At least it’s not a baby seal. Who in the world wears fur stoles in this century unless they’ve been abandoned in the wilderness and need it for survival? And it’s May. “Let’s hope PETA isn’t waiting outside with a bucket of paint, huh?”

She blinks at me.

“Gwendolyn, this is my best friend and maid of honor, Ruby Scott. Ruby, this is Armstrong’s mother.”

Shit. I’ve just insulted my best friend’s soon-to-be mother-in-law. This is not a good start.

Gwendolyn holds out a hand as if she’s expecting me to kiss it. I shake it instead. “Oh, yes. Amalie’s told me about your family. Scott Pharmaceuticals, isn’t that right?” She tilts her head and arches a brow, or at least I think that’s what she’s doing. It’s hard to tell since very little of her face seems to move.

“Uh, yes.” I hate this part. The way people look at me differently the moment they know who my family is and that I come from money. Then there’s the judgment that I don’t quite belong because I’m “new” money, unlike Amie. I’m third-generation trust fund, but in this circle, that’s considered new.

“Your father’s new medical laboratory has made some groundbreaking discoveries, hasn’t it?” She sounds like she disapproves. Maybe her husband has discovered the wonders of the artificial, never-ending hard-on and her dried out vagina is angry with me.

My father’s team created the newest erectile dysfunction medication. It’s a real porn-star legacy. I nod and smile, even though my father had absolutely nothing to do with the actual development of the medication. He just struts around making people think he did.

“Ruby is just on her way out. I’ll be along in a moment and then we can take some pictures.”

“Of course, of course.” Gwendolyn waves us off as Amie takes my arm and guides me away. Gwendolyn is already striking up a conversation with someone else.

“I’m sorry about the stole comment,” I mutter as we cross the room.

“It’s fine. She’s drunk, so she probably won’t remember anyway.”

She seems like a real piece of work. It also explains a lot about Armstrong. I’m still trying to figure out his allure. He seems to walk around with an entire jar of pickles rammed up his ass at all times. I’m also wary about how fast things have moved. They’ve only been together for a few months, but Amie seems convinced they’re a match made in heaven. I guess the scandalous option of divorce down the line is there if necessary.

Not that I’m predicting divorce or anything.

I’m just rather familiar with the way these men trade in wives like cars when the model gets a dent—or the Botox stops erasing the wrinkles. My own father is on wife number three. His current wife is all of twenty-eight. She used to be his secretary—so cliché.

Amie fingers my hair when we reach the door to the ballroom. I used a curling iron to no avail, it’s already straightened itself out for me. Amie has this incredible wavy, sandy blond hair, the opposite of mine in color and body. “Should I give you a wake-up call in the morning? Just to make sure you don’t sleep through your alarm?”

“You don’t have to do that. You’ll be exhausted tomorrow morning after this. You should sleep in for once.”

“I have to work tomorrow. I’ll be up early.”

I don’t really understand why anyone would plan an engagement party on a Monday night, but apparently Armstrong’s mother was highly influential. Even if it had been on a weekend, there’s a good chance Amie would be up early anyway. It doesn’t matter what time she goes to bed at, her internal alarm is set for 5:45 a.m.

“Sounds good. Maybe you can come by my place for lunch or something later?” I’m sure I can manage to scrounge up enough money to buy the necessary items to make sandwiches.

She makes her scrunchy no-no face. “I’m having lunch with Armstrong’s mother to discuss wedding plans.”

I mirror her displeased expression. “Have fun with that.”

“We can do dinner later in the week. My treat.”

“You don’t have to buy.” In all honesty, I can’t afford to go out for dinner with Amie unless we do the dollar menu at the burger place down the street from my apartment, but my pride won’t let me admit that. Sadly, Amie swears that place gave her food poisoning, so she refuses to entertain eating there. Being in between jobs sucks.

“I’ll take you out to celebrate your audition.”

“If you insist.” I would love to eat something that isn’t from a cellophane package.

“I do.” She smiles, as if it’s not a big deal. I’m already reviewing the menus at various restaurants and picking the most reasonable, filling dinner options.

Amie’s unaware of how dire my financial situation currently is. I honestly didn’t realize how bad it was until I checked my account yesterday. The one my father doesn’t know about. The one that’s very close to zero. Until three weeks ago, I had a steady paycheck and a role in a successful production that had been running for five months. I’d known something was up when the last two paychecks were late, and then bounced entirely. The production company had gone bankrupt, and I suddenly found myself with no income.

To make matters even worse, less than a week later, my agent decided to take early retirement with no warning. She dumped her entire client list, leaving us all scrambling for representation. So far I’m not having much luck securing a new agent, or a new role.

I need this role, otherwise I’m going to have to bite the bullet and get a part-time gig making overpriced coffee for the over-pampered dicks in this room. Which I’m not opposed to. It just sucks, given that I graduated with a Triple-Threat Award from Randolph almost two years ago. I naively assumed my ability to sing, dance, and act would mean an automatic ticket to Broadway. Boy was I ever wrong about that. So far, I’ve managed two small parts in Off-Off Broadway productions. Hopefully tomorrow pans out and I’m back on the payroll. I don’t really want to entertain the alternatives, so I’m thinking positive and hoping for the best.

I give her a hug, drain my martini, set the glass on the table, and tell her to have fun . . . As much as she can, considering the crowd she’s managing. The massive chandeliers hanging from the ceiling have been dimmed, so the lighting isn’t great. Or maybe it’s the effects of the martini impacting the clarity of my vision.