It can’t conceal my long cornsilk-like hair that moves around my shoulders like a cape of bloody violet red.
I’m going through a phase, coloring my hair every other month, trying out different shades, not happy with any of them, mostly because nothing works on him.
I could wear my dress backward or walk naked into his bedroom in the middle of the night, and he’d still ignore me.
So this time around, I spent an hour at the hair salon trying to compel my hairdresser to change my hair color to something brighter.
She almost fainted when I told her what I wanted.
Aware of the possible repercussions of messing with the Gallos’ new heiress's locks, she said no to me at first.
Unimpressed with her protests, I put more pressure on her, testing her resolve, yet nothing worked. Not my poignant threats or my shameless blackmailing.
The woman realized it was less risky to saynoto me than to get in trouble with the Gallo family and have her business ruined and end up with a bullet in her head.
Eventually, a girl at her salon had slipped me a note with the hair-coloring instructions, and I followed them religiously.
The result was a violet storm dipped in crimson blood that makes my entire black attire pointless now.
My lipstick, a blend of dark blood and midnight sky, makes my complexion pop and my eyes look like green poison.
I knew someone would comment on this, and I could bet my money on it being the matriarch.
“Go, Leilani,” Sylvia says, nudging me to leave.
My coat is open, and no matter how harsh the wind is and how deeply the cold cuts into my skin, I won’t button it up now.
If I am to leave, I need to do it as I had planned it all along––not before earning a glance from him.
I need to stare into his eyes, rifle through the secrets of his heart, and give him a fair warning that this is not over.
It will never be.
Whatever happened between him and my late mother can’t stop what the future holds for us.
He and I are not done.
We will never be.
“All right,” I say in a voice that sides with ominous more than agreeable. “Where’s Frank?” I ask louder this time to attract everyone’s attention, but mostly his.
It doesn’t work.
“Don’t make a fool of yourself, Leilani. It’s embarrassing to us,” Sylvia slips under her breath, leaning closer and shaking my shoulder rather hard.
I can’t help but notice that she looks like a movie star with her wavy platinum blond hair, red lips, tailored coat, and gloved hands, even now––today––as she puts her younger daughter into the ground.
“Ouch,” I say, annoyed, pushing her hand away with a clipped gesture.
If this doesn’t make him look my way, I don’t know what will.
A few people witness the exchange, compelling Sylvia to back off, biting her lip in frustration.
Her eyes are filled with simmering anger.
She must know I’m up to no good, although, honestly, I have a hard time telling who’s spying for her in our house.
Is it the housekeeper? One of the younger maids?
