After Orson's grandmother, Delia Calloway, a woman of impeccable breeding and finishing school manners, blurted out "Holy shit," the whole room promptly turned to gawk at me.

Uncomfortable with all the attention and confused with why Orson's grandmother has reacted to me in such a manner, I blink and awkwardly start to say, "Um, are you okay?"

Delia seems to refocus back when she hears me speak; my crass American accent bringing her back to her body and she readjusts the tiny bifocals upon her nose before a small but cold smile settles on her thin lips. Chanel No.5 wafts from her as she puts an arm across her chest, "My apologies dear, I have no idea what came over me. Old age," she blames with a little laugh, "You just bear a shockingly close resemblance to someone I used to know. But Orson, please introduce me."

"Grandma, this is Amory Scout. My girlfriend."

"Nice to meet you," I say courteously, lowering my head in respect. For some reason, I have this inclination like I'm speaking to the Queen or something. From the way Delia holds herself to the behemoth Maltese cross made out of old cabochon emeralds sitting on her neck, she exudes a quiet regality about her that's so different from the American girls in Kensington frothing over a plastic hierarchy.

She's not like Carmen, who watches for a toe out of line, rations her food like pieces of glass from a mirror and calculates every potential threat. She's not like Parker, who lives for emblems, medals and tiaras, like points for validation. They both are Queens who are constantly feeling like they have to keep proving it to others that they are queen.

With Delia Calloway, I don't get that. In a way, funnily enough, she reminds me of Georgina. They both have that quiet, natural elegance about them that you can't learn or pick up. It's something you're born with.

Facing me is a vibrant pink-and-yellow triptych of Andy Warhol paintings depicting Delia Calloway in her younger days. Just looking at the painting hovering above a much older version of the real thing gives me a sense of trepidation.

An unfathomable expression crosses over Delia Calloway as she reads my features, taking in the perfect ski-slope and plump lips my surgeon has perfected, my naturally almond green eyes, before tilting her head to the left slightly, and one of her lady maids immediately rush to her side, leaning over in one graceful motion so that her ear is at level with Mrs Calloway's mouth.

"Veuillez demander à l'une des femmes de chambre d'ajuster le chauffage jusqu'à cinq degrés supplémentaires; c'est trop froid," she says in French and Kensington's 6th grade lessons kick in, allowing me to roughly understand that Mrs.Calloway has just asked the heater to be turned up. She turns her attention back to me, "Amory, is it? Well, I hope you enjoy your stay here at Calloway Manor."

Then in a flurry of Chanel No. 5, La Mer face cream and black ruffles, Delia Calloway moves away from me and begins chatting with the other guests. I turn back to my food and start to feel the eyes of the other guests on my back, painting me like a target.

"Don't worry about that," Orson says as if reading my mind.

"That your grandmother swore when she met me? Is that a good sign?"

Orson shrugs, "Honestly, I never saw her react that way. But hey, you're doing better than Georgina! My grandma didn't even look at her."

The compliment somehow makes me glow and yet I can't help but feel a burgeoning sense of unease. I can't help but feel that Delia Calloway's reaction is not just something random but extremely important. I don't understand it though. I literally have never met Delia Calloway before in my life. Why did I look like someone she knew? And from the looks of it, it looks like it's someone that she's been super shocked to see standing in the middle of her dining room.

"Hey, where's your grandfather?" I nudge kindly, "I don't see him anywhere."

"Grandma usually keeps him upstairs. He has Alzheimer's so all these people around tend to get him confused and scattered. I'll introduce you tomorrow after everyone is gone from the birthday."

