Chapter One
Rona
AllIwantisto go back home to my apartment, jump in my fluffy pajamas, munch on popcorn, and watch a rom-com.
But as usual, today is not going to be about what I want. In fact, not a minute of my Sunday is going to be about me at all. I grunt, then feel an immediate stab of guilt at the selfishness of my thoughts.
My mother needs me. Theleast I can do for her is show up.
I stand perfectly still in the narrow service hallway, feeling like a mannequin in a high-end department store while Caroline Sparks, her personal assistant, flutters around me like an anxious butterfly having a nervous breakdown. Caroline’s wings move in a constant blur of moss green, and her pixie features take on that absolute concentration I know all too well as she inspects my highly curated look. Curated for events just like this one.
Ugh. I'm about to become a campaign accessory again.
"Stop moving," she chirps, her tiny hands tugging at a strand of my strawberry-blond hair that had the audacity to fall out of place. "There you go. Very college-chic, if I say so myself."
She would say so herself. I’m basically a blank canvas she hand-painted into a perfect version of Senator Melissa Quinn’s daughter. It doesn’t matter who I really am under the polished image, as long as I play my role. A role I’ve played since I was in middle school.
The marble floor is cold beneath my thin dress shoes, and I shiver slightly in my midnight-blue dress. Caroline's sharp floral perfume mixes with whatever industrial-strength cleaning products they use in these upscale hotels, filling my nostrils and giving me a slight headache. It's the kind of sterile luxury that screams neutrality, all brass fixtures and muted colors designed to offend absolutely no one.
"Remind me again why I can't just wear my hair down?" I ask, trying not to wince as she jabs another bobby pin into my scalp. My headache is getting worse by the minute.
Caroline’s gold-hazel eyes are bright with the kind of manic energy that comes from drinking three espressos straight out of bed and carrying a clipboard full of donor names twenty-four seven.
"Because loose hair is interpreted by voters as 'carefree college student,' and we need 'poised daughter of a serious legislator.' There’s a difference," Caroline says.
Of course there is. And Caroline knows exactly what the difference is. It’s her job, after all.
Her fingertips are cold against my neck as she adjusts the simple pearl necklace. At barely four and a half feet tall, she has to step on the tips of her toes to reach my neckline, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. The necklace belonged to my grandmother, though Caroline selected it from my jewelry box this morning because it suggests family values without being ostentatious.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the window’s reflection above Caroline’s head, and for a moment, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. My hair is pulled into what she calls an elaborate bun, my makeup is camera-ready, and my smile is the practiced one I've been perfecting since I was old enough to stand next to a podium. It’s all one hundred percent fake, and a small part of my mind wonders if there’s anything real about me at all.
"Perfect," Caroline declares, snapping my attention back to her. "Now, remember—"
"Thank the donors personally, mention specific contributions when appropriate, and deflect any policy questions to Mom," I recite automatically. "Caroline, I've been doing this since I was twelve."
"Yes, but today is important." She straightens the tiny white belt of my dress one final time, her moss-green wings fluttering behind her back and sharp features looking even more pointed than usual. "Your mother's committee hearing on digital integrity is next month, and we need these donors feeling confident about their investment in her campaign."
The distant murmur of voices from the ballroom grows louder as more people arrive. I can hear the clink of glasses, the polite laughter that creates the background noise in all political networking events, and the underlying buzz of conversations.
"Ready?" Caroline asks, though it's not really a question.
I take a deep breath and feel my posture straighten, my smile brighten, my voice prepare to take on that practiced warmth that comes as naturally as breathing now.
Campaign mode, activated.
"Ready."
The transition from the sterile hallway to the warm, buzzing ballroom feels like stepping from backstage into the spotlight. Morning light streams through tall windows, illuminating round tables covered in crisp white linens. The space hums with the energy of people who are used to being important, or at least pretending to be.
Caroline guides me through the room like a handler, her hand light on my elbow as she whispers directions into my ear.
Our first stop is a beautiful elf woman dressed in an ivory gown, her bright-blue eyes so pale they look like ice in the middle of her perfect, fine-featured face. Her red hair is fashioned into an intricate braid that trails down one shoulder, exposing her long, pointed ears. I don’t need to be told to understand she’s from the Royal family. All royals have the same look and all royals are rich enough to be important to Mom.
"Thank you both so much for being here, Mrs. Verdenstein.” I smile and shake her hand, making sure to hold it just firmly enough to still be feminine and gentle. “Mom was just saying how grateful she is for your continued faith in her work."
"Oh, I wouldn't miss one of your mother’s brunches for the world," Mrs. Verdenstein says, waving my flattery away with a manicured hand. "Your mother is exactly what this country needs. Strong, principled leadership."
Caroline's grip tightens slightly as she steers me toward the next table, where a tall orc man sits with an expression of bored contempt that would make any sane person turn around on their heel and run in the other direction. Too bad Caroline’s iron grip doesn’t give me that option.
