By Invitation Only

by Alexandra Brown Chang Narrated by Ferdelle Capistrano, Jade Wheeler

Overview

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.

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...

Editorial Reviews

Krystal Marquis

A funny and fast-paced YA contemporary set against the backdrop of an elite competition. Chapin and Piper redefine what it means to be young ladies of consequence.

Becky Chalsen

Alexandra Brown Chang’s By Invitation Only is an instant classic! A fairytale for our modern times, Chang’s debut is a charming coming-of-age story about unexpected friendship, following your dreams, and finding your voice along the way. Escapist, emotive, and exceptionally easy-to-inhale, By Invitation Only is one of those books that’s instantly impossible to put down! Chang’s prose sparkles on the page as she vividly captures her protagonists Piper and Chapin, two debutantes who couldn’t be more different, and takes the reader on a pitch-perfect journey of growth and discovery, all set against a remarkably resplendent Paris. I want to read this again and again.

Karen McCullah

I loved spending a week in Paris with these badass debutantes. A modern and empowering spin on a century-old tradition.

Christian Siriano

Dazzling and cinematic, By Invitation Only offers an exquisitely fun look into the worlds of high society and haute couture. A love letter to fashion, this novel is escapist, witty, and delightful!

Lynn Painter

This book blew me away! The sumptuous Parisian setting, the glorious fashion, the fish-out-of-water moments; it was utterly unputdownable. Gossip Girl meets The Princess Diaries in this stunning debut, and I already miss Piper and Chapin. An absolute fairy tale!

Joe Zee

This book is pure fashion fantasy: runway-worthy gowns, Parisian glamour, and the kind of high-stakes drama you’d expect backstage at a couture show. But what really stole my heart? A heroine who’s smart, grounded, and unapologetic enough to outshine even the chandeliers at the Ritz. I devoured every stylish, swoony moment.

Abigail Hing Wen

"A dazzling blend of humor, opulence, and heart, following brilliant and beautiful young women as they navigate ambition, romance and family in a high-stakes world—exactly my kind of story.

Heather Hach Hearne

RSVP immediately to By Invitation Only! Alexandra Brown Chang’s debut novel is teeming with charm, glitz, romance and humor. It is a true confection, but it also has much to say about class structure and privilege.

Emiko Jean

An electric blend of humor, heart, and glamour with Paris as the backdrop, By Invitation Only is the perfect fall book for readers craving romance, friendship, and an escape. RSVP now!

Alexa Donne

A decadent dessert of a book: frothy and fun, with a heapful of heart. In this zingy, swoony affair, Chang offers a glimpse into the world of the mega-rich and famous with scintillating detail and lancing wit. An exciting new voice to watch in YA.

— Abigail Hing Wen

"A dazzling blend of humor, opulence, and heart, following brilliant and beautiful young women as they navigate ambition, romance and family in a high-stakes world—exactly my kind of story.

Kirkus Reviews

2025-07-19
Teens navigate the twists and turns of a weeklong high-fashion fete in Paris.

Piper Woo Collins has a loving dad, won an international science fair, and was accepted to Columbia University, where she dreams of studying environmental science—if her scholarship is reinstated. Chapin Buckingham has a famous actor mom and a rock star dad; she was wait-listed by Columbia. Both girls need a win. Enter La Danse des Débutantes, “the teenage Met Gala,” and the answer to their problems. La Danse promises to fund Piper’s scholarship in return for her being their “Cinderella story,” while Chapin sees a chance to win Deb of the Year—which would please her critical mother and bring her out of the shadow of her perfect brother, Dalton. But nothing goes as expected: Chapin must room with Piper, whose natural charm draws the attention Chapin craves. Piper struggles to fit in and secure her scholarship, manage her feelings about living her late mother’s unfulfilled Paris dreams, and avoid falling for Dalton. This addictive coming-of-age debut with a splash of drama pays homage to the artistry of fashion while tackling the age-old question of whether to live for yourself or others. The portrayal of the girls feels uneven (Piper seems endlessly good while Chapin’s flaws are on full display), but both are likable characters who are easy to root for. Piper is described as “Asian American”; her surname may imply some non-Asian ancestry. Chapin reads white.