I marvel at the sheer food and drink that's been out on display. Delicate flutes of champagne and an ornate Sèvres tea set brimming to the top with warm English breakfast tea served with an optional jug of milk and brown sugar cubes were dedicated to one table. The best of British cooking is laid out exquisitely across the white linen- fried lamb ribs, pheasant, leek and bacon pie, and pigs' food croquettes, grilled scallops in seaweed butter, roasted duck offal skewers and shepherd's pie while French and Italian cuisine flank it's sides with chilled fresh oysters over mounds of ice, artichoke lasagna drowning in rich red tomato sauce, veal meatballs, bolognese, mortadella-stuffed tortellini, sautéed Dover sole, lobster à l'américaine, truffled squab with red-wine sauce, quenelle de brochet poured with bubbling lobster sauce, slivers of veal tongue dabbed with caviar and crème fraîche, and tout le lapin roasted with mustard sauce.

I'm a bit at a loss when confronted with a huge buffet but following Orson's commentary, I pick according to what the best Delia Calloway's cooks have to offer and load my plate up to join him at the table with the rest of his cousins.

An inky northern-Rhône wine pours into my glass as I cut into the leek and bacon pie and conversation ebbs from person to person.

"So Amory, that was quite an impression you made on Grandma Calloway," Chiara Benetton can't help but comment as she uses a tiny oyster fork to dismantle the seafood out of its shell.

I'm not too bothered by her comment, even though I'm still trying to dissect what that whole interaction meant. If Delia Calloway thinks I look like someone that manages to get such a reaction from her, I wonder who it is.

"Well, I'm sure for someone of such a calibre, Mrs Calloway meets so many people all the time," I sigh loudly, making sure she heard me, "It's so easy to get confused at her age."

Chiara eyes me dangerously. Her hand reaches over for the salt-shaker when she not so subtly knocks over my wine glass, causing the red liquid to spill all over my white-button down. I gasp as soon as the liquid soaks my top, revealing a lace-black La Perla bra over the white now-sheer top.

"Shit, nice tits," Callum whistles. Orson whacks him upside the head almost immediately.

Chiara claps her hands to her cheeks as soon as it happens. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I totally didn't see your wine glass- it was an accident!"

I dead-eye her. It's no accident, and we both know it.

"What a shame too, you're wearing white," Chiara goes on; Ava and Naomi watch on in amusement like they'll wonder what I'll do. "I'll pay for the dry cleaning, of course."

I'm careful to keep my voice steady. "Oh, it's no big deal. It's just an accident."

"God, you must be so embarrassed." Chiara's voice oozes faux sympathy.

I once released my own sex tape to embarrass Georgina Carlton. This is nothing. I've run Luciana out of New York. I've gone toe to toe with Carmen and Parker. I smile in her face.

"Why would I be embarrassed?" I ask coolly. "I didn't try to ruin someone's top as a clear attempt to embarrass the girl dating the guy you're obviously so desperate for. Besides, as Callum said, I have nice tits."

Ava's jaw drops open and Naomi snickers into her hand as Chiara turns beet red. I stand up from my seat, "Hey Orson, show me a room I can change in," I say to him, squeezing his shoulder as I look at him with a small meaningful smirk. "I think I need help getting out of this."

Orson agrees, taking my hand as he leads me up another grand staircase and gives me a short tour of all the exquisite rooms. Calloway Manor happens to be built in the 13th century by a notified member of the Peerage, only to have his family line discontinued due to the lack of heirs and by the 1700s, the house has fallen into disrepair, abandoned. It isn't until Horace Calloway has bought the estate and spent millions restoring the manor into splendour. His descendants follow inline in maintaining the house.

The Calloways are of Norman-French origin, coming from a long line of royal court physicians that go all the way back to William the Conqueror. They've quietly amassed their fortunes underneath prying eyes through influential titles and connections towards the English crown, with the name Calloway bearing as much weight as the name Medici during the 1500s. Their wealth and their power, however, became even more astronomical when Horace Calloway founded the East India Company with his brothers.

And it is through these various rooms, I notice they house most of the riches of the eighteenth-century world -- silk, heavy brocades, and pottery from the orient; silver and gold from the Americas; diamonds, ivory, and spectacular wood carvings from Africa; and exquisitely woven carpets from Arabia and Persia.

