Tightly knit communities are less likely to rat, and there’s far more at stake if they do.
That’s how my brother came to hold any sort of political influence in Aplana; his association with high-powered criminals might make him a lot of enemies and not the public’s biggest fan, but hijacking an election is fairly simple.
He didn’t even have to do any of it himself.
My fist comes down on top of the table, and I clench my jaw until my molars ache.
“You’re aware that the Primrose family hates me?”
Justified, some might say, considering I tried to kill the patriarch.
But he started it by killing my father.
“All of Aplana is aware, yes.” Alistair shrugs, tapping his nails on the card. “Which is exactly why no one will be expecting you.”
2
The knocking never ceases.
Someone is always standing on the other side of my closed bedroom door, rapping their knuckles raw. Desperate for a crumb of my attention, or in need of my face for a PR stunt, or a signature for some endorsement or sponsorship.
Going along with whatever Daddy asks of me is my shtick, at this point. I’ve done it for so long with a smile on my face that no one bats an eye when my lips start to fall.
The facade cracks and my sunny disposition turns sour, but they don’t notice.
They just keep coming to me with new things to do. More people to meet. More ways to make Primrose Realty—and, by extension, Daddy—look good.
Eventually, you have to learn to master the art of multitasking. You turn the pages of an art history magazine with your feet, while a team of makeup artists come to slather your face in creams and glitter.
You paint with a longer sable-hair brush, perfecting a fine-tipped watercolor piece while people pin your hair to your head, unaware of the strands being torn from your scalp.
And while you’re stuffed into a cocktail dress for a party you’re not remotely interested in attending, you admire the soft, crimson material and dream of blood.
Mama’s the first to greet me when I make my way down the split staircase in our foyer, brown eyes twinkling as I get to the last step.
Tonight, for the first time ever, Daddy’s throwing a soiree to celebrate my return to our compound. At least, that’s the official slogan.
I know better. Men’s heated gazes gravitate toward me as I curl my hand around the banister, and the women in the room look like they’d like to rip the bobby pins from my updo. Half of Aplana Island must be here, and they’re all intent on one thing: figuring out who Lenny Primrose, the favored Primrose child, wants to date.
As if Daddy would actually let me have some sort of choice in the matter.
Mama reaches out, twisting my shoulders as she inspects my dress. “Well, aren’t you just pretty as a peach?”
Her white-blonde bob bounces at her chin as she tilts her head, studying, and I can’t help the beads of sweat that percolate along my hairline. Even though I’m sure every hair is in its particular place and my makeup isn’t running, my insides squeeze tight, sure she’ll find something to nitpick anyway.
My fingers pull at my polyester dress, hiding in case I didn’t scrub them clean enough. Before coming down, I held them under the scalding water in my en suite bathroom until my skin felt raw, but I can still feel paint everywhere.
Reaching between us, Mama hooks her pinkie in the little loop of my zipper, which runs all the way down the middle of the dress. Tugging upward, she clicks her tongue, attempting to hide my cleavage.
My entire body tenses up, afraid she’ll see the angled paintbrush I have tucked between my breasts.
I don’t go anywhere without one, just in case inspiration strikes.
Just in case.
The zipper pauses as she releases it, then slides back into its original place, leaving a good portion of my breasts on display without revealing the bristles.
Sighing, she shakes her head and moves back a step. “I guess we’ll just have to make do.”
Part of me wonders if she’s waiting for me to offer to change, even though this is the dress she sent with the housekeeper to have me wear tonight.
“You look tired, Helene. Are you not sleeping well?”
A knot forms in my throat. Resentment burns in my lungs—she and Daddy are the only ones who call me by my full name, and I loathe it. “I’m fine, Mama.”
Her fingers slide beneath one of my dress straps, hiking it higher up my shoulder. “It looks like you’ve lost weight, too. Maybe we should send you back to that specialist. What was his name? Dr. Goldstein?”
“No,” I say quickly, slipping away from her hold. My heel presses into the step behind me, and I clear my throat as Mama frowns, clearly confused. “I mean, I’m fine. I don’t need to see anyone.”
“But you look sick—”
“It’s probably just nerves from the party.” Forcing a smile, I push past her and hop off the steps. “Come find me in an hour and I’ll be as good as new.”
Part of me believes that when I say it. Or, at least, part of me wants to believe it.
Sixty minutes later, though, and I’m plastered against Daddy’s side as he regales a crowd of business partners with stories from his undergrad years at Berkeley, more uncomfortable than ever.
My eyes stay on the massive oil portrait hanging above the marble fireplace in the family room. It’s an impressionistic view of our immediate family, with me sitting in the middle between my brothers, and our parents behind us looking larger than life.
If I’d known when I’d painted it that one day I’d find their presence suffocating, perhaps I would have shrunk them instead. Every piece of them since, especially of Daddy lately, barely includes his full figure at all.
As if I can change perception and influence with brushstrokes.
A baby grand piano sits off to the side of the fireplace, and a silver-haired woman in a beige gown plays softly, staring out past the crowd. I wonder what the party looks like to those standing on the manicured lawn outside, still waiting to get in.
If the facade is visible through the single-paned windows lining the downstairs, or if the ocean views beyond our property distract from the ugly reality.
“Of course, I gave up those wild days for the kids,” Daddy tells the men, yanking me tighter against his side.
One man cocks an eyebrow, leering at me. He smirks around his beer bottle, and when he leans in, I can’t shake the tendril of discomfort that wraps around my spine.
There’s something familiar about him. Something off.
I swallow it down, attributing my unease to anxiety. Or maybe it’s the fact that I just got done shoveling half a sheet of red velvet cake into my mouth before I got ready, and I’m afraid someone might be able to tell.
“They’re hardly kids anymore. Darling little Lenny’s all grown up,” the man says, nudging my father with his elbow. He licks his lips, and nausea curdles in my stomach.
“Oh, don’t remind me.” Daddy laughs. “Can you believe she turned twenty-three this year? Had a party while she was off sowing oats in Vermont. First one I didn’t get to throw for her.”
A snort pushes past my lips, but no one seems to hear.
Or maybe they just ignore it. As usual.
Still, I don’t remember the last time Daddy threw me a party, and I hardly count my escape to my aunt’s as “sowing oats,” when most of what I did there was work at getting rid of nightmares and learn self-defense.