As we enter the house, the first thing that catches my eye is the dramatic black marble floors and walls painted in a shimmering crimson hue of the grand foyer. The space is filled with priceless antiques and art- fantastical Claude Lalanne bronze furniture and oil paintings by famous artists on every wall. I recognize some of them. Renoir. Sargent. Picasso. A giant stone lion stands in one corner. Someone has put a fur hat on its head.

Maids in classic French uniforms are stationed on each side of the entrance silently. The one next to a circular stone table clustered with pots of enormous jubilee roses bows ceremoniously to me. "May I take your coat, miss?"

Orson could sense my trepidation and reassure me by nodding at the maid. He helps me take off my coat, hand it to the maid and place his hand on the small of my back to guide me through the foyer.

"The party's just starting in the living room," Callum informs me as we climb the carpeted stairs, following the murmur of party chatter and piano keys from above. When we reach the landing of the second floor, I feel like I've been sucker-punched in the gut. I feel like I've been transported into a different era- a grand lounge of a Roaring 20s summer house of a rich white businessman in Istanbul.

The modestly dubbed "Living Room" is an eighty-foot long gallery that runs along the entire northern end of the house. Luxurious dark red curtains pair well with the art deco divans and the blood orange ottomans mixed in with the small, elegantly sculpted topiaries and the sleek black and white Annie Leibovitz photographs of the Calloways lining the silver- and lapis lazuli–filigreed walls. I notice that one of the photos feature Carmen and Orson as kids, in tennis whites—the two so preposterously stylish, so monied-lush they could have been a frame from a Hitchcock movie. I stare at the photo with a funny feeling in my stomach for a moment. Even with a brief glance, I could tell that it's them in one of the photos. It's so obvious it was them; from the tall patrician features to the regal stature, from Orson's piercing blue eyes that look years old despite his child frame to Carmen's long, luscious mane of brown hair and coltish ballerina figure.

At the far end, a young man in a tuxedo plays on the Bösendorfer grand piano, the twinking melody accompanying the glamorous guests mingling across the room, lounging on the silk ottomans or chaise lounges as a retinue of white-gloved servants in black suits circulate with trays of appetisers. My eyes are peeled at the illustrious gathering of people invited to Calloway Manor, attaching faces to names of great private fortunes from around the world: Persian Gulf oil money, Greek shipping lords, Italian textile billionaires, Spanish banking families, American tobacco magnates, Japanese industrial tycoons, Hong Kong real estate moguls. Among the hundred and fifty guests invited, I recognize the scions of royal families from Egypt, Greece, Yugoslavia, Italy and Britain, along with the heirs of European and American fortunes, my eyes ticking familiar names that are the foundations of wealth (Rothschild, Botin, Niarchos, Benetton, Duke, du Pont, Rockefeller).

I feel severely underdressed in my cashmere sweater and leather pants.

"Orson, you're here!" An excited voice pokes out from the cloud of laughter. An airy sigh floats behind it, the hard edges of his name all smoothed out.

"Here comes Aunt Rosemary," Orson mutters. Before I could even have a moment to collect myself, a stately-looking lady approaches us while dragging along a young girl that appears to be her daughter, wagging a finger at Orson.

"Orson, you naughty boy! Why didn't that father of yours tell us you were coming? Priscilla here was so upset here when your father arrived without you," Aunt Rosemary grins at Orson widely and squeezes her daughter's shoulder at the last sentence. Her voice is foreign, English words dipped in culture and dialect. I can see Aunt Rosemary has chosen her plastic surgeon with meticulous care, since she possesses one of those faces that look perfectly taut and sculpted, but not a single muscle moved when she spoke.

"I just didn't ride with him in the car because Callum insisted he picked me up. Aunt Rosemary, Priscilla, this is my girlfriend Amory Scout. Amory, this is Aunty Rosemary and her daughter, Priscilla."

Aunt Rosemary nods at me, boldly scanning me up and down. Priscilla ignores me- point blank- and instead flashes a Chesire cat smile at Orson, of which he doesn't catch or he did and he chooses not to pick it up- much to my pleasure.

I'm not threatened by them. After all, these people are essentially just like the Elite, only wrinkler with foreign accents. They have the same polite, passive-aggressive attitudes and catty agendas hidden between designer clothes and upper-crust diction. The only difference is a change of accent and age. Same salad, just different dressing. Just the way how Priscilla and Rosemary give me the stink-eye and once-over; I'm reminded of how Carmen and Parker used to eye me when I first sat on their lunch table. "So nice to meet you," I say demurely.

"Yes of course," Rosemary says, turning quickly to Orson and asking, almost sternly, "How's college applications going? Ever thought of applying down the Pond, go to your grandfather's alma mater? Priscilla has just got accepted into LSE; she's thrilled! If you ever consider London, maybe you two could be roommates."

"Maybe," Orson replies in a way that he's not ever going to consider it, "I'm going to go find my Dad and Maral. He might be looking for me."

