With shaking fingers, Schuyler retrieved a driver's license with someone else's name—but her own picture—on its laminated surface. Oliver did the same. She bit her lip. She was so going to get caught and thrown in jail for this. But she remembered what Oliver had said. Be cool. Confident. Think positive.

The bouncer waved their IDs under an infrared machine, which didn't beep. He paused, frowning, and held their IDs up for inspection, giving the two of them a doubtful look.

Schuyler tried to project a calm she didn't feel, her heart beating fast underneath her thin layers. Of course I look twenty-one. I've been here before. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that ID, she thought.

The bouncer slid it under the machine again. The big man shook his head. "This isn't right," he muttered.

Oliver looked at Schuyler, his face pale. Schuyler thought she was going to faint. She had never been so nervous in her life. Minutes ticked by. People behind them in line made impatient noises.

Nothing wrong with that ID. Cool and confident. Cool and confident. She visualized the bouncer waving them through, the two of them entering the club. LET US IN. LET US IN. LET US IN JUST LET US IN!

The bouncer looked up, startled, almost as if he'd heard her. It felt as though time had stopped. Then, just like that, he returned their cards and waved them forward, just as Schuyler had pictured.

Schuyler exhaled. She and Oliver exchanged a restrained look of glee.

They were inside.

Right next door to The Bank was a very different kind of Manhattan nightclub. It was the kind of nightclub that existed only once every decade—at a point in the social nexus when the gods of publicity, fashion, and celebrity converged to create a singularly spectacular environment. Following in the hallowed tradition of mid- 70s Studio 54, late- 80s Palladium, and early- 90s Moomba, Block 122 had entered an iconic realm that defined a movement, a lifestyle, a generation. A cocktail-combo clientele of the city's most beautiful, envied, notorious, and all-powerful citizens had christened it their place to be—their natural habitat, their watering hole—and since it was the twenty-first century, the era of super-exclusivity, they even paid astronomical membership dues for the privilege. Anything to keep out the hoi polloi. And inside this blessed sanctuary, at the most sought-after table, surrounded by a glittering assortment of underage models, post-pubescent movie stars, and the sons and daughters of boldfaced names, sat the most gorgeous girl in the history of New York City: Madeleine «Mimi» Force. Sixteen years old going on thirty-four, with a shot of Botox between the eyes to prove it.

Mimi was popularity personified. She had the golden-girl good looks and tanned, Pilates-toned limbs that came with the Queen Bee position—but she transcended the stereotype while embodying the essence of it. She had a size twenty-two waist and a size ten shoe. She ate junk food every day and never gained an ounce. She went to bed with all her makeup on and woke up with a clear, unblemished complexion, just like her conscience.

Mimi came to Block 122 every night, and Friday was no exception. She and Bliss Llewellyn, a tall, rangy Texan who'd recently transferred to Duchesne, had spent the afternoon primping for the evening's festivities. Or rather, Bliss had spent the afternoon sitting by the side of the bed making complimentary noises while Mimi tried on everything in her wardrobe. They'd settled on a sexy-but-in-an-off-beat-bohemian-way-with-straps-just-falling-off-the-shoulder-just-so-Marni camisole, a tiny denim Earnest Sewn miniskirt, and a sparkly Rick Owens cashmere wrap. Mimi liked to travel with an entourage, and in Bliss she'd found a suitable companion. She'd befriended Bliss solely at her father's request, since Senator Llewellyn was an important colleague. At first Mimi had chafed at the directive, but she changed her mind when she realized Bliss's equine good looks complemented and emphasized her own ethereal beauty. Mimi loved nothing more than a suitable backdrop. Leaning against the stuffed cushions, she glanced at Bliss approvingly.

"Cheers," Bliss said, clinking her glass against Mimi's, as if she'd read her mind.

"To us." Mimi nodded, chugging the last of her luminescent purple cocktail. It was her fifth of the evening, and yet she felt as sober as when she'd ordered the first one. It was depressing how much longer it took to get drunk now. Almost as if alcohol didn't have any effect on her bloodstream. The Committee had told her it would happen—she just hadn't wanted to believe it back then. Especially since she wasn't supposed to avail herself of the other, more potent alternative as often as she'd have liked. The Committee had too many rules. At this point they were practically running her life. She impatiently signaled to the waitress to bring another round, snapping her fingers so hard it almost shattered the glass coffee table in front of her.

What was the point of going out in New York if you couldn't even get a little buzzed? She stretched out her legs and lay them languidly across the couch, her feet resting on her twin brother's lap. Her date, the nineteen-year-old heir to a pharmaceutical fortune and a current investor in the nightclub, pretended not to notice. Although it would be hard to say if he was even conscious, as he was currently leaning on Mimi's shoulder and drooling.

"Quit it," Benjamin Force snapped, brusquely pushing her off. The two of them shared the same pale, platinum blond hair, the same creamy, translucent skin, the same hooded green eyes, and the same long, slender limbs. But they couldn't have been more different in temperament. Mimi was loquacious and playful, while Benjamin—nicknamed Blackjack in childhood because of his tantrums, and shortened to Jack in adolescence—was taciturn and observant.

Mimi and Jack were the only children of Charles Force, the sixty-year-old, steely-haired media magnate who owned an upstart television network, a cable news channel, a popular newspaper tabloid, several radio stations, and a successful publishing empire that made profits from autobiographies of World Wrestling Federation stars. His wife, the former Trinity Burden, was a doyenne of the New York society circuit, and chaired the most prestigious charity committees. She was instrumental in the foundation of The Committee, of which Jack and Mimi were junior members. The Forces lived in one of the most sought-after addresses in the city, a luxurious, well-appointed townhouse that covered an entire block across from the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

"Oh c'mon," Mimi pouted, immediately placing her feet back on her brother's lap. "I need to stretch my legs. They're so sore. Feel," she demanded, grabbing a sinewy calf and asking him to feel the muscle tense underneath. Strip Cardio was a bitch on the joints.

Jack frowned. "I said quit it," he murmured in his serious voice, and Mimi immediately retracted her tanned legs, tucking them beneath her butt and letting the undersoles of her four-inch Alaia heels scrape against the white suede couch, leaving dirty scratch marks on the immaculate cushion.

"What's wrong with you?" Mimi asked. Her brother had arrived in a foul mood just a minute ago. "Thirsty?" she taunted. Her brother was such a party pooper lately. He hardly ever went to Committee meetings anymore, something their parents would freak out about if they ever found out. He wasn't dating anyone; he looked weak and spent, and he was undeniably cranky. Mimi wondered when the last time was that he had had any.

Jack shrugged and stood up. "I'm going out to get some air."

"Good idea," Bliss added, rising in a hurry. "I need a smoke," she explained apologetically, waving a pack of cigarettes in front of Mimi's face.