Men in general are weak. But if handled correctly—if manipulated right—they could be invaluable tools.
When I had told my mother this, she had stared at me for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across her face. She stood up, went over to the bar, and poured me my first real drink. She handed it to me, clinked her glass with mine, and as I drank, she looked at me with more pride than I had ever seen. Even more than when I wonMiss Grand National Tween.
That pride became an addiction to me.
I pulled away from my father and burrowed myself closer to my mother.
When I turned sixteen, however, the pageant game shifted. I was entered into bigger pageants with stronger,hungriercompetition. No matter how hard I practiced, my dance routine wasn't tight enough. My answers were not eloquent enough. My body was not toned enough.
The girl who once dominated started taking home runner-up sashes and meager checks.
Eventually, I stopped even placing entirely, and my mother couldn't mask her disappointment in my failure.
I wasn't stupid; I knew the rules of the game she invented. When I won, I was valuable and something close to adored by my mother. But when I lost? I was nothing, useless.
Just like my father.
I wasn't a person, I was an extension of my mother—her grand prize, so when I lost, she lost.
And there are very few things Bella Cabot hates more than losing.
When I was seventeen, I was tossed onto the grandest stage yet—politics.
My father's inner circle had convinced him. He had the face. He had the image. He had the capital, the charisma, and the insider knowledge of which pockets to line with what money. He was bred for optics and precision.
He had an easy victory to become theMassachusetts State Treasurer.
The campaign itself was a different kind of pageantry—it wastheater.
Family photos were strategically plastered across every brochure, billboard, and website, portraying us as the poster family for the American Dream. We made appearances at charity galas and fundraisers, and took photo ops at food drives and ribbon-cuttings. I was primped and prodded by my mother at every turn, like I was a child again, while she hissed corrections through her teeth.
They all started to blend together at one point.
Until the one that rocked my father to his core.
A Saturday in April, the biggest gala in the city for theBoston Children's Hospital,at the most opulent hotel in the city.
I was standing with my mother and father, smiling like I was trained to and wearing a modest blush gown that made me lookchildlike—the exact image they were going for. I was calculating when I could excuse myself to the bathroom to take another bump while my mother gossiped nastily with another wife about some poor, unfortunate soul. My father chatted with John Q. Taxpayer about problems that the government would pretend to care about.
Then he froze, his entire body going stiff, as if someone had just tased him.
Following his starstruck gaze, I could feel myself freeze too.
Across the ballroom stood the redhead, my father's first wife. Claire. Older than the photos, no less beautiful, though, even I could admit that. She wore a deep emerald gown that clung to her curves, her red curls pinned elegantly atop her head, diamond earrings glinting in the chandelier light. A serene expression was on her face as she glanced around the ballroom, smiling at people passing her by with an expression so genuine, it almost hurt me to look at her directly.
My father left the conversation mid-sentence—walked away like he was in a trance. My mother went pale for just a second before pulling her practiced smile back in place and grabbing my arm, her nails digging into my flesh as we hurried after him. He walked away like he had forgotten about us completely. He probably had.
Claire saw my father, and her expression didn't crumble, but it shifted. The soft angles of her face sharpened with alertness.
My father, on the other hand, lookedwrecked.
"Claire," he breathed, voice low and reverent, like he was seeing a ghost.
"Ellis," she replied, calm and poised, her gaze flickering to my mother and then to me. When her eyes landed on me, something in her face faltered slightly. The slightest flinch—barely perceptible, but there.
"Claire, darling," she cooed, offering an air kiss Claire didn'treturn. I heard the soft, mechanicalclick-click-clickof camera shutters nearby and knew that my mother was fully aware everyone was tuned into this exchange. Bella Cabot never missed a good photo-op. "So lovely to see you. Thank you for attending our little benefit. Do let me know who gave you the invitation?"
Claire met her gaze head-on and smiled demurely. "Oh, no one actually. My husband owns the hotel. We love hosting these charity events."