At that moment, Aunt Rosemary notices an elderly Greek woman being helped into a chair. "Dear Mrs Niarchos, when did you get back from Santorini?" She screeches, pouncing on the woman as Orson promptly drags me away from Priscilla and Rosemary, towards the bar only to unwittingly steer me straight into the path of a very posh-looking middle-aged couple. They matched each other in style; him in a classic gold-buttoned black Armani suit while his wife was chicly cladded in a silvery Persian lamb parka from J. Mendel and dove-grey suede Lanvin ankle boots.

"Orson, you're here! Callum picked you up, didn't he? What do you think of that new car of his- a big bloody waste of money, isn't it?" The man harrumphs as his wife sighs.

"Daniel, I told you- let Callum have his fun. It's a passing phase. He'll be back in the bank in no time," his wife says dismissively, lifting her champagne flute up to her lips as her eyes skim over towards me; they take note of my clothes, dissecting the classy Carnet bracelet I borrowed from Veronica and the insanely expensive Harry Winston emerald teardrop earrings I had to sell an apartment in Palms Beach to afford. I can see the mental calculator in her head going on overdrive and once she does the math on my outfit, a testing smile appears onto her lips. "Orson, please introduce us to your companion."

"Uncle Daniel, Aunty Emilia, this is my girlfriend, Amory Scout."

"Amory Scout, is it? Where's your family from?"

"California."

"Oh, we know California very well. Northern California, actually."

"I'm from the South sorry," I lie with surprising ease.

"Oh what a shame, was about to ask if you knew the Gettys," Emilia effuses.

"Um, are you referring to the Getty Oil family?"

"Is there any other?" Emilia asks, perplexed.

"Well, the Getty Family is mostly centred around the San Francisco area," I explain, "My family and I are more local towards Bel-Air." More like the Queens area in New York.

"Anyway, Uncle Daniel, Aunty Emilia, Amory and I have just arrived and I was hoping to give her a quick tour of the manor-"

"Kiss-kiss, Orson," a voice sings out, and a girl comes gliding over. Signature "I-just-had-sex" strawberry blonde locks trickle halfway down her back, looking stunning against a forest green Balenciaga leather corset-dress that hugs her ridiculously large, real breasts. I stare at her hard as her cushiony bee-stung lips part into a warm smile and she envelops Orson into a big hug, quite rudely ripping his hand away from mine. Wide deep-set honey-coloured eyes and naturally slender, I come to realise the girl that has just hugged Orson is none other than-

"Chiara Benetton," she announces to me proudly. Unlike Georgina, an elegant, patrician beauty, Chiara Benneton is curvaceous with legs than went on forever and a body that resembles more like an alien fuck-doll of a girl rather than an actual girl. "And you are?"

I'm not that threatened because I can tell from the way her boobs are struggling to contain themselves from her corset dress and the lack of jiggle in them when they move that they are fake. She might've been heir to the Benetton fortune and a fashion blogger with over fifty million followers but Kensington has fashioned me into a little demon with a spiked tongue.

"Amory Scout, Orson's girlfriend," I tell her and her lips pursed, her alabaster cheeks turning splotchy.

"Oh, how cute. Orson never told us about-"

"We're very new, Chi," Orson corrects her and the way he calls her 'Chi' puts my girl radar on red alert, especially with the way Chiara is eyeing Orson. I'm more amused rather than annoyed by how blatant she is with her attempts.

"Interesting," Chiara says in a tone that says she's not interested at all, "Sorry, Uncle Dan, Aunty Emi, I'm going to steal Orson and Amory off you for now!"

"Oh, no worries!"

"Is there a bar here?" I whisper slowly to Orson. Chiara hears me and brightens.

"Come follow me," Chiara says, taking the opportunity to loop her hand through Orson's and steer us towards a table where a uniformed waiter wearing white cotton gloves is serving drinks out of a huge Venetian glass punch bowl.

"Only juice for now," Chiara sighs as Orson hands me a glass of punch and notices that the fine etching on the Venetian glassware perfectly matches the intricate fretwork pattern on the ceiling. "But if you follow me to the courtyard, Orson, you'll find your cousins are already spiking their fruit juices with the Scottish whiskey Grandma Calloway hides in her liquor cabinet."

"Of course," Orson chortles merrily. Our group proceeds through the living room, proceeding down a long pathway, past many darkened rooms. When Chiara leads us through the arch at the end of the passage, my jaw drops at the "courtyard".

It's as if I've stumbled into a secret walled French garden, cloistered deep within a chateau. The vast courtyard is enclosed on all sides but completely open to the sky. Elaborately carved columns line the arcades around its perimeter, and an Andalusian fountain protrudes from the stone wall, spouting a stream of water from a blossom sculpted out of rose quartz. Overhead, hundreds of copper lanterns have been meticulously strung across the courtyard from the second-floor walkway, each flickering with candlelight. In the middle of the garden stands a jewellike conservatory where two lone girls are chatting alongside Callum as guests mingle around them.

