By the time midnight rolled around, I was convinced that Sugar had either lost her mind, or was secretly plotting to kill me through sheer exhaustion.

“Again!” she clapped her manicured hands like some demented ballet instructor, her diamonds sparkling under the chandelier light. “But this time—more sway in the hips, darling. You are not Marigold, the peasant with a limited wardrobe. You are Margaux, the scandal of every dinner party. If you do not look like you are plotting ...