I feel a little sad because I remember that most of these riches have been stolen.

"Our room is this one," Orson says, opening the gold-handled door and snapping on the lights. True enough, all our luggage is piled neatly on the foot of the king-size bed. I step foot into it, admiring the sheer size of the "guest" bedroom and the exquisite French art-deco furniture. The room has a bay window with a window seat, gauzy champagne curtains and a bouquet of white flowers on the end table, leaving behind a faintly sweet scent in the room. The bed is full of thick, fluffy goose-feather pillows in Egyptian cotton[ I've never seen so many pillows, every shade of brown, from pale honey to something the colour of chicory, like the French teacher, drinks every day at lunch, stacked against the gilded headboard in four layers.

"I'm surprised they let us share a room together," I remark as I unbutton my wine-stained top and slowly peel it off my body. "I mean, this is a family gathering after all."

"Why not?" He sends me that signature Orson Calloway smirk as I unzip my leather pants and kick it off my body, leaving only the lacey black bra and panty set that got revealed at dinner in front of everybody. He loops a hand around my bare waist and kisses me sweetly. I sigh in his kisses, closing my eyes for a moment.

"I mean, don't you wanna be a good boy," I whisper in his ear, playing with his collar, "Your whole family is just downstairs, having dinner, and here we are..."

"Hmm, just a quick one," Orson murmurs, mouth full-on skin as he kisses my neck. But before he can even unsnap the bra, a knock on the door makes us leap away from each other as if we're on fire.

"Lord Calloway, Lady Scout, I've heard of your unfortunate spill. I'm here to pick up the top."

I look at Orson questioningly but all he does is bury his face in the blankets and groan at the cockblock. I quickly grab a freshly-laundered towel from the warming rack and wrap it around my body before padding over to the door to open it. It's a maid.

"Hello, Lady Scout. I'm here to take your top for dry-cleaning. The victim of Lady Benetton's unfortunate wine spill."

"Um.."

"Oh sorry," the maid says, blushing at her faux pas; then she bows to me before launching to an introduction, "I'm Miss Mckinsey; I'll be the maid for your stay. May I have your top, Lady Scout?"

"Um...uh..." I stammer, quite unused to this level of etiquette when Orson jumps in by plucking the stained top from the floor and handing it to the maid.

"Thank you, Lord Calloway," she says, bowing her head deeply, "Anything else?"

"Um, uh, that would be all, thanks."

Miss Mckinsey hurries off with my top and Orson and I figure the situation has turned too awkward to even do anything so I instead decide to pick an outfit that's a little more appropriate. Everybody has been so dressed up and fabulous so I decided to pull out the big guns by wearing an explosion of powder-blue feathers courtesy of Armani Priv and debut the new diamond and sapphire earrings by Chaumet from Veronica.

"What was that?" I laugh awkwardly as I exit the bathroom in my dress, my makeup reapplied and smelling of Tom Ford's Noir.

Orson shrugs; he's not looking at me. I can see he's playing Candy Crush on his iPhone. "Grandma has so many maids around so she just assigned one to you since you're a guest," he says casually as he finally looked up from his phone and smiles. "Should we go back down?"

I nod, "I'm starved."

Suddenly, a noise emits from the inside of my silver clutch bag, which is sitting on the coffee table. I look over. It's my phone.

I ignore it, taking the clutch in my hand as Orson opens the door. But before we could get out, the phone rings once more. Orson takes his hand off my back. "Are you going to see who that is?"

I lick my lips, considering. Then I undo the small clasp and bring the phone up to read the notification without Orson taking a look. It's a missed call. From a familiar number. Which can only mean one thing.

I didn't bring my burner phone with me to London, mostly because it's just too big of a risk, and I only have my decoy phone with me- the one Orson can secretly look through behind my back without raising any suspicion.

Nonetheless, I've told all my accomplices- ANON420, Jack, Devon, all of them to never, under any circumstances, reach me on my decoy phone. And the number calling me means that one of them is urgently trying to talk to me.

