It was one thing to be disregarded by my father. I was used to that. But having Dash reject me? Unwarranted and hurtful. He was the only one who made waking up each day worthwhile for me. I expected more from him. Would have gotten it too had it not been for Father. Thanks to the both of them, I had to face that evening’s fiasco alone.
Honestly, I would have preferred skipping it. My heart wasn’t in it. Staying in my room, nursing a bottle, would have been a better way to spend the night.
I glimpsed at my reflection in the floor-length mirror. Well-fitted designer sheath dress in magenta, nude pantyhose—Father abhorred the bare leg look, saying it was indicative of poverty—and hair tamed into a sensible bun at the nape of my neck. Even my makeup was tastefully applied—minimal eyeshadow with only one coat of mascara. I lined my full lips and filled them in with fuchsia lip stain. I looked like a fucking pink nightmare and a perfect fraud. I was the puppet Aldrich Daniels expected.
Frankly, I hated those dinners. Each one was engineered to find me a suitable husband. Someone to absolve Father of his guilt and shame of knowing that his only heir was a measly, unimportant girl.
As much as I disliked being paraded like a show dog, I hated the color pink so much more, especially bright pink. Father should have remembered that. Pink was too hopeful.
Too fucking girly.
It represented everything I would never be.
He knew it but insisted that I wear the dress along with a pair of silver strappy sandals and diamonds. I supposed any other woman would be happy with the ensemble. Not me. Every item was a trapping of femininity. Something I couldn’t approve of. A pair of ripped jeans, a tank top, and low-heeled boots made me happy—let me be free.
Turning away from the image, I reached for my purse, searching for a joint or a pill—anything to make the night bearable. When I couldn’t find anything, I stalked from my room. Surely, I’d find something to drink at one of the many bars gracing downstairs.
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