Chapter One

The sudden light disorients me when the blinds are raised to let the sun flood into the colossal room. I groan, hiding my face deeper underneath the pillow. Last night was such a blast that I couldn’t remember anything about it. But at least I have the vodka to blame for that, right?

“Wake up, Your Highness.”

Despite being half-dead, half-asleep, I couldn’t help but smirk. I’m not really a royalty. But on second thought, maybe I am—a royal pain in the ass.

A pair of hands grabs my feet and tugs on them, trying to pull me from the queen-size bed.

“Stop it, Kat,” I say to my friend and personal assistant, Katrin Allen, my voice muffled by the fluffy pillow. I pull the quilt over my head and plant myself firmly on the bed.

“You have to get up now. Zette will have a heart attack if you arrive late for the interview today. Remember, you still have to make up for what you did to the poor intern last week,” she badgers incessantly, desperately pulling at my feet.

“Shut up,” I complain. I’m almost certain that if I stand up, the frigging hangover would haunt me for the rest of the day. A supermodel needs a day off, too! My bloodshot eyes fly open when I feel my body sliding off the bed in an alarming rate and before I know it, I slam down the carpeted floor.

I shoot Katrin a murderous look with my emerald eyes. My raven hair tumbles behind my back in a messy tangle, like a bird’s nest.

“Kat,” I sigh dramatically, “you’ve been with me for years. How come you still don’t realize that waking me up in the morning is mission impossible?”

“Yet I did wake you.” The auburn-haired girl smirks. She walks over to me and sits at the foot of the bed.

“You call this waking me up? This is harassment! I would sue you if you’re not my best friend.” Pouting, I ease from the floor and throw myself back to bed, rumpling the sheets more. I let out a sigh as I brace for the incoming wave of hangover.

“So, how was the party? Did Tim Michaels finally make a move on you?” An image of the ash blonde business man flashes in my mind. I cringe in disgust.

“When did he not make a move? Every time I see him, he either wants to jump me or kiss me,” I scoff. Tim Michaels is my father’s youngest associate and my obsessive suitor who’s been trying to court me even before I became famous. He thinks he’s the only man in the world who deserves my affection.

“Why do you even hate him?” Katrin stands up and pulls me from the bed. “He’s super rich, very nice, and every girl wants to get in his pants every time he’s in public. You’re so lucky he’s only got his hazel eyes on you.”

I stare at her before speaking. “Want me to tell him to court you instead?”

“What?” Katrin eyes me warily. She steadies me when I almost topple back to the floor. “I’m already dating someone.”

“I still think you’re too good for Randall.” I swat Katrin’s hand away and I stretch like a panther ready to pounce. My black nightgown spills over my long, slender legs. I pause in front of the wall-sized mirror—yes, that’s how vain I am—to get a good view of my perfection.

“Oh, come on. He’s really nice, okay. He drives me around, takes me to nice places… and he’s a great listener.” Katrin’s voice becomes a note higher as she talks about her British boyfriend.

“Whatever. Men are still shit to me.” I puff my black hair and pose in front of the mirror. I couldn’t help but smirk. Half the guys in the whole world wants to be my boyfriend and half the girls are pissed because they are not me. Is that my fault? I was born perfect.

I have made a name for myself in less than a year since I graduated from my Fashion Design course. When I did a short TV commercial for Helterground, word started to spread like wildfire that the daughter of the fourth richest man in America could be the next face on the magazines. I didn’t have to join America’s Next Top Model to get a modeling contract—hell, Vogue gave me one right after seeing me in person. After setting up my first billboard, every magazine company based in New York flocked to my doorstep. But that didn’t stop me.

I convinced my father to let me create a signature line that would change the world of fashion. Fallen Grace was born.

“Having a little history lesson to yourself?” Katrin asks, walking over to me. I smile then groan. The hangover is sinking into my system and it’s the least I want right now. I tumble to the bathroom and barely make it out to the marble sink. I splash cold water on my face and neck, scrubbing away my make-up from last night’s party. I unhook my nightgown and set my right foot on the polished ivory tub, revealing perfectly tanned legs—thanks to the supply of tan spray I always keep in the closet.

