“Don’t test me tonight, Victoria.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He leaves without another word.
I stare at the mirror. The girl staring back doesn’t look like me.
She looks like the silent and obedient daughter they always wanted.
A puppet carved from stone.
With a giant sigh, I head toward the party.
The ballroom is drenched in opulence. Gold-trimmed everything and floral arrangements that cost more than most people’s rent.
A string quartet is currently playing something delicate, and soulless if you ask me.
Can this get anymore ridiculous?
I’m eighteen, not the queen of England.
Guests arrive in waves. All the same . . . Pretentious and people I just don’t want to associate with.
I stand at the top of the stairs like some tragic debutante, waiting to descend into the snake pit.
They clap when they see me, and my mother beams. My father, on the other hand, isn’t one to gush, so instead, he clinks glasses with a senator.
And I can’t stop scanning the room.
I know what I’m searching and hoping for, but it’s pointless.
Lorenzo isn’t here. Mother would never allow it.
In her mind, he doesn’t belong in a castle.
Even if he’s the only thing that makes me feel real.
It doesn’t take long for the one person I hope will not find me to find me. My life is a comedy of errors. I definitely pissed off a god because there he is. Grant Jameson stands by the champagne tower, naturally.
“Birthday girl.” He steps too close, his grin stretched thin. If my life were a book, he would be the villain. Actually, so would my father . . . Can a story have two villains?
“Unfortunately,” I reply, lifting my glass and wishing it were poison.
He smirks. “You look exquisite,” he says, eyes raking down my dress. “Your father must be proud.”
“He is. Of the stock value I’m projected to bring in.”
Grant laughs. I don’t.
He hands me another glass of champagne when mine is empty, one I didn’t ask for, then places his hand on the small of my back like he’s claiming me.
I’m already taken.
“You know, when we get married, we should honeymoon somewhere with fewer clothes.”
I recoil, my voice sharp enough to cut him. “We?”
“Come on,” he drawls, tapping the rim of his glass. “Don’t act shy. Your father practically handed you over on a platter. I’m just here to enjoy the meal.”
