ELLA

Devlin parks in a reserved spot that materializes out of nowhere, kills the engine, and warns, “You don’t know what you’re asking for, princess.”

“Oh, please. I’m a DiLaurentis.” I roll my eyes as the car comes to a slow halt.

I can’t say I am not anxious. Won’t show it though.

I wave a dismissive hand, swiftly undoing my seatbelt.

“I’ve seen worse at fashion week afterparties. Besides, after today’s little display of family values, I think I deserve a drink. ...