“Whose party was it anyway?” Katrin asks curiously, stepping into the bathroom and checking herself in the gold-plated mirror mounted right above the sink.

“Miranda Johnson,” I answer, pertaining to the Victoria’s Secret Angel who announced her engagement last night. I put more pressure on the towel as I rub my legs. When I’m finally done, the soft white skin is revealed. I straighten up and massage my temples, cursing myself for carelessly drinking last night.

“Hurry up. The interview is in two hours and we need to prep you up for the media.” Katrin gives me a knowing glance and steps out of the bathroom. I let out another sigh and open the medicine cabinet. I take some Tylenol and down them in one long gulp. After making sure that I’d scrubbed away all the tan on my skin, I face myself once again in the mirror and smirk. Huh. Even with a bad hangover and uncombed hair, I still look fabulous.

I want to laugh out oud. I got my perfection from my parents; the ivory skin and black hair from mother, the strong features from father. But the fire in my bright green eyes is mine alone.

I fiercely brush my teeth, removing any aftertaste of Grey Goose that has my head screaming for more painkiller. Then I slip out of the bathroom to change. My walk-in closet is the size of my bedroom, where four tall double-door cabinets occupy the walls: one for the coats, one for the dresses, one for the tops, and the last one for the jeans and skirts. Their double-doors are inlaid with full-length mirrors and outlined with small light bulbs for illumination. Each cabinet has one shelf for my footwear and the last two for my bags. At the center of the brightly-lit room is a Queen Sleeper sofa bed with stoked ebony upholster that I bought three years ago when I first received payment from Vogue. The floor is carpeted, and the entire ceiling is filled with low-hanging chandeliers for more light.

Opening my cabinet, I pick out a simple but elegant white watercolor pencil dress that extends just below my knees. I know it perfectly suits my slender body and the pair of bright red Jimmy Choo pumps suits my slender legs that girls would die for. I let my long black hair fall loosely on my back and I run my fingers through the strands to fix the tangles from my sleep. When I’m finally ready, I meet with Katrin in the living room.

“No make-up?” she asks, closing her white MacBook. She stands up from the plush sofa and dusts her yellow cotton dress off.

“Fans love it when they see me like this. Is the car ready?” I grab my Luis Vuitton monogram multicolor bag from the cream ottoman and check myself in the mirror once more.

There. Just so damn beautiful.

“There are people from the media who are waiting in front of the mansion. Would you like the security to move them outside the gates?”

“No, no. Tell Joseph to take the car to the front.”

“He’s already there. You don’t have to stop and answer all the questions. Just walk slowly, answer a few, and walk right to the car and then we can take off, all right? Are you sure you can do this?”

I smile gently at my best friend. “Don’t worry, I’ll manage.”

I wear my most natural smile and walk in long strides toward the huge mahogany doors of the Woods mansion. The moment I step outside, the press shuffles forward, hoping to get to me first to ask for instant gossip. The security forms a tight line around me as I reach the bottom flight of the veranda. Microphones from different TV networks appear in front of me, the reporters throwing indistinct questions ranging from my love life to my sex life. A short, nauseous feeling passes over me and my smile breaks for a second, but Katrin pats my arm reassuringly.

“If we are all patient, then I can promise to answer your questions,” I say politely, making sure my fierce green eyes are looking directly into the cameras.

“Who are you dating right now, Lucy?” a petite reporter asks when silence descends.

“My schedule is very tight. I have no time to date anyone.” I keep smiling.

“What about Tim Michaels? You were pretty cozy last night at Miranda Johnson’s engagement party.”

“We were just hanging out. Tim and I are good friends.” I hope the sarcasm in my voice isn’t too obvious. The reporter compulsively scribbles on her notes and another one speaks up.

“What happens when your career suddenly falls? Any plans of settling down?” A bullet-headed guy in white shirt thrusts the mic at me, daring me to answer. I pretend to look shocked for moment then I break into a soft, condescending smile.

“Darling, nothing, no one will ever break me—not even the president or Queen Elizabeth. I’m Lucy Woods. Nothing can take me down.”