He laughs. “You’re a Danforth, Victoria. It’s time you started acting like it. Stop thinking.”
I rise slowly from the chair.
My knees shake beneath my skirt, but I don’t let it show.
He returns to his desk, already dismissing me with the tilt of his head.
“Wear the blue dress. The one that makes you look softer.”
“Yes, sir.”
I walk out before I say something that burns the whole house down.
My hands are trembling as I close the door behind me.
But my back stays straight.
Because tonight, I will smile.
And tomorrow, I will find a way to never need this man again.
The day turnsinto night way too fast.
And before I know it, I’m sitting at the long formal table, hands in my lap, pretending to be something I don’t want to be. The dining room has never felt more like a courtroom.
I sit at the long, polished table, blue silk clinging to my skin like a bribe. My father’s voice echoes through the vaulted ceiling as he laughs.
The sound bounces off every surface of the room. Vibrating off chandeliers and dishes like he’s the most important person in the world.
The guest of honor tonight is Richard Jameson, the man my father has spent years calling an arrogant, shortsighted bastard. Now he’s grinning like they're old college roommates.
Next to Mr. Jameson sits his son.
Grant.
Grant Jameson is all teeth and entitlement. A few years older than me. Impeccably dressed. Expensive watch. Dead eyes.
He’s seated to my right, of course.
Where else would the future bargaining chip go?
Dinner starts with wine. Grant pours one for me before I can protest, leaning in so his cologne almost suffocates me.
“You clean up nice,” he says, smirking, eyes dragging slowly over my dress. “Your father said you were pretty. He undersold it.”
I grip the stem of my glass. Smile. Don’t scream.
“How generous of him,” I say, voice sweet as poisoned honey, turning my head just enough to slice him with a look.
“I always appreciate an obedient daughter,” he adds, loud enough for both fathers to hear, his tone smug and performative.
My father lets out a chuckle.
“She can be a handful,” he says.
My skin crawls.
Luckily for me, the conversation is cut short when the first course is served.
