Important. In our family, that word only ever means one thing: Black Crown business.
“Fine,” I mutter, hanging up before she can lecture me about my tone.
I drag myself out of bed and stand in front of my closet, staring at the rows of “appropriate” attire my mother insisted on buying me. Cashmere sweaters, tailored slacks, modest dresses that scream old money and good breeding.
With deliberate slowness, I pull out my tightest Balenciaga jeans—the ones that hug every curve like they're painted on. I pair them with a black Gucci crop top that shows a solid two inches of midriff and costs more than most people's rent. The ensemble is completed with my all-black Alexander McQueen sneakers.
Everything costs a fortune but breaks every unspoken rule of proper Carvelli daughter attire and it’s perfect.
I don't bother with much makeup—just enough eyeliner to make my hazel eyes look sharper, more defiant, and a dark red lip stain that my mother will definitely comment on. My hair I put in twin braided space buns, knowing it makes me look unkempt by mother’s standards.
The car drops me at the gates of my parents' estate at eight past seven. Late enough to annoy them, not late enough to provoke a full lecture. The wrought iron gates swing open automatically like they've been watching for me on the security cameras.
Our house isn't as grand as the Devereux mansion, but it still screams wealth—three stories of pristine white stone with massive windows and perfectly manicured gardens. A monument to new money trying desperately to look like old money. I walk up the steps slowly, each footfall deliberate, preparing for a battle.
The door swings open before I can knock. Davis, our longtime butler, gives me a once-over, his expression perfectly neutral despite my outfit.
“Miss Seraphina,” he says with a slight bow. “Your parents are waiting in the dining room.”
“I bet they are,” I mutter, handing him my small purse.
The dining room is at the end of a long hallway lined with portraits of Carvellis past. Stern-faced men and women who look constipated as hell. God forbid any of them actually crack a smile.
I push open the heavy oak doors to the dining room and walk in. My parents are already seated at opposite ends of the ridiculously long table, a sea of polished mahogany between them. My father's reading something on his tablet, barely glancing up as I enter. My mother, however, looks like she's just bitten into something rancid.
“Jesus Christ, Seraphina,” she says by way of greeting, her eyes traveling from my braids to my crop top to my tight jeans with increasing horror. “Could you not dress like a common streetwalker for one family dinner?”
I slide into my usual chair, right in the middle of the table where I'm equally far from both of them. Perfect metaphor for my entire fucking life.
“Nice to see you too, Mother,” I say, reaching for the wine bottle and pouring myself a generous glass without asking permission. I take a long, deliberate sip, leaving a red stain on the crystal.
“And those ridiculous...things in your hair,” she continues, waving her hand dismissively at my braids. “You look like a child. Or worse, one of those musicians’ girlfriends.”
I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall out of my head. “They're called space buns, Mother. All the girls are wearing them.”
“Well, I don't care what 'all the girls' are doing. You are a Carvelli, and Carvellis do not follow trends set by social media nobodies.”
My father still hasn't looked up from his tablet. Typical. I wonder if he even realizes I'm here.
“And you're late,” Mother adds, checking her diamond-encrusted watch like she's the fucking timekeeper of the universe. “I specifically said seven o'clock.”
“Traffic,” I lie, taking another sip of wine.
“Don't slouch,” she snaps. “And that shirt—if you can even call it that—is completely inappropriate. I can see your stomach. What if someone important had been joining us?”
I look around the empty dining room pointedly. “Yeah, looks like a very prestigious dinner you've got going on here.”
“Your attitude is absolutely intolerable,” she hisses. “And those jeans! They're practically painted on. Do you have any idea what people will think? What the Society will think?”
“Enough.” My father's voice cuts through her tirade like a knife. He sets down his tablet with a sharp click against the table. “Your voice is aggravating me, Mariella.”
My mother's mouth snaps shut, her eyes widening in offense. She takes a delicate sip of her wine, composing herself before launching her counterattack.
“Well,” she says with a saccharine smile that doesn't reach her eyes, “at least someone in this family cares about our daughter's appearance and behavior.” She flicks her gaze pointedly at my father. “Someone has to maintain standards.”
The implication hangs in the air between them—she's the one who actually parents me, while he's just the checkbook. It's a familiar dance, this passive-aggressive waltz they do around each other, with me caught in the middle.
My father's eyes narrow dangerously, and he sets down his wine glass with deliberate precision. “Mariella,” he says, his voice dropping to that quiet tone that always makes my skin prickle, “I suggest you remember your place in this household.”
