I do one more twirl and love how the material swirls around my legs. I would have chosen a pastel color. Pink maybe. Or a pretty summery peach. Something that did not make me look like an offering perfectly arranged on an altar.
But Iris Fiore does not leave room for preferences she hasn’t preapproved, and arguing over a dress with my mother is a hill I don’t want to die on today.
I take it off the hook and spread the heavy thing across the expanse of my bed. It’s hard to believe my life has summed up to this one moment. The pit of my stomach fills with twisting knots of dread. The lumps of emotion have lived in my gut for days now. My mother’s yearly Fiore Summer Gala is a party never to be missed. But between you and me I wish I could cut this dress into a parachute and give it a go out my window. Three stories up should give me enough time for the masses of material to catch an updraft.
I let out a huff of frustration. Who am I kidding? The truth is I start sweating at the mere idea of heights. I already know I’m notgoing anywhere. And that’s my life. I’m ordered to do something and I step up to the line and never ask questions. Without funds of my own and the daughter of a very controlling father, I’ve yet to find a way to escape with my life intact, that is.
I’ve learned not to. Lesson number two.
I untie the sash to my evening robe and toss it over the back of my vanity chair. Standing in my lingerie, I turn in the mirror and gaze over my shoulder.
“Princess Fiore.” I roll the title my father playful gave me when I turned five over my tongue and cringe at the sour taste it leaves. It matches the brutal vision before me.
The nickname was cute and our little thing until he became governor of Chicago. When that happened, it was like watching a man turn away from the sunlight only to grow wicked in the shadows.
My mother swears he was a good man once.
“Yeah right,” I mutter into the emptiness of my bedroom suite. After a bottle of wine, she has no problem admitting the man is despicable to the core and always has been.
I run the pads of my fingers over the raised edges of the aftereffects from the last time I tried to play the independent daughter and tell him no. I literally wear the proof that no one goes against Governor Fiore and tonight I’ve been ordered to swallow my misery and plaster on a smile all in the name of pushing the Fiore family up yet another rung of the proverbial ladder toward more power. More wealth.
I release a huff of irony that the love of a father can double as a curse. He considered me his princess because he always had theidea of using me to push him higher in his political aspirations and thought I would be the good little girl who always wanted to please him.
It worked for a time. Until I grew up.
I step back from my bed and consider the monstrosity I’m supposed to wear. I used to love white, and the innocence it used to represent in my mind. Like a fresh start or a clean sheet of paper in a new journal. Silly, childhood thoughts, I know.
I step into it anyway, because that is what I do. I step into the things chosen for me and I stand inside them and I perform the version of Persia Fiore that keeps the peace and me out of the hospital.
Cool silk slides over my skin and settles against my curves with a whisper, and I reach back and pull the long zipper up carefully to hide the ugly Fiore secrets from the world.
I stand in front of the mirror and I look at the girl in front of me in white silk and pearl earrings with her violet hair pinned into a soft chignon at the nape of my neck with a few curls escaping to frame my face. She is the picture of a good daughter willing to do anything for her doting father.
“Lies are so easily crafted,” I murmur to myself.
I look deeper and see the woman’s aqua eyes are already performing the particular blankness of a woman who has learned that showing too much of herself in this house is an invitation for it to be used against her.
She looks lovely.
Frankly, I hate her a little for it. I hateme…
For being so damn easy to push over.
For being easy to use.
For being easy to control.
Oh, yeah. Fear is a powerful tool to use in controlling others. Lesson number three.
I swallow a couple of times and try to force the bitterness down, but no such luck. It sticks to the back of my throat and pushes tears into my eyes.
I move to my vanity and gather mother’s pearl drop earrings. Once they are in place I take another look at the lie staring back at me from the mirror. The earrings glinting at my ears were left on the dresser this morning alongside a note in Mother’s careful handwriting.
Wear these. They’ll match the dress you must wear. People will be watching.
People are always watching. That is the thing my mother says like it is a reminder to behave or else.
My heart bleeds for the girl I wanted to be. But she’s been snuffed out and all that remains is a woman who is scared to trust anyone. Not even my own family.