"Orson! You're here!" The two girls screech at the top of their voice. Chestnut-haired and petite, the two girls come bouncing along in identical Miu Miu embellished satin and shearling sandals and Stella McCartney dresses in powder-blue velvet. With their stylish high ponytails, they march across the space confidently, conveying the type of air that comes with being young, lithe, well-dressed and well-born. They both stand on their tiptoes to hug Orson in the neck and peck him on the cheek, one twin on each side.

I slip my arm through Orson's, my touch reminding Orson I'm still here. He looks at me, my demurely made-up face and slim-fitting leather pants. "So, introduce me," I tell him.

"This is Ava and Naomi de Rothschild," he says, "They're my cousins."

Ava's warm hazelnut latte eyes ooze with excitement as they meet mine. "Amory, oh my God, I've heard so much about you."

"When Mum told us Orson was bringing home a girl, I nearly died of shock since you know the only thing Orson knows how to bring home is his wonderful catalogue of STDs," Naomi cackles.

"Shut up," Orson grumbles.

"And then I thought he can't be bringing a girl home since the only girlfriend he ever brought home was that awfully boring Georgina," Ava carries on,

"You can't just say that, Ava!" Naomi protests, "She's dead."

"She might be dead but that doesn't mean she's still not bloody awful. Anyway, we were just so excited that we could finally see whatever possessed an imbecile to put up with the sod!"

I shrug casually, "Well, here I am."

The girls carry on by complimenting my shoes, talking about how much they love my hair. My brain is going on hard-drive, trying to pinpoint all the females in Orson's life to the information I've memorised based on the research I conducted before boarding the plane. I know Ava and Naomi are the children of Laurene Calloway and Nathaniel de Rothschild and are both socialites that are no stranger to the London nightlife; they are big party girls since they are both currently enrolled in Oxford, but spend more time exercising their credit cards on shopping expeditions and luxury holidays rather than stressing out over university work (no stinky college dorms or early morning classes for those two). Chiara Benetton is part of the massive Benetton family, who are Italian textiles giants and close friends of the Calloways. Ava, Naomi and Chiara have been inseparable since their Aiglon days, sharing inside jokes over the boarding school of choice for privileged rebels in Chesières-Villars, Switzerland.

"So Amory," begin Chiara frostily, "We're all dying to know how you and Orson met."

"We started as friends," Orson says instantly, "Or..."

"Well, technically, I was the new girl in Kensington. I became friends with Carmen and Parker and he was chasing me for the longest time. He kept inviting me to dinners, buying me gifts, basically trying to get me to sleep with him. And every time I said I wouldn't, he'll just try harder."

"And then one day, I told him that the only way he'll ever get me is if he'll commit to me. So he took me to Paris, where we eat croissants and people-watch."

"And stay at the Shangri-La," Orson adds with a cheeky grin.

"Orson Calloway, I am truly impressed," purs Chiara. "Who would've thought you were such a romantic? I've always known you to be more the take-no-prisoners/do-her-against-the-wall type."

Chiara is obviously referring to an experience she and Orson shared during a family function of sorts. Even then, Orson doesn't seem fazed by it so neither will I.

"I guess Amory brings out a different side of me," Orson says.

"That's so sweet, Amory," Chiara oozes with a sweet smile but her eyes seem to zero onto me, mentally saying: Die, bitch.

"How long have you two been together?" Ava asks eagerly.

Orson cock his head towards me and pull me closer to him with his hand on my waist "What is it, three months now?"

"Two and a half," I correct; we got back together after Georgina's birthday which is late January. "But it feels like—"

"Attention everybody!" An old, slim and aristocratic-looking woman with snow-white hair and a ramrod-straight posture, dressed in a stunning black strapless Stéphane Rolland gown with a long ruffled skirt that seems to go on for miles and miles, announces to the courtyard. She's flanked by two maids that are dressed differently than the other maids- while the others have been in classic black and white, the two standing completely still behind her are in beautiful classic Chanel silk dresses. "Please start joining us for a casual dinner between family and friends in the dining room. Food will be served in approximately two minutes."

The crowd starts to make a beeline to the dining room. A buffet supper has been set up in the dining room, a tennis-court size space with tall silver hurricane votive lamps filled with flickering candles lining the perimeter. The round zitan-wood dining table has been set up with elaborate "casual" Nymphenburg china and gleamed with silver chafing dishes as white-gloved servants enter the space, ready to serve guests.

But before Orson and I can join the building line wagging their tongues out for food, a familiar voice rings out. "Orson, you're not going to greet your grandmother before you eat my food? What insufferable manners."

"So close," I hear Orson whisper to himself before plastering on a smile and turning around. "Grandma! How are you?"

That's when I decide to look back along with Orson, to politely greet his grandmother, but the minute I turn around, his grandma's gaze meets my face for the first time, and loudly gasps.

Orson's grandmother is looking at me as if she has seen a ghost. She stares at me hard, her face draining of color. "Holy shit."

-