"It's Veronica," I lie loudly with a big sigh, "I forgot to call her and tell her I land."

"Oh," he blinks, "Go ahead. Give her a call. I'll wait."

He doesn't leave, even though my expression urges him too. It doesn't matter. I can do this in front of him.

"Hey," I say, once the line goes through. "Sorry, I missed your call. It's been crazy."

"I bet," Kai Hong mutters quietly, "Look, remember how you gave me all the accounts of the people you were going after to kinda look for dirt?"

"Yes, of course," I say sweetly, and I pick my words carefully, not giving away anything with vague phrases: "How is that going?"

"Well, the one account you gave me, that guy, Aidan. He's spotless," he tells me, "But then, I got a little hunch so I decided to use his accounts to hack into his family's computer mainframe, you know, do a little digging since I was bored. And turns out, Aidan isn't the problem. His dad is."

"Oh really?" My tone prod into the tells me more category without making me look suspicious. "What happened?"

"I...I found something really disgusting. There were these pictures of girls...in..." Kai Hong can't even finish, "Amory, Aidan's dad is a fucking paedophile."

"You're kidding," I press on.

"I'm not. I found enough shit to bury the guy. I just- I don't know what to do with all of this. I don't know if I should go to the police or-"

"Look, I'm in London right now," I tell him, "Talk to Hadley. She'll help. She's good with that kind of thing."

I promptly hung up. Orson looks at me as I place back my phone into my clutch, "What's that all about?" Orson asks, grabbing my hand as he leads me down the carpeted hallway.

"Oh nothing, Veronica just checking up on me. She's having a credit card issue with the bank," I reply smoothly, and I search his face for a glimmer of doubt. I don't see it, then I peck his lips. "Now let's join them downstairs."

"Wait," Orson grabs my arm before I could start descending down the stairs and for a fleeting moment, an ice-cold fear of having raised suspicion run through me, but then I see the soft edges of his face crinkling into a small smile, and I relax. "You asked about my grandfather just now. You wanna go see him? Say hi?"

I blink. Orson reads the hesitation in my face and laughs. "Relax, my granddad is pretty harmless. He's got Alzheimer's but harmless, trust me."

"If you say so."

"Come with me, my granddad usually hides out in the library."

The library happens to be at the end of the second-floor corridor -- a big sunken parlor lined with bookshelves. It's a grand room; the shelves are of dark wood, the books leather-bound and very old, with gilded titles on the spines. They look like they've been well-used over the centuries. Oriental carpet covers the floor. Cushy chairs are spaced around the room. Maps and oversize folios are spread out on big tables. Against one wall are a line of oak file cabinets and a huge computer with three separate monitors, like something they'll use at NASA. Glass chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling and provide plenty of light.

A frail old man with wispy hair and his back turned on a wheelchair is by a desk, reading something. Orson deftly walks in with me trailing beside him.

"Hey granddad, it's me."

The old man wheels around. Even though they are miles apart in age, it's hard not to ignore the similarities between Orson and his grandfather. I would say he looks even more like his grandfather than his own dad. The only similarities Orson and his father, Elijah Calloway, share are the piercing cool blue eyes, which happens to be an inherited trait for all Calloway men. His grandfather has sparse cold-black hair like Orson but their faces are frighteningly similar. Unlike Elijah, Orson seems to get his angular jaw from his grandfather, along with his straight nose and chiselled cheekbones. Even the way expressions form on their faces are just the same.

"Orson," his grandfather rasps in delight as Orson bends down to his grandfather and hugs him in his chair. "You should not be playing around in the library. Isn't it teatime? What will your mother say?"

"Um, granddad, mom is dead," Orson says tersely as the subject of his mother makes him intensely uncomfortable. My interest is piqued. Am I finally gonna get to hear the truth about Orson's mother?"

"No, she's not. Isn't she just standing right there?"

His grandfather points a gnarled finger towards me.

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