A treat from start to finish. (playlist)(Fiction. 13-18)

Product Details

BN ID:	2940194119196
Publisher:	Simon & Schuster
Publication date:	09/02/2025
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One CHAPTER ONE
Piper

King of Prussia, Pennsylvania

I scroll through the Teen Vogue article. Wow. I sound impressive. Too bad it’s an exaggeration.

Plus: The fawning article fails to mention that I spent my entire afternoon piercing the ears of surly middle schoolers at Claire’s. Sure, biodegradable orange-peel polymers are thrilling and all, but you haven’t really lived until you’ve sliced and diced the lobes of fidgety, Snapchatting twelve-year-olds.

“Earth to Piper,” Seb says, snapping me out of my daze. I put down my phone. We’re in my living room, snacking on popcorn and watching My Best Friend’s Wedding for the millionth time. “You look more miserable than Ben Affleck at an awards show.” He points at my screen. “This is a huge deal. Teen freaking Vogue!”

I don’t want to burst his bubble. Seb is looking at me with such love and pride that even a stranger could probably tell we’ve been BFFs since middle school. So despite the fact I’ve been drowning in misery for the past day, I can’t keep this secret any longer.

“I have to tell you something not great,” I blurt out.

“You’re having Timothée Chalamet’s baby.”

“I said not great.”

He nods knowingly. “Ezra Miller’s baby.”

“I was awake till two a.m. last night tinkering with polymers while watching nineties rom-coms. Do I seem like I’m getting some celebrity strange?”

Seb laughs, and I briefly forget the pangs in my chest that have been plaguing me ever since I got the call yesterday.

“My scholarship has been revoked,” I confess. It hurts to say the words out loud. “I’m not going to Columbia.”

Seb slams his bag of Sour Patch Kids on the coffee table. Sugar flies everywhere.

“Unacceptable. You’ve been dreaming of Columbia forever. What the hell happened?”

I catch him up. “Remember how I won that huge grant that covered like sixty percent of my tuition because my research impressed somebody who owns half the planet?”

“Yeah, the microchip dude. Or, wait, was it the space-tourism guy?”

“Different billionaire. Hedge funder who funds scientific endeavors.”

“Potato, potahto. All rich people are literally interchangeable. Except Oprah. And TSwift.”

“Apparently, the university revoked his son’s fraternity charter and kicked them out of their house on 114th Street.”

“And Fratty McCanceled is your problem because...?”

“Because he was so pissed that he’s pulling all funding in protest until the current president steps down.”

Seb looks scandalized. “That’s outrageous! Like, be normal and write a strongly worded letter to the dean. Don’t punish poor kids who can’t afford it.”

I shrug, feeling despondent all over again. “I got a call from the bursar’s office yesterday. ‘Circumstances change, we extend our sincerest regrets, blah blah blah.’ The woman who called me was mortified.”

“But not mortified enough to cough up the extra 50K they promised you.”

“I guess not.”

“Does your dad know yet?”

“No.” I shake my head miserably. My dad is an EMT who pulls long shifts to give us a better life. He was so proud when I accepted Columbia’s offer. “He’s gonna be devastated.”

“Deep breaths. We can figure this out.” Seb stands up and starts pacing around the living room. As he does, I notice an alert on his phone: SCANDAL: STOREY RICCI EXPOSED! Storey’s tearful face fills his phone screen in miniature—somehow, even while crying, the world’s highest-paid teen model looks better than 99 percent of eighteen-year-olds on the planet. “There has to be some way for you to make up the difference.”

I shake my head. “Short of selling an organ on the black market, it’s not happening. First semester’s tuition is almost due.”

