“They’re really going to do it,” Talon whispers. “Announce her engagement. Tonight.”
“And they sent us front-row tickets,” Dredyn mutters.
They want us there to watch Mara slip out of our reach and into Chase’s hands.
I crush the invitation in my fist. My vision tunnels. The Syndicate thinks we’re beaten, but we are just getting started.
FORTY-ONE
MARA
Aswarm of stylists flutter around me, tugging, pinning, and primping—turning me into America’s princess for the events of the evening. Standing on a platform surrounded by mirrors, I barely recognize the person they’re creating in front of me.
The designer gown my mother accepted as my attire is a pale gold silk that clings to my frame, glistening against my skin in the vanity lights.
A gilded cage draped over my body.
Powder flickers across my cheeks as a makeup brush sweeps over my skin. Another stylist kneels at my feet, adjusting the hem of the gown that pools around me. I lift my arms obediently when told, turn my head just so…
Be perfect, Mara.
I am to be flawlessly beautiful today of all days. Because tonight, appearance is everything.
In the mirror, I watch a stranger’s eyes: wide, dark, edged with a quiet fear that only I can see. Those eyes belong to Mara Black,dutiful daughter of Clark Black, soon-to-be President of the United States.
They do not blink, even as a stylist leans in with a mascara wand.
Don’t flinch.
Don’t ruin the makeup.
From the next room, I hear my father’s voice echo down the hall. “Tonight, our family becomes history, Mara.”
Tonight, our family becomes history. The triumph in his tone turns my stomach. He means it as a celebration. By midnight, Clark Black will have sculpted his legacy.
But to me, the phrase tastes like an omen.
Perhaps he doesn’t realize how perfectly he’s phrased my fate. Tonight, I will cease to be a person and become an artifact—a footnote in his story.
I swallow hard and lower my eyes from the mirror as a stylist approaches with a diamond comb that she carefully pins into the sleek twist of my hair. A heartbeat later, I feel a cool sliver of metal against my neck. One of the women is fastening a delicate gold chain around my throat.
“Hold still, dear,” she murmurs.
I lift my chin and gaze at my reflection with the new necklace. It is lovely—an understated strand of fine gold links that meet at a teardrop diamond right at the hollow of my throat. Lovely, and far too much like a collar. In the mirror, it looks like I’m wearing a leash. I force myself to take a slow breath, careful not to let the sudden anger or fear show on my face.
“You look beautiful, Miss Black,” chirps another stylist as she steps back to admire their handiwork. “Like a princess.”
A doll, I think bitterly. That’s what they really mean. A perfect, pretty doll for the proud father to display and the nation to adore. My lips curve into the polite smile I’ve practiced since childhood. It pleases them; I can see the relief in their faces when I perform exactly as expected.
“Tonight is a big night,” one of the stylists prattles on as shepacks away a palette of eye shadows. “The whole country will be watching. You must be so excited, dear.”
“Of course. I can’t wait,” I lie softly. My voice barely trembles; I make sure of it.
I’ve become an excellent liar.
They beam, oblivious to the truth behind my carefully-composed face. None of them see the cold sweat slicking my palms, or hear the way my heart is slamming against my ribs. None notice the subtle tremor in my fingers as I clutch the edge of the vanity table to steady myself. They’ve done their job. I look every inch the gilded youth of American royalty. And if my smile is a little tight at the edges, well, cameras won’t pick up something so small.
“All done,” announces the head stylist. She steps back and gestures grandly toward the mirror. “What do you think?”
