When I clamber into the back of the taxi, that’s when it hits me: I made out with Tristan Radcliffe.
I spend my Saturday practicing with my violin, but my heart isn't in it. Tristan keeps texting and calling me, but god knows how he got my number because I didn’t give it to him. He’s my future husband, a future I didn’t choose, but he was there when I needed him. It was too much to think about right now, I needed to learn Sonata No.9 flawlessly or my father would be disappointed, and that was something I also couldn’t deal with at the moment.
With a groan as I ruin another note, I give up and sit on the chaise longue in my room, glaring at my reflection in the mirror. I was a failure. I wasn’t going to be able to pull this off. A fraud. Just trying to pretend to be the perfect daughter.
“I’m proud of you, darling,” my mother coos as she swans into my room with a bottle of champagne and two glasses in her hand. “Atlas told me everything. You’re more like me than I thought.”
I don’t even need to ask to know what she’s on about. She’s talking about Sam and the way I turned him into a bloody pulp yesterday. She never usually talks to me like this, and she especially doesn't bring a $1,000 dollar bottle of alcohol to my room as if we’re about to have girly chats and giggles. As she pops the cork and pours, I shake my head. “How can you be proud of me?”
“Because you are Elena Montgomery, and no one stands in your way.” She hands me a glass, her eyes narrowed as she watches me. “Why do you seem so forlorn?”
“I lost control,” I sigh before taking a gulp of the golden-colored liquid. My room is bright and airy, painted in a pastel pink with gold accents, and white furniture. It’s not the room of someone who had blood on their hands yesterday. It’s gentle and dainty, not something an angry psychopath would choose, and I feel my stomach tighten with guilt as my mother stands before me, proud expression clear.
“What’s wrong with that?”
I bow my head. “Father will be angry.”
She scoffs. “Your father doesn’t need to know.”
While The Society was based upon wealth and power, there were still levels within, and while we didn’t talk about it, I knew my mother was from a more prominent family than my father. Her family tree went back to the founders, while my father’s only went back a few generations, and while I assumed that gave her a little more sway, I’d never actually thought about it until now. She was able to keep this a secret from the town mayor, her husband, and a fellow member of The Society. Looking at her carefully, I see the way the corner of her mouth pulls into a slight smile. Her cards were always held so close to her chest, but this felt like some sort of weird bonding moment.
She pours herself a second glass and lays down on my bed, propping herself up on her elbow. Her black dress is fitted and her hair perfect as always as she gives off major femme fatale vibes.
“Did you ever think that if you embraced who you are instead of trying to be perfect, you might have more control over your life, not less?”
I almost snort champagne from my nostrils with that one. “That's rich coming from you. You’re Silvercrest’s ultimate trophy wife.”
She bites the inside of her cheek before answering. “They only see what I want them to see, and if your father wants me to smile and pretend to be the perfect housewife, I will because out of the limelight, I do what I want. “
Standing again, she smooths down her dress in my mirror. Twirling a strand of dyed gold-colored hair around her fingers, she’s fixated on her reflection as she laughs, “It’s a veneer, a mask, darling. You don’t actually have to be perfect, you just have to make them think that you are. All the men in this town seem to underestimate us, but it’s their mistake in the end.”
I don’t think I’ve ever really seen my mother until this moment. She wasn’t the airhead my father thought her to be, instead she was calculating and ruthless—a true daughter of The Society.
She tops up my glass with a sneaky grin. “Quit the squad. Get drunk. Skip a class or three. Fuck Tristan Radcliffe. There is nothing you can do, that The Society cannot fix.”
Was my mother encouraging a rebellion? Why had it taken her this long to talk to me like this? Why hadn’t we done this before?
“Father—”
Rolling her eyes, she finishes off her second glass. “Your father wouldn’t know real power if it bit him on that enormous nose of his. Stop treating his words as gospel, you’re only forcing yourself into a box you don’t belong in. The Grim blood in you is too strong for you to be this weak.”
Her eyes assess me as I sit there with my violin in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. I have been struggling for weeks, trying to do everything that was expected of me, where was she then? This must be a trick.
“I am not—” I try to reassure her. This must be a test. I can do this. I can be Elena Montgomery, captain of the cheer squad, class president, accomplished musician, talented ballet dancer, and daughter of the mayor. I can.
“You are weak like this.” Her face almost looks sad as she sighs. “You’re pulling yourself in too many directions, and instead of embracing the potential you have, you’re letting it float by. Pick something and commit to it. Fight tooth and nail for it.
