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resentment to her ever-growing armoury.
    New parenthood wasn’t the Rasmirezes’ only problem. Despite yearning for a fresh start, Dorian had misgivings about the move back to his homeland. Romania had been his father’s dream, never his. And while he felt a sense of duty (and curiosity) about his ancestral home, unlike Chrissie, Dorian enjoyed his life in LA, and did not relish leaving it. If he was going to continue working, he’d have to get used to a gruelling transatlantic commute. The thought of having to spend time away from Chrissie made his chest tighten painfully with anxiety. But if it saved the marriage, it would all be worth it. He owed it to his father and Chrissie to go back.
    Though she would rather die than admit it now, Chrissie had been very enthusiastic about the idea at first. Transylvania! Even the word sounded romantic. From what Dorian had told her, the house – castle! – was stuffed with wealth beyond even her wildest imagination: hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of antique crap. Apparently, the Romanian government had some ridiculous rules about all the treasures having to stay in the country, but a good American lawyer would find them a way around all that old-world baloney. If she could no longer enjoy fame in her own right, Chrissie could at least experience the thrill of being European royalty and joining the ranks of the super-rich. Plus, domestic help would be super-cheap over there, so she could have nannies and housekeepers up the wazoo. She would be Queen of the Castle, ordering around a fleet of servants, and go to bed at night draped in emeralds that had once belonged to Catherine the Great. Not bad for a little girl from the valley. Who knew, maybe she’d even think about trying for a second baby, and giving Dorian the son he so obviously still wanted.
    Needless to say, it had not worked out like that. Almost from day one, Chrissie loathed Romania. The Schloss was as palatial as she could have wished it, the staff as slavishly obsequious, the emeralds as big and heavy as golf balls. But there was nothing to do. No one to see. Sure, the scenery was breathtaking, as lush and green and spectacular as a still from Shrek. Little Saskia was entranced by the Transylvanian landscape, with its wide, fast-flowing rivers, brooding pine forests and romantic, snow-topped mountains that ringed the castle like mythical, protective giants. ‘Polar Express!’ she would squeal excitedly every time they drove into town, pointing to the snow-tipped Carpathian Mountains with barely contained rapture. But her mother failed to share her enthusiasm. What use was it, ruling your own fantasy kingdom, if you couldn’t go out to Cecconi’s on a Friday night and boast about it to your friends?
    Within weeks of their arrival, Chrissie’s boredom was fermenting into resentment. It was all Dorian’s fault, for dragging her here. He was punishing her for her affair by immuring her and Saskia in this gilded prison, while he jetted off to enjoy their old life back in LA, which from eight thousand miles away no longer seemed so terrible. She, Chrissie, had sacrificed her career for her husband, and what did she get in return? Neglect. Abandonment. Using the only weapon left available to her, she did a 180-degree about-face on a second baby, point-blank refusing to even contemplate another pregnancy until Dorian ‘sold this dump’ and moved them back home to spend the proceeds. No amount of explanation by Dorian would convince her that this was both a practical and legal impossibility; that the Schloss was theirs to enjoy, but not theirs to sell.
    Moreover, unbeknownst to Chrissie, their finances back in the States were in fact in increasingly dire straits. Dorian’s last film, the exquisitely shot but hugely over-budget war movie, Sixteen Nights , had been a major critical success. But it was box-office receipts that paid the mortgage on Dorian and Chrissie’s Holmby Hills mansion and the upkeep on