Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Not that it’s a business so much as an extended timeline of political machinations resulting in our family being as close to the top as possible.
If my stepfather had his way, Aries would be the next president. President Hayes sounds like an apocalypse waiting to fucking happen.
Which is not disturbing at all.
I check the time on my diamond-encrusted watch, a gift from Mother.
Gift, meaning the obligation I’m prescribed to wear when we attend these stupid events.
Forty-three more minutes until my duties for the Hayes family are complete. Then, if I choose, I can make a graceful exit without hearing over a call or text tomorrow morning how much of a disgrace and embarrassment I am to the family. I’ve become an expert at calculating exactly how long I have to stay before slipping away without consequences.
The string quartet transitions to something classical and melancholy. It matches my mood perfectly. I shift against the wall, trying to be invisible while sipping the sparkling water the waitstaff keeps offering me between pity-filled glances.
No champagne for Lilian and her delicate constitution. No sweets or coffee. No physical activity that isn’t truly needed.
Why am I even alive?
You know what? Fuck this. I snag a glass of brown liquor off a passing tray. The server freezes, a look of fear on his face, before he scampers off under the patented Hayes cold glare. I might not use it often, but I’ve seen it enough that I know how to wield it efficiently.
Drink in hand, I scan the crowd of designer gowns and bespoke suits. So many people, all of them wearing fake masks and pretty feathers to hide their true selves.
I smooth a hand down my pale blue dress, chosen specifically to enhance my innocence and fragility—the perfect poster child for whatever cause has these socialites opening their checkbooks tonight. Bonus if I catch the eye of a rich old man who can further the Hayes’s interests.
This is the price I’m paying to attend Oakmount. Freedom purchased with occasional captivity in tulle and discomfort. Two more parties this month, then blessed academic exile for the rest of the season. I can survive this. God knows I’ve survived worse. The liquor burns going down, and damn, it hurts so good. To feel something. Anything is worth it.
People keep giving me worried sidelong glances, and I know it won’t be long until my mother notices that what I’m drinking isn’t water. I’m the girl with the faulty wiring—that’s how I think of my heart when doctors aren’t calling it a congenital structural anomaly in hushed tones. Twenty years of being treated like spun glass has taught me how to disappear while standing in plain sight.
Mother parades me around at these functions like her personal charity case. Look at brave Lilian, surviving despite the odds. Please donate generously. I’ve perfected the art of the fragile smile and grateful nod. The fragile little pawn...too bad for Mother. I know pawns are born to be sacrificed and I don’t intend to give up that easily.
No one sees the rage beneath my carefully applied makeup. I adjusted the necklace Mother made me wear tonight. She’s already adjusted it ten or so times this evening herself. Like she’s displaying my scar for all her rich friends to see.
A battle wound to inspire generosity is what she called it.
I call it what it really is: manipulation.
I fill my lungs with shallow breaths to keep my heart rate steady. Not because I need to—my condition isn’t quite as precarious as everyone believes—but because it’s expected. Fragile Lilian can’t get herself worked up. Even worse if I were to do it in public.
The fragile heart patient conserving her energy. Playing the role of victim is so easy, even my own mother believes it.
Just a little while longer, just a few more events.
Every new event makes me feel like a living, breathing reminder of mortality that makes the wealthy uncomfortable enough to write checks.
This is the circus, and I’m the clown they show up to see.
Another performance, another check signed.
I slowly cross the room and place my glass of water on a table. Mother and my stepfather are nowhere in sight, but that means nothing. They’re always watching. And if they aren’t one of their friends are, waiting to tattle the second they see me doing something unbecoming. My gaze skims the crowd, searching. For what? I haven’t seen Aries. And I don’t have any friends in this crowd. My best friend Emery hasn’t come to one of these things in years. Last time I had to bribe her. Maybe I should have tonight.
“Fancy a dance with me?” His cologne hits me before his words do—expensive, overpowering, exactly what you’d expect from someone who thinks designer labels are a personality type. Adam flashes in my mind, and I shove the thought away.