She claps her hands, and suddenly, I’m surrounded.
A makeup artist and a hairstylist, wielding enough hot tools to power a small city, have appeared out of nowhere.
If that’s not bad enough, a woman with a clipboard who looks like she organizes royal weddings for sport stands beside them.
Great, just fucking great.
I’m ushered out of my bed, in a whirlwind, and the next thing I know, I’m being thrust into the bathroom to brush my teeth, followed by being practically slung into a makeup chair.
I’m in a complete daze as foundation is buffed into my skin.
“Any particular look you’d like?” the stylist asks, holding up a palette like she’s offering me the gift of self-expression. Who is she kidding? If I tell her what I want, Mother would never allow it.
“Freedom,” I mumble under my breath.
She blinks, probably wondering if I really said that.Yes, sweetheart, I did.
“A soft smoky eye it is.”
Of course. The universal translation for your mother already told me what you are to look like.
Thanks for the false pretense, though.
For the next hour, I feel like a pincushion, and then my mother returns, making this moment even worse.
She holds out the garment bag. “Put this on,” she says.
I do as I’m told, unzipping it slowly.
It’s a gown. Midnight blue and strapless with a boned bodice. It's pretty in a way that’s perfect for a princess, with layers of tulle that look like storm clouds.
She crosses over to me as she clasps her hands. “You’ll look divine.”
“I’ll look like a very expensive one, that’s for sure,” I mumble under my breath.
She doesn’t respond. Just waits, arms folded like an executioner with a schedule.
So I change. Because today is about pretending.
The zipper bites my skin, and then, when I put on my shoes, the heels make my feet scream.
The last straw is the damn necklace that clasps onto my skin like a collar.
But when I step out, my mother beams like she’s sculpted me herself.
“Perfect,” she says.
The door opens again.
And in walks my father.
He takes one long look at me . . . up, down, across. It’s like he’s inspecting a piece of merchandise that someone might return.
“You’ll do,” he says. “Now remember, the Jamesons will be here. You know what that means.”
I smile. Sweet and lethal. A sugar-coated blade.
“Be charming. Be silent. Be traded like a stock option.”
