A hard-working teen hoping to land a college scholarship and a nepo baby looking to prove herself collide at the world’s most high-profile debutante ball in Paris in this young adult romance perfect for fans of American Royals and Better Than the Movies.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Alexandra Brown Chang’s By Invitation Only, which releases on September 2nd 2025.
Every year, a hand-selected group of young women travel to Paris to make their debuts into high society at La Danse des Débutantes, the most exclusive debutante ball in the world. Being wealthy, royal, or famous gets you into the pool of potential debutantes, but only La Danse decides who is truly worthy of attending.
Chapin Buckingham, the daughter of two Hollywood legends, is one of the lucky few chosen to attend. Chapin’s not usually a society girl, but she has her reasons for wanting to be crowned Debutante of the Year. Her chances seem good…until a fellow debutante creates a PR nightmare that has the eat-the-rich cohort calling for La Danse’s cancellation.
Enter Piper Woo Collins. As the daughter of an EMT and winner of the International Science Fair Prize with a profile in Teen Vogue, Piper is the perfect, down-to-earth person who could restore La Danse’s reputation. But Piper isn’t interested in becoming a debutante—until they offer her a college scholarship…if she wins Debutante of the Year.
In competition for the crown, Piper and Chapin have every reason to clash. But at La Danse, everyone wants something. Piper and Chapin might just need each other to go from pawns in a game to ruling the board…
I hold up the invitation, stunned. Seb snatches it out of my hands.
“Piper, is this a joke?”
I’m too dazed to reply.
“This is insane,” Seb says, practically hyperventilating. “It’s La Danse. You’re going to la fucking danse!”
I examine the invitation once again. I notice a small, handwritten note stuck inside the envelope. I pull it out and read it to Seb:
Piper, we are beyond thrilled to invite you. Congratulations on your scientific achievements. You are an inspiration to girls everywhere.
Sincerely,
Bardot Sinclair
Amélie Bouchon Communications
A phone number is listed at the bottom.
“Bardot Sinclair. That sounds fancy.”
“It does!” Seb replies gleefully. “It all does!”
“How is this possible?” I ask, still dazed. “Why would they pick me, out of all the high school seniors in the world? The farthest I’ve ever traveled is Toronto.”
“The polymer! The International Science Fair prize! Teen Vogue! Who cares? I’m so excited for you!” Seb yells. “And for me. Imagine the clout I’m gonna get from this. Caleb is so gonna regret rejecting my promposal.”
I pull out a second piece of card stock from the envelope. It lists the debutantes set to make their societal debuts at La Danse.
This is overwhelming. “They already wrote my name in. See?” I point. “Right under Imogen Wang. That’s me.”
“Ooh, Imogen Wang,” Seb said. “Her parents founded the biggest telecommunications firm in China.”
“How do you know this stuff?”
“TikTok. Obviously.”
I stare at the cards. “You don’t think it’s a little presumptuous? How do they know I’m free next week? What if I have plans?”
“To do what? Go to Costco?”
“I have school!”
“For La Danse, you skip it. Besides, Piper, you have to go. Making your debut at La Danse is literally once in a lifetime. It’s once in a billion lifetimes. Nobody gets to experience this.”
I push the cards away, suddenly feeling repulsed. “Why would any girl want to be paraded around like a piece of meat? Even the British royal family canceled debutante balls. It’s weird!”
“You gotta get over that,” Seb declares. “This isn’t some Jane Austen marriage market, with rich bachelors plucking middle-class girls out of obscurity. These chicks wear Cartier like it’s Claire’s—no offense.”
“None taken,” I mutter.
“It’s about fashion and fun and partying in Paris! And making new friends! And dancing!”
“I’m a terrible dancer.”
He reverses course. “Or maybe it’s not about dancing!” Seb looks increasingly desperate. “Do it for me? You know I live for this high-society shit.”
“I drive a Toyota. They own Toyota. People like these have yacht captains on speed dial. We don’t mix. This is not my scene.”
“How do you know something’s not for you until you try it?”
“What if I have to curtsy? I’d fall flat on my face.”
“Sure, sure. Counterpoint: You meet a prince from a country that no longer technically has a royal family, and you become a princess in exile. I’m just saying.”
“I thought this wasn’t a marriage market.”
“Can I help it if a gorgeous prince falls head over heels for your wit and charm and Mensa-level genius?”
We explode into giggles. Seb grabs the cards, and we retreat for the couch again, collapsing onto the cushions.
“I wouldn’t even know what to do at La Danse,” I admit, letting my guard down. I pull a blanket around me, self-protective.
“You’ll figure it out. You can take classes or whatever.”
“Classes?” I quip. “Should I go on Yelp and search ‘Debutante class for billionaires near me’?”
He laughs. “I meant in Paris. Just go and learn on the fly!”
I pause for a moment, thinking this through—I would have the opportunity to visit Paris and travel outside North America for the first time. That wouldn’t be the worst thing. . . .
But what if I fail? What if everybody laughs at me? What if the girls all band together and reject me like an impermeable cellular membrane, keeping me out, unable to penetrate their circle of friendship?
He studies my face. “Oh. I get it.”
“Get what?”
“You’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
He nods, sympathetic. “You know what, you’re right. Tell them you need to work a double shift at Claire’s that weekend.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re trying to reverse-psychology me.”
“I’m not!” he says innocently. “I’m being mindful of my best friend’s mental health. You should decline. Put it behind you and definitely don’t wonder what magical experiences you missed or think about it ever again. Two roads diverged and all.”
“Okay.” I pick up the card. “There’s a phone number at the bottom.”
“Just do it. Rip off the Band-Aid. Tell them you decline.”
“Maybe I will,” I say, ready to call his bluff.
Seb’s bravado wavers as I begin dialing France. “Or maybe you hear her out, you know?” he says in a rush.
I laugh, hanging up. “So you were trying to reverse-psychology me.”
“Piper, you are the bravest, coolest girl I know. You’ve been working your ass off for years, and you’ve had a real shit run of luck. You deserve this. Go to Paris, party for a week, and have fun. Please.”
Seb is as serious as a heart attack. Tears come to my eyes. He’s right: It’s been an especially grim several years. My mom’s breast cancer . . . our family’s tight finances after her death . . . the college-application grind. I try to stay cheerful and press forward, but it’s been a lot. Before Mom died, I felt as if I was in control of everything. Work hard, study hard, reap rewards.
But since losing her, I feel like I’ve been spinning plates, desperately trying to keep control of the uncontrollable.
“Hey,” he whispers, wiping my tears away. “Don’t cry. Crying will age you. And then you’ll need to waste your minuscule college-scholarship money on preventative Botox in your twenties.”
I start laughing through the tears. “Get out of here, you weirdo.”
He stands up and gives me a big hug. “Promise me you won’t call Brigitte Bardot back until after you spend all night maniacally googling how your life is about to explode into unicorn goodness, okay?”
After Seb leaves, I can’t stop staring at the envelope.
I’m not a very dramatic person. I’m sensible ol’ Piper. Dependable. Sturdy.
But I can’t help feeling like this is about to change everything.
