“And my sister should be here in about”—Gus glances down at his Grand Seiko watch—“an hour and a half to do your nails and feet. She’s also bringing a friend who does hair.” I frown, and he shrugs. “She owns a nail shop, and when I told her I’d pay triple her regular price, she agreed to make a house call.”
“Gotdamn. If that’s the family discount, just treat me like a regular-degular customer.” Jaq winces.
“She’s about her business first, so I can’t be mad at her.” Gus hikes up an eyebrow. “So, you’re fully taken care of, literally, from head to toe. Are you going?”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Look, I appreciate all of this. And you. I appreciate you for arranging all of this for me. But, why is this so important to you? What does it matter if I go to this thing or not? C’mon, we all know this ball is lessabout my engagement and more about House of Cross business and flaunting its wealth and connections. I’m just a sideshow.”
And I was tired of being other people’s entertainment. Their joke.
To the man whose one job was to love me, protect me, nurture me, he only used me. First, for an heir. And when I bombed that assignment by being born a woman, then later for his wealth and gain. But not before turning me over to the tender mercies of his wife.
My pain, my torture was her favorite pastime. And her son continued the hobby last night after he made me believe he’d once been my savior instead of my tormentor.
So no, I’m not tired. I’m fucking exhausted. Of being their punch line. Their toy. Their scapegoat.
“It matters because they don’t want you there,” Perla quietly says. “Ember, since we’ve been working here, you’ve made it a point not to mention anything family related. But we’re not ignorant or blind. We’ve all witnessed how the employees here act toward you when they come in contact and how they behave toward Prince, Kareem, or Michelle. Either they’re incredibly disrespectful or they have no clue who you are—Marcus Cross’s daughter. We witnessed that for ourselves at the funeral. You weren’t allowed to sit with the family but with us, as if you were just someone who received a paycheck and didn’t possess half of that man’s DNA.” Perla’s voice trembles with fury, and it’s such a juxtaposition with her sweet, bespectacled pixie appearance that in other circumstances, it would’ve been funny.
But she’s enraged on my behalf, and there’s nothing humorous about that. There’s nothing amusing about someone loving you.
I squeeze my eyes closed against the embarrassing sting of tears. Against the burn in my heart that goes a little way to exorcising the hurt.
“I can’t speak for Prince,” she continues, “but all of us here know Michelle doesn’t want you anywhere near there, and everyone else doesn’t think you belong.That’swhy you need to go. Toshow that cunt and those privileged one-percenters that not only do you belong at the table but youownthat muthafuckin’ table.”
Well. Damn.
“And go be on your ratchet bald-headed ho shit to make Mr. Asad Prince pay for whatever fuckup he committed and rub in his face what he’s been missing,” Jaq cosigns.
“Please don’t be on your ratchet bald-headed ho shit.” Gus sighs. “But everything else, hell yeah.”
I look at the circle—no.Mycircle. I look at my circle of support and smile.
At my courage in physical form. If they believe I can do this, that I should do this, then damn, maybe it’s about time I start believing in myself.
“Fuck it. I’ll go.”
“Miss Ma’am, you are giving.” Bennie steps back, a grin stretching her full, glossed lips. “I knew this dress was the one as soon as Sheri pulled it.” Without glancing away from me, she bumps fists with the statuesque redhead with the ebony skin and lush curves. “Great job, friend.”
“Of course. You know I don’t do anything but win,” Sheri gloats. “But she’s not wrong, boo. You are wearing this dress, and it looks even better than I envisioned. And I can admit when I’m wrong. I thought those glass shoes were givingP-Valley, but they work. They really bring the look together.”
I turn and take in my reflection in the tall cheval mirror. And I’m… in awe. One would expect the daughter of a fashion mogul and the head of a billionaire drug empire to be blasé about gorgeous evening wear. But one would be dead-ass wrong. This is my first. As is this ball. I’ve never been to a formal occasion that called for a gown or jewelry. Not a dance. Not a gala.
How pathetic is it that I’m twenty-five years old and am attending my first prom?
Shaking my head, I stare at myself. The black mermaid-styledress fits my curves like the proverbial glove, gliding over each one like a level-ten clinger lover. The sweetheart neckline draws eyes to my generous breasts and the tiered bottom of the dress flares from my knees in a glorious display of silken obsidian feathers. I twist to the side, and the straps wrap over my shoulders and under my arms, leaving my entire back bare down to the small of it. The light of the room bounces off the black sequins covering the entire dress, and it’s almost as if I glow and burn with a dark fire with each movement. Only the toe of my glass stiletto peeps from underneath the feathered hem—an identical replica of my mother’s wedding shoes that I had designed years ago but have never worn.
Black polish and tiny diamonds decorate my nails and toenails, and my blond hair brushes my shoulders in a ruthlessly straight sheet. A part down the middle has the strands framing my face, emphasizing the flawless beat the makeup artist applied. Diamonds dangle from my ears and circle my throat and wrist.
I’m beautiful.
Sadness trickles through me, and I blink against the sting in my eyes. A memory of my mother sitting at the vanity in her bedroom, putting on her makeup, preparing for a night out with Marcus, floats in front of my eyes. She’d loved dressing up. Loved getting her dark blond hair styled and her nails done. Kimberly Cross would’ve probably been standing here, dabbing at her eyes, delighted and proud to see me looking just like her.
She should’ve been here. God, I wish she were.
Inhaling deeply, I turn back around and give Bennie and Sheri another smile—tremulous but genuine.
“Thank you both.” The words seem inadequate for the gift they’ve given me. I’m walking into the lion’s den tonight, and they’ve clothed me in impenetrable, gorgeous armor.
Maybe they read the immensity of what I’m unable to express because Sheri grins widely and Bennie crosses the short space separating us and pulls me into a short but tight embrace.