“So that’s it? Presto chango, college bye-bye? You’re national news for getting into every Ivy League school and now you’re just... giving up? That is not the Piper Woo Collins I know.”

I try not to feel sorry for myself. “I’m not giving up on college. I just don’t have any scholarship options left—they all disappeared after I committed to Columbia. I should have taken the full ride to Cornell.”

“But it’s not Columbia.”

“It’s not Columbia,” I affirm.

We both stare at Julia Roberts on the TV, depressed. Seb sits back down and wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry, Pipes. You worked harder than anybody. You don’t deserve this.”

I hug him back but don’t say anything. Instead I point to the Storey Ricci headline on his phone to distract myself. “Wait, what did she do?”

Seb grabs his phone and opens the article. There’s a photo of her being led out of a Sephora in handcuffs. “Looks like... okay... wow. She stole eyeshadow? But she’s got her own makeup line!”

He mutes Julia, then clicks onto a gossip page, and we huddle over the phone together. A glossy reporter in high heels addresses the camera soberly, as if reporting from a war zone. “Since we first broke news of Storey’s arrest this morning, she’s released an apology video on Instagram. The video has created quite the stir, with over ten million likes.” Storey’s glowing face takes over the screen.

“I would like to apologize first and foremost to the House of Dior,” Storey says as a lone tear slides down her poreless cheek. “Being the face of Dior is the honor of a lifetime, and this transgression does not reflect who I am. I didn’t want to be seen buying products from a competitor, so I had a momentary lapse in judgment that I immediately regretted. I want everybody to know that I value nothing more than diversity, equity, inclusion, and a business’s right to detain shoplifters.” Storey takes a tremulous sigh, as if to center herself. “Finally, to my adoring fans, I adore you even more. Thank you for your support, and I look forward to seeing you outside the Ritz Paris for La Danse des Débutantes, where I will be happy to sign autographs. Love to you all.”

“What a bunch of useless buzzwords,” I say, tossing my phone. “Anybody who says they love DEI definitely doesn’t have any of it in their own life. She just doesn’t want to get canceled. And what’s this Danse des Débutantes thing?”

Seb gasps as if I’ve scalded him. “How are we best friends? You cannot call La Danse des Débutantes a thing. It is the primo debutante ball. It is a debutante ball on steroids. It is the ne plus ultra of debutante balls.”

“AP Latin for the win,” I joke. “Okay, it’s fancy. I get it.”

Seb clutches me by the hands. “Piper, you so do not. La Danse is a once-in-a-lifetime event. People would die to be invited. Paris! Couture! Celebrities!”

“Archaic! Elitist! Horrifying!” I shoot back.

Seb drops my hands, looking grumpy. “There’s nothing wrong with a little fashion diversion in this ongoing hellscape. Besides, La Danse is very into charity these days. They don’t only select poor little rich girls.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “They select poor little rich girls who give back.”

We share a giggle.

“Why are you so obsessed with La Danse?” I ask.

“Because of the insane opulence,” Seb says. “La Danse is the last throwback to a golden era—”

“Where only straight cis white dudes had rights?”

“Where glamour still meant something! The gowns these girls wear put the Oscars to shame. It makes the Met Gala look like a middle school Halloween party.”

He shoves his phone into my face. I catch the hashtag he’s searched: #LaDanse. It has scores of videos with millions of views.

“So it’s not just you into this?”

“Oh please. Trying to cancel La Danse is so boring. When you find out about it, how could you not be obsessed?”

“Welcome to La Danse,” a girl intones, before images quickly flash, displaying snippets of impossibly gorgeous teenagers in impossibly expensive gowns. They pose in front of luxury cars, try on diamond necklaces, sip from gold-leaf lattes in ornate sitting rooms. I spy some familiar faces: mostly a few recognizable nepo babies who followed in their parents’ footsteps and are now actresses, singers, or models themselves.

