Like so many of her other hopes and dreams, I was the lucky Crowne who got to carry my mother’s name.
I had just committed one of Tansy Crowne’s unforgivable sins: uncontrolled displays of emotion. I quickly composed myself and when I spoke next my voice was level and clear.
“What’s going on?”
She exhaled, rubbing the muscle between the wrinkle in her brow she’d long since Botoxed away. “The heirloom exhibit.”
Oh, right.
It was a little more than a month until Valentine’s Day and this year Valentine’s Day happened to also coincidewith the two hundredth anniversary of the founding of Crowne Hall. To my mother, that meant parties on top of parties leading up to the main event. As if celebrating the moment our ancestors descended like a plague on this small town would make everyone forget about the very real present.
Thus entered the heirloom exhibit, where our family artifacts, antiques, and relics were displayed as “Treasures of Crowne Point.”
“Gemma, are you unwell?”
Which was Crowne forAre you high as balls right now, lady?
“Of course not.” I lifted my sheets off, feet colliding with soft white carpet, and followed the team of aestheticians to my vanity. “Just a little sleepy, is all.”
The makeup artist held up two different shades of lipstick against my skin. The hairstylist lifted my hair, head tilting like she was trying to imagine the book she was reading. It was time for me to be the perfect porcelain doll for someone else to paint. While someone lifted my hand to check the polish, my eyes drifted over my vanity to the window.
On a clear day, you could see far enough down the beach to the Wharf, the abandoned carnival pier that the Horsemen had turned into their infamous club, Underworld. It was unusually dark and stormy, even for January, the beach shadowed under velvety clouds, the horizon engulfed in black.
Down on the blustering sand, vendors rushed to clear tables and decorations before the rain hit—a reminder that it was nearly time forGemma Crowne, America’s Princess, to make her first appearance since the dramatic cancellation of her more-than-decade-long engagement.
Heirlooms and priceless artifacts were being set up for public consumption, but the real artifact was me. I was to behave like a good little Crowne family trinket for potential buyers.
“Stop picking your lip.” My mother slapped my hand. “Your lip gloss won’t sit well.”
I yanked my stinging hand away from my mouth, finding the sharp eyes of Tansy Crowne.
My mother replaced the hairdresser at my back, distorted in the mirror, head cut off at the neck, hands gripping the back of my chair. “There is a slew of eligible bachelors downstairs. Diplomats. Princes. Heirs…”
The Crowne family had once been the most powerful in the world. We were known for elaborate, insanely luxurious parties that even kings begged to attend. In order to keep our status, we married who we were told.
Then my sister abandoned us for her bodyguard, my brother fell in love with a servant, and my grandfather went to prison. My brother replaced him as CEO, and now Crowne Hall, once known for its draconian rules, was…modern. Servants who used to get punished for looking us in the eyes now got maternity leave and Christmas bonuses.
To say my mother was having a hard time adjusting to the new status quo was an understatement.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror as my mother droned on about the dying star of the family Crowne. This was the Gemma Crowne who sold magazines, the one they called America’s Princess.
Famous Crowne blue eyes, a little more wintry and baby blue than my brother’s. Rose gold hair that fell just below my chin. A perfect—and well-paid-for—button nose. Expertly arched brows, golden tan, freckles that were thebane of my mother’s existence, always hidden behind makeup.
I stared so long my face blurred into nothing.
“I was already pregnant with my last child at your age. Head of a great house. Rubbing elbows with kings and dignitaries…”
I wanted to scream, but I had to stay still as my lip gloss was applied. Not like Iwantedto be in this position.
“Not that one,” my mother spoke, turning her attention to a woman holding a dress. “The Russo.”
I slid into a soft pink gown that was both effortless and expensive. My mother assessed me like her polished silver. With a curt nod of approval, the flurry of people departed.
For a finishing touch, my mother handed me a pair of pale-pink flats embroidered with tiny seed pearls. Handmade, almost two hundred years old, and dating back to the first Crowne girl to marry into wealth—a famous ballerina.
I slid my feet into the shoes, and my mom returned her attention to me. “Happily ever afters don’t exist, Gemma?—”
“I should look for opportunity,” I said, ending the adage she’d been telling me since I’d been old enough to listen.
