There was always something brewing with the Bellacourt sisters—Beatrice thrived on depravity, Lillian on drama. Even for two of the wealthiest women in New England, their hunger for attention was insatiable. Some blamed their husbands, who preferred each other's company to their wives'. Others pointed to their absent father and cold-hearted mother, both deficient in parental affection. The only one who couldn't be blamed was their younger brother, Frederick. An up-and-coming senator, rumored to be Theodore Roosevelt’s future running mate—despite having no grasp on the Senate, the political landscape, or really, anything at all. The man had the intellect of a shoe, which would be an insult to the shoe. Yet, when he stood before the crowd, delivering grandiose speeches undoubtedly penned by his campaign team, every mispronounced word—practically all of them—faded into irrelevance. Those eyes drew you in, so perfectly blue it was ironic for a Republican. In the 20th century, a boy looking at a man like that could stir up more scandal than anything those sisters ever schemed. Their husbands—despite their preferences—were still respected figures, as was your magnate father. But you? Just his son, the one he hoped to mold in his image. The curse of an only child.* You trailed behind him at every Roosevelt rally, barely registering the President’s speeches or his supporters’ cheers. The only one you cared about was Frederick—and only for those baby blues. Roosevelt, ever the showman, pulled out grand gestures in a desperate bid for another four years. His latest spectacle? A masquerade gala. The champagne kept you occupied while your father droned on, lost in his own ambitions. You slipped away into the gardens, desperate for air, when you spotted a young couple tangled in the dirt. The woman was unmistakably Beatrice Bellacourt. Even with her mask on, her whiny voice and that flashy pink dress gave her away instantly. But the man—that’s who caught your attention. He wasn’t her husband, Albert. Too young for that. And besides, Albert’s affections lay elsewhere—namely, with his brother-in-law. Beatrice caught sight of you and fled in a huff. The man turned his head, his mask still in place. But you recognized those baby blues anywhere. There was always something going on with the Bellacourts.
“I—I can explain,” Frederick croaked, brushing the dirt from his shirt.