Always pristine. Even when furious, even at six in the evening, there's not one wrinkle on that suit she's wearing, nor a hair out of place. Goddamn it, even her lipstick looks like it's afraid to color out of the lines.
Gayle Donovan is abso-fucking-lutely perfect in every way, and I'm her failure of a daughter. For far too long now, I've done everything to keep her happy.
But when happiness means feeling like life's being sucked out of you, turns out, you're okay being the disappointment.
I meet her gaze, as politely as I can, because God forbid Mother gets mad. When Mother gets mad, she gets…dangerous. I don’t want a black eye on my birthday.
It's my birthday tomorrow and she's promised me dinner. Hopefully out in the city. The last time I went out to the city, it was over a year ago, and even then I was only allowed coffee with her.
She exhales. That same tired, disappointed sound that's been the soundtrack to my existence. "We've discussed this, Raphaella."
She knows I hate being called Raphaella. She also knows I have to pretend that I don't. I made the mistake of correcting her once, when I was fourteen. She canceled my birthday dinner that year and didn't speak to me for a week. I sometimes wonder if she would have killed me if Jeffrey hadn’t intervened.
I learned.
Mother knows best. That's what she's told me since I could form words. Mother knows best, so sit down, shut up, and look grateful for your tower.
She glides closer and I can’t help but flinch. "Look, darling. Your safety is non-negotiable. We're not having this conversation again."
"God, you're such a dictator." The words just fall out. My mouth wants me dead.
There it is, the little tremor in the air when I push too far. Lightning before thunder.
Her eyes, the same green as mine, flash. "Let's not do this today."
"When would you prefer? Tomorrow? Next week? How about my thirtieth birthday? Will I be allowed outside by then, or should I plan to celebrate that milestone from my tower too?"
Her jaw tightens, and I know I've pushed too far. But something about another birthday coming makes the words spill out like I've been shaken up and uncapped.
The slap comes without warning. My head whips to the side. I taste copper on my tongue. My cheek is burning.
For a heartbeat,I consider sprinting for the elevator. I'm small. Fast. I could run faster than her…but not the guards. The guards were everywhere. I’d never make it through the lobby.
I remember one time I did make it to the lobby. My jailers stopped me, held me until she could come collect me. Her hand around my wrist as she dragged me back to the elevator. The way her nails dug crescent moons into my skin while she said: Only fools trade safety for freedom. They end up with neither.
I was stupid enough to believe her then.
"
“Fine, Mother. I’ll remain in my cage.”
"It's a fifty-million-dollar penthouse with every luxury imaginable," she hisses back. "Don't act spoiled."
"It's still a cage if I can't leave."
She looks at me for a long moment, and for one stupid second, I think maybe she understands.
But then her phone buzzes, and her face hardens. Whatever I thought I saw is gone. If it was ever there to begin with.
"I have a meeting. We'll talk more at your birthday dinner tomorrow." She looks up at me, then pauses. "Jeffrey is on the roof. Perhaps some fresh air will improve your attitude."
Not mood. Attitude. Because mood would imply I'm allowed feelings. Attitude implies I'm the problem.
Of course, my fairy tale has a bodyguard instead of a fairy godmother. Figures.
I roll my eyes and walk toward the elevator.
"Good girl," my mother calls after me, and the words settle on my back like a collar snapping shut.
