“Lieutenant Anthony Michaels, son of Virginia state senator Brandon Michaels. Wounded in Afghanistan six months ago,” I inform her as Anthony moves forward and my mother kisses both of his cheeks and thanks him for his service.
Running my hands down the front of my dress, I glance at the soft fabric covering my body. It’s a Versace gown the color of emerald green and perfectly matches my eyes. The soft jersey material clings to every curve of my body and drapes around the floor at my feet, a slit up the side showcasing one long leg—the good one, of course. It only has one strap over my shoulder, held together with a gold filigree broach, leaving my other shoulder completely bare. It’s a beautiful dress and it fits me like a glove, but I saw this dress on the runway a few months ago. I know the original style of this dress was intended to be cut short, several inches above the knee. I know my mother had her stylist send it to get altered, because God forbid I ever show myself and my scarred leg in public, around people who respect her.
“No one likes to be reminded of tragedy, Shelby. These people see enough ugliness in their lives.”
The only concession I made tonight was refusing to put my hair in a fancy updo. It took fifteen minutes of arguing with my mother’s stylist before she finally gave up, left the room, and I petulantly curled my long, strawberry blond hair into soft waves framing my face and hanging halfway down my back.
Brushing my hair back over my bare shoulder, my smile quickly dies from my face when I realize it’s more than a little pathetic that my hair is the only form of rebellion I’m brave enough to fight for tonight. I’m here at this charity function, held at my family plantation, because I was told to be. I’m wearing this floor-length Versace dress because it was chosen for me. I’m whispering in my mother’s ear because it’s the job I was forced to take. I feel like my mother’s doll. One she dresses up in a pretty package to hide the truth on the inside.
“Have I told you lately how hot your ass looks in that dress?”
I smile, barely containing an unladylike giggle as I step away from my mother’s side while she’s busy talking, to turn and look at Meredith. Unlike me, Meredith is wearing whatever the hell she wants, her curvy body showcased in a tight red halter-style dress with a deep vee in the front showing off a generous amount of cleavage that have most of the men in this room tripping over their own feet when she walks by.
My mother shoots a quick, annoyed look at the two of us over her shoulder and Meredith raises her champagne glass in the air toward her in a silent toast, giving her a huge, fake smile.
“Let me guess, she’s still pissed I helped you move out into the guest house today?” Meredith asks out of the corner of her mouth, bringing the crystal flute to her lips and taking a sip.
Okay, so I might have managed to perform one more rebellious act today, but that’s only because of the woman standing next to me. Meredith took one look at my face when she walked into the house this morning after she landed, dragged me upstairs, and started packing my things.
“You need your space. Especially with all this shit going on. You can’t think clearly living under the same roof as Lucifer and I’m not going to stand here and watch you take her crap day after day. Even if you move back after I’m gone, at least we can have some privacy out there and I can knock some sense into you without her walking in on us, demanding something from you every five minutes.”
To say my mother was flustered when she came home from a few meetings this afternoon and found out from one of the household staff that I’d moved out was the understatement of the year. Luckily, I was in the shower at the guest house when she stormed over and Meredith handled that confrontation. All she had to do was mention her father, and my mother shut her mouth, turned, and walked back to the main house.
“Of course she’s pissed, but she’ll keep her mouth shut and continue glaring at us throughout your entire stay just in case you might have the urge to tell your father she’s being difficult,” I tell her softly, grabbing my own glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
“Lucky for her, I try to avoid speaking to my father as much as possible, but she doesn’t need to know that.”
Meredith and her father have always had a rocky relationship. Even though he lets her make her own choices in life, he’s never quiet about his disappointment in those choices. He doesn’t understand Meredith’s free spirit and artistic nature. While I’ve been stuck here in Charleston, Meredith has been flourishing as a romance author in New York. The first book she published after we graduated from college soared to the top of the bestseller lists, and every book she’s penned since then has been no different. Her nonstop upward movement since that first book is probably the only reason her father has stopped trying to pressure her into moving to D.C. to work for him as the head of Homeland Security. That, and the fact that she writes under a pen name, never makes public appearances even though two of her books have been made into popular movies, and the whispers and rumors about who she really is continue to increase her fame each time she puts out another book. As long as she continues showing up to his social functions to fake her support for him, her father is perfectly fine to let her be. It’s no wonder he and my mother get along so well.
“Shelby, there are a few people I’d like you to meet.”
Meredith and I both turn to look at Landry as he walks up to us and kisses me on the cheek, before giving a curt nod in Meredith’s direction. Landry, being of mostly the same mind as my mother, isn’t Meredith’s biggest fan either and has made his complaints loud and clear about my moving out into the guest house because of her influence. One would think he’d be happy that I had my own place, so to speak, so the two of us could have some privacy, but one would be wrong. If something upsets my mother, it gets back to him and he has to deal with the backlash. My mother spent the entire evening chewing his ear off about letting me make such a stupid decision.
I should be offended neither of these people seem to think I can make my own decisions, but what would be the point? I can’t and I don’t. I do what I’m told, like a good, obedient daughter. I used to be headstrong and confident, ready and willing to take on the world, and it makes me sick to my stomach that I’ve let that part of me slip away.
“We’re a little busy here, Lando, how about you come back in a few minutes?” Meredith informs him with a cheeky smile, tossing back the rest of her champagne.