I go over and over this as I shower, dry off and do my makeup. I’m so distracted that I have to do it twice and am barely finishing up when the hour is up. I slide into the dress, which somehow fits me perfectly, and then step into the heels and manage to make my way downstairs without breaking a leg. My mom’s not home, but it’s not hard to guess where she is.
There’s a man standing outside in a black suit who meets me with an umbrella. “Right this way, miss.”
It’s so odd I can’t even reply. I just do my best not to fall as I cross the driveway and get into the back of the insanely expensive black sedan. He closes the door for me, gets in the driver’s side, and we head off to wherever it is Baron has instructed him to take me.
What’s his game with all this? This feels like a second date or something, but Baron doesn’t need to try to impress me or woo me or romance me; he’s already had me and has made it quite clear he could have me again whenever he pleases. So then why give me a dress and heels and invite – well, demand – that I come out with him? Just to show me that he controls every aspect of my life?
He can’t be that cruel.
He’s not a tyrant…right? As I listen to the sound of the rain on the roof of the car, I try my best to unravel the layered mystery that is my stepdad. What does he truly want?
Then his words come back to me.
“I was never looking to be your father. But I will be your daddy.”
8
Pixie
When the car pulls up at our destination, I can’t believe my eyes. Apparently Baron has invited me to a house party at a mansion that obviously belongs to some kind of ultra-wealthy individual, but the house we live in is one of those too, so that isn’t what shocks me. What has my jaw on the floor is the double line of nearly-naked women flanking the entrance to the front door.
Men in suits strut past them, smoking cigars and smiling, acting like they own the world (which they kind of do), and as strange as it is to admit, I look around in something close to panic, searching for Baron.
“What is this!?” I ask the driver.
“The annual Body Ball,” he replies calmly. Then he glances in the mirror and winks. “Never heard about it before?”
I shake my head and stay where I am, not wanting to get out and get involved. I watch as more men head inside. Some of them even have dates on their arms who don’t seem the slightest bit fazed by the half-naked, smiling girls who I notice are all holding champagne for the guests. One man takes one and casually cops a feel from the girl, who just continues to smile back at him.
What is this?
My door opens, and I look up, expecting to see Baron smiling down at me with that obnoxious, amused look on his face, but instead find myself face to face with a terrifying looking man who could best be described as a bulldog in a suit. The collar is stretched around his thick neck, and he eyes me with a stony disregard as he extends a hand to me. I almost don’t want to take it, but not taking it seems like an even worse decision.
“Mr. Stark would like me to take you up to the house.”
“Um, okay,” is the best I can manage as I take his hand. He pulls me up out of the car with such strength that I practically shoot into orbit, and when I come back down, almost break both of my ankles trying to steady myself on the ridiculous stilettos Baron picked out for me.
I don’t know where to look as my canine-esque escort leads me up to the house. Too many boobs. Just too many boobs. So I keep my eyes on the gravel, white and chalky, pretending there’s something interesting going on with it, until we’re inside. Only then do I raise my eyes.
Long curtains of white Christmas lights line the walls, and candelabras flicker softly overhead as immaculately dressed couples slow-dance on the marble floor of the massive foyer. I’m not the best with money, but I’d be willing to bet that the dresses the women are wearing probably all would add up to more money than most people make in a year.
To the right is a study, where groups of obviously wealthy men are smoking cigars and speaking in hushed whispers. As I enter, I feel their eyes on me, like lions stalking a gazelle. The hairs on my arm stand up, and I quickly look away. Strangely, I’m praying Baron shows up soon to save me. Isn’t that ironic?
“He will be with you shortly,” my guide says as he releases my hand then vanishes back outside, leaving me alone, feeling completely out of place. I’m probably exaggerating, but it feels as though every eye in the place is on me now. They know I don’t belong here.
“Wonderful dress. Montparnasse? Emilio Pucci?” A woman’s voice behind me causes me to turn, and I find myself looking at one of the most beautiful, yet strangely inhuman women I’ve ever met. Her skin is smooth – almost to the point of looking fake, and although I can’t put my finger on it, I can tell she’s had some work done. Her boobs are very big, bordering on too big, and are pushed up to her collarbones. She regards me with cold blue eyes.
“Um, excuse me?” I stammer.
“Who made your dress, dear? I’d love to get one for my daughter.”
Now I feel even more out of place. What would a super-rich girl say at a time like this? “Oh, I don’t even know,” I smile,
