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I try not to flinch as she lines my waterline. “Remind me again why I agreed to this makeover?”
“Because,” she says, stepping back to assess her work, “you said—and I quote—‘I’m sick of Dad treating me like I’m twelve.’ Then you ranted for twenty minutes about how he still has that photo of you with braces and pigtails as his phone background.”
I groan, remembering that awful seventh-grade picture. “He showed it to the Canadian Prime Minister last year.”
“Exactly.” Zoe circles me, her artist’s eye critical. “If you want him to stop seeing little Lily with the scraped knees and start seeing grown-up Lily who deserves respect, you need to look the part.”
She’s right, even if I hate admitting it. The girl who stumbled late into Professor Martinez’s class yesterday, hair wild and coffee-stained, isn’t going to convince my father I’m capable of making my own decisions.
“Now for the dress,” Zoe declares, throwing open my closet doors with dramatic flair. She pushes aside my collection ofhoodies and jeans, digging until she unearths something black and silky. “This. This is perfect.”
“That’s for funerals,” I protest weakly.
“It’s Chanel, Lily. Your mother’s Chanel that she gave you for your birthday. It’s for making statements.” She tosses it at me. “Put it on.”
The dress fits like it was made for me—which it basically was, since Mom had it tailored. The hem hits just above my knees, sophisticated without trying too hard. I slip into the black heels Zoe insists upon, wobbling slightly.
“Don’t you dare fall at Le Bernardin,” she warns, attacking my hair with a curling iron. “The New York Times society page would have a field day. ‘Governor’s Daughter Face-Plants in Lobster Bisque.’”
“Thanks for that mental image.” I watch as she transforms my usually unruly hair into soft waves that frame my face. The stranger in the mirror looks elegant, composed—nothing like the hurricane that blew into Political Theory yesterday.
“There,” Zoe says finally, satisfaction warming her voice. “Now you look like someone who deserves to be taken seriously.”
My phone chimes with a text from Dad’s driver: “Downstairs, Ms. Moore.”
“Game time,” I murmur, grabbing my small clutch. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck,” Zoe says, adjusting one of my curls. “Just don’t back down. Remember—Albany is a prison sentence. Stand your ground.”
The black town car waits at the curb, its engine purring softly in the cool evening air. The driver, Thomas, has been with our family for years. He raises an eyebrow when he sees me.
“Ms. Lily,” he says, opening the door. “You look lovely tonight.”
“Thanks, Thomas.” I slide into the leather backseat, careful not to wrinkle the dress. “How’s Angela? Did she have the baby yet?”
His weathered face breaks into a smile. “Last week. A little girl. Seven pounds, three ounces.”
“That’s wonderful! Please give her my congratulations.”
As we glide through Manhattan traffic, I feel my phone vibrate.
Zoe: Repeat after me: I AM A GROWN WOMAN WHO MAKES HER OWN CHOICES.
I smile, typing back: I AM A GROWN WOMAN WHO MAKES HER OWN CHOICES.
Zoe: And Albany is...?
Me: A soul-crushing vortex where dreams go to die.
Zoe: That’s my girl. Now go knock his gubernatorial socks off.
The car slides to a stop in front of Le Bernardin, its discreet entrance illuminated by soft lighting. Thomas comes around to open my door, offering his hand as I step out. I take a deep breath, smoothing my dress.
“Your father is already inside, Ms. Lily,” Thomas says. “Table fourteen.”
“Thank you.” I straighten my shoulders, channeling the confidence of the sophisticated woman in my mirror. No more pigtails. No more braces. No more letting Dad dictate my life.
The maître d’ recognizes me immediately—hazard of being a politician’s daughter—and leads me through the restaurant with its hushed conversations and crystal glassware. I spot Dad at a corner table, his back to me as he speaks with someone I can’t yet see.