“For the past seventy-two years, top French fashion houses, including Dior, Chanel, and Givenchy, have competed to dress young women making their societal debuts,” the TikToker expertly narrates. “Widely known as the teenage Met Gala, and listed by Forbes as one of the ten hottest parties of the year, La Danse hosts sixteen debutantes from around the globe every year in Paris.”

Despite my deep disdain for the very concept of a debutante ball, the glamour is admittedly seductive. I stare as the images flash by, wondering what it must be like to have access to so much luxury... so much privilege... so much money.

I couldn’t be prouder of my dad, but for a fleeting, disloyal moment, I think: Oh, to care solely about which couture gown to be photographed in, not how to finance your entire future.

“Okay, so if they’re all exclusive and into giving back”—I stifle a snicker—“why is Storey Ricci still invited?”

“I mean. She’s Storey Ricci. I doubt the La Danse people even care. They’re Teflon.”

Suddenly there’s an aggressive knock-knock-knock at the door. Seb and I look at each other, frozen. The only thing worse than somebody calling instead of texting is somebody stopping by in person unannounced. I swing open the front door, confused by the sight greeting me in our apartment’s hallway.

The delivery guy looks like he walked straight out of Halloween City, the discount costume store at the King of Prussia Mall. Upon closer inspection of this guy’s attire—a classic footman’s outfit that makes him resemble an extra from the live-action Cinderella—I feel severely underdressed in my black camo leggings and pink Champion hoodie. This man takes Oscar Wilde’s quote “You can never be overdressed or overeducated” to a new extreme. He hoists an oversized card-stock envelope out of his bag.

“Mademoiselle Collins, your invitation has arrived,” the courier dramatically intones, committing to the bit.

Yeah. This guy definitely does Revolutionary War reenactments on the weekends.

I take the heavy envelope, feeling its heft. My full name, Piper Woo Collins, is inked on the front in perfect calligraphy.

I’m confused. I look back at Seb.

“Seb, was this you?”

He shakes his head no, wide-eyed.

Now the delivery guy is confused too. “You are Piper, right?”

“Unfortunately.”

He breaks character. “Look. I gotta get a signature from you so I can justify what they’re paying me. So can you just...” He thrusts a digital signing machine in my face, and, not sure what else to do, I add my signature. “Okay, cool. Thanks.”

We make eye contact again, unsure what to do. He bows. Weirdly, so do I. I smile, preparing to thank him.

“You have a kernel stuck in your teeth,” he deadpans as he walks away.

Okay, rude.

I fish out the kernel before inspecting my prize. What is this thing? There’s no return address.

“The hell is that?” Seb asks.

I hold up the envelope. “I think I just got invited to the Hunger Games.”

Seb laughs. “Do me a favor and choose Hemsworth.” He stares at the envelope like it’s a lottery ticket. “Piper, I have a feeling about this,” he says dramatically.

“A feeling I’m part of a Rian Johnson murder mystery?”

“Open it! Stop leaving me in suspense.”

I gingerly open the envelope as Seb bangs his fists against the table, mimicking a drumroll. I pull out the card-stock letter, staring dumbly.

La Danse des Débutantes

MADAME AMÉLIE BOUCHON

CORDIALLY REQUESTS

THE HONOUR OF YOUR PRESENCE

AT LA DANSE DES DÉBUTANTES.

THE FIRST OF MAY

HALF AFTER EIGHT O’CLOCK

HÔTEL RITZ PARIS

PARIS, FRANCE

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.

STOREY RICCI

CHAPIN BUCKINGHAM

LOTTIE STUART-JONES

VALERIA AGUILAR

LUCIA AGUILAR

CHLOE HUGHES

MARGARITA VASQUEZ

PEACH DAVIS

ZELLA DE PERIGNON

KARINA NEMEROV

MCRAE LAWRENCE

SEA REILLY

ANANYA SANWALKA

TREVI GRAHAM

NIHAT FAROU

IMOGEN WANG

Finally, at the bottom of the page, handwritten in calligraphed ink:

PIPER WOO COLLINS

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.

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