Forty-Seven:
Prince Marlowe
There was nothing more frightening then Margot Miller’s withering stare. I had learned, over the years, that nothing good could come from it. “You’re giving up?” she said. The two of us were sitting on a leather couch in the back of a VIP lounge of a club that I couldn’t even remember the name of.
Henry was off dancing with random girls, and Jude who had weaseled his way in.
Quentin and Astrid were trying to have a conversation over the loud, pulsating music, while Daisy had disappeared off with an American actor from some teen show who was on the cover of Teen Vogue recently.
“Yes, I’m giving up,” I said.
She took a sip of the martini she had in her hand. We were all underage, but the thing
