Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Great, just fucking great.
I’m ushered out of my bed, in a whirlwind, and the next thing I know, I’m being thrust into the bathroom to brush my teeth, followed by being practically slung into a makeup chair.
I’m in a complete daze as foundation is buffed into my skin.
“Any particular look you’d like?” the stylist asks, holding up a palette like she’s offering me the gift of self-expression. Who is she kidding? If I tell her what I want, Mother would never allow it.
“Freedom,” I mumble under my breath.
She blinks, probably wondering if I really said that. Yes, sweetheart, I did.
“A soft smoky eye it is.”
Of course. The universal translation for your mother already told me what you are to look like.
Thanks for the false pretense, though.
For the next hour, I feel like a pincushion, and then my mother returns, making this moment even worse.
She holds out the garment bag. “Put this on,” she says.
I do as I’m told, unzipping it slowly.
It’s a gown. Midnight blue and strapless with a boned bodice. It's pretty in a way that’s perfect for a princess, with layers of tulle that look like storm clouds.
She crosses over to me as she clasps her hands. “You’ll look divine.”
“I’ll look like a very expensive one, that’s for sure,” I mumble under my breath.
She doesn’t respond. Just waits, arms folded like an executioner with a schedule.
So I change. Because today is about pretending.
The zipper bites my skin, and then, when I put on my shoes, the heels make my feet scream.
The last straw is the damn necklace that clasps onto my skin like a collar.
But when I step out, my mother beams like she’s sculpted me herself.
“Perfect,” she says.
The door opens again.
And in walks my father.
He takes one long look at me . . . up, down, across. It’s like he’s inspecting a piece of merchandise that someone might return.
“You’ll do,” he says. “Now remember, the Jamesons will be here. You know what that means.”
I smile. Sweet and lethal. A sugar-coated blade.
“Be charming. Be silent. Be traded like a stock option.”
“Don’t test me tonight, Victoria.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He leaves without another word.
I stare at the mirror. The girl staring back doesn’t look like me.
She looks like the silent and obedient daughter they always wanted.
A puppet carved from stone.
With a giant sigh, I head toward the party.
The ballroom is drenched in opulence. Gold-trimmed everything and floral arrangements that cost more than most people’s rent.
A string quartet is currently playing something delicate, and soulless if you ask me.
Can this get anymore ridiculous?
I’m eighteen, not the queen of England.
Guests arrive in waves. All the same . . . Pretentious and people I just don’t want to associate with.
I stand at the top of the stairs like some tragic debutante, waiting to descend into the snake pit.
They clap when they see me, and my mother beams. My father, on the other hand, isn’t one to gush, so instead, he clinks glasses with a senator.
And I can’t stop scanning the room.
I know what I’m searching and hoping for, but it’s pointless.
Lorenzo isn’t here. Mother would never allow it.
In her mind, he doesn’t belong in a castle.
Even if he’s the only thing that makes me feel real.
It doesn’t take long for the one person I hope will not find me to find me. My life is a comedy of errors. I definitely pissed off a god because there he is. Grant Jameson stands by the champagne tower, naturally.
“Birthday girl.” He steps too close, his grin stretched thin. If my life were a book, he would be the villain. Actually, so would my father . . . Can a story have two villains?
“Unfortunately,” I reply, lifting my glass and wishing it were poison.
He smirks. “You look exquisite,” he says, eyes raking down my dress. “Your father must be proud.”
“He is. Of the stock value I’m projected to bring in.”
Grant laughs. I don’t.
He hands me another glass of champagne when mine is empty, one I didn’t ask for, then places his hand on the small of my back like he’s claiming me.
I’m already taken.
“You know, when we get married, we should honeymoon somewhere with fewer clothes.”
I recoil, my voice sharp enough to cut him. “We?”
“Come on,” he drawls, tapping the rim of his glass. “Don’t act shy. Your father practically handed you over on a platter. I’m just here to enjoy the meal.”
I go cold. Glacial, in fact.
“Don’t talk to me like that.” I step into his space.
He laughs like I’m adorable. Then he touches my hip. Because he doesn’t care what I think or how I feel. I’m an object. Something to possess. Nothing more. Nothing less.
That’s it. I need out. Now.
“Excuse me,” I say brightly, smiling the way women smile when they’re two seconds from committing arson. “Bathroom.”
I walk. Fast. Heartbeat roaring. Stomach twisting. Vision tunneling.