.

“Think of it as ... a lesson in consequences. The Hamilton way. A tangible, unforgettable reminder that every choice has a price. It’s rather brilliant, don’t you think? Far more effective than being grounded.”

I should have protested. Should have thrown my congealing eggs at her perfectly composed face.

Should have recognized the trap being laid out with the same casual ease as Mrs. Whitmore setting the table.

But the part of me still burning with last night’s humiliation, the part that had written those dangerous words in a fit of rage, perked up.

That part, the one that wanted the choice taken away, looked at the abyss Sarah was opening and felt a terrifying pull.

Bind me to nakedness.

The words echoed in my head, a siren’s call.

This was it: a way to make the shame theirs.

To make my body a statement of their absurd rules, not my failure to follow them.

I kept my eyes on my plate. “What’s the wager?” I asked, my voice quiet but clear.
The room went utterly still.

Sarah’s smile was a slash of victory.

“A coin toss. Simple. Clean. The ultimate arbiter of fate.” Just like that, the die was cast.

What began as a breakfast-table provocation had, by that evening, morphed into something far more sinister. Our “little wager” took on a life of its own in the hallowed halls of the Hamilton library.

The air was thick with the smell of old leather and older money.

Mother drafted clauses with her Montblanc pen, each stroke of ink another chain binding me to this madness.

Father consulted precedent cases from a volume on contractual obligation, muttering about “unenforceable” versus “airtight.”

Sarah’s father, Charles Cartwright, my father’s old law school rival, arrived with two bleary-eyed associates and a bottle of thirty-year-old Macallan. “For inspiration,” he joked, though no one laughed.

This was serious business.

“Section 4.7 stipulates no coverings exceeding twelve square inches in total surface area,” Mother recited, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“This includes, but is not limited to, clothing, blankets, towels used as garments, and large adornments intended to obscure.”

“Add a clause about school compliance,” Father interjected from his wingback chair.

“We’ll need a private session with Headmaster Thompson. We can frame it as a performance art piece for her cultural studies credit.”

Charles chuckled, a dry, rasping sound.

“Might want to specify no temporary coverings during the winter months. We wouldn’t want a loophole for strategic frostbite.”

I sat very still in the leather chair, suddenly a spectator at the orchestration of my own life.

This had stopped being a joke, a rebellious fantasy.