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I couldn’t help it. I glanced at Chester. We shared an amused look.

Millie asked the waitress to pour us all shots.

I took mine without protest. It seemed like a good night to try a shot, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to admit to these filthy rich princesses that it was my first one.

Worst case scenario: Chester was big and strong enough to carry me out.

I barely choked it down, though it wasn’t as bad as I’d been expecting—it was something surprisingly sweet—but it was still more than I was used to.

I looked around. There were several other VIP booths in the large room, but for the most part the place was deserted. “I thought it would be busier,” I remarked.

“It’s not actually open yet,” Millie admitted with a laugh. All of her friends joined her as though they’d been cued. “It opens in a half hour, and this is a private room. The main club is through there.” She pointed across the room.

One of the girls, Addison, I thought I recalled correctly, asked the waitress for another round of shots.

“Oh,” I was surprised. “So we’re not going to the main club. We just stay in here?”

Millie shrugged, laughing again. “We do whatever we want!”

I digested that as I took another shot with the group. This one went down easier. I pointed at the empty glass. “I like these,” I said more loudly than I needed to.

Shit. Was I already drunk?

The group erupted into fresh peals of laughter at my expense. My face stiffened, cheeks reddening.

I was embarrassed, and I tried to quickly recover with a serious (and I thought neutral) question, “So what do you all do? Like for work?”

More laughter, this time louder.

I wasn’t in on the joke. I knew they were rich, duh, I got that message loud and clear, but didn’t every adult need something productive to do? Going by the fact that they’d all gone to school with my husband, they were all around twenty-six years old and none had kids yet.

What did a twenty-six year old do without a job or children?

It was particularly strange to me since I’d been working and supporting myself full-time from the ripe old age of fourteen.

Oh yeah. That’s when my fuzzy mind remembered. They’re a different breed than me. Not working class.

“We’re full-time socialites,” Millie explained with a kind smile. “I’m sure you’re getting into the swing of something similar, when you’re not busy modeling. We represent our families socially.”

“It might sound superficial to an outsider,” one of the brunettes (I thought it was Camilla) added, “but we all have Ivy League educations. And we all do a lot more for society than a typical working woman.”

My eyes tried to climb straight up to my hairline for that one. “Do you now?” I tried really, really hard to keep my tone even and neutral.

Millie sent her friend a look. “What Camilla means is that we try our best to contribute. We’re all involved in charity work, and Hadley,” she pointed to one of the light brown-haired ones, “even got a law degree just to help represent her husband’s cancer research foundation.”

My hackles were still up from Camilla’s comment, but I managed to let it go. I wasn’t here to judge anyone (why would I be?) and charity work was certainly something I admired.

To each their own, I chanted in my head. Being born rich and privileged was not a crime.

I tried my hardest not to have a chip on my shoulder about that kind of thing, but sometimes it was harder to hide than others.

If I was honest with myself these types of women were one of the reasons I’d agreed to such an arrangement. I hated the idea that there was an upper class and that they were better than.

I didn’t want anyone to have something over me like that. If there had to be a social ladder, I wanted to climb to the top and stay there. To dig in roots and make it mine for generations.

I wanted to change my family tree.

I shook off the thought. Now was not the time.