Page 7 of The Pirate Queen of Ruin
My summers may have been spent in Greece with my mother’s family; I am not a sea-faring kind of gal. Even though they are usually stable, the moving water beneath my shoes always makes my stomach roll. I can’t get over the rocking motion, even if I simply imagine it. I tried to argue against the party being on the boat, saying my parents would be more than happy to pay for a venue, but they wouldn’t hear any of it.
I know why.
The Bradshaw’s yacht,The Platinum Signal, is nice, luxuriously furnished and completely decked out in gadgets to make holidaying on the open water enjoyable. However, it is also the only fully furnished thing they own at the moment. Their house, ski lodge, and summer home are all empty, nearly gutted to scrape together enough money to keep saving face with the public. My parents and I are the only outsiders who know about their troubles, and a part of the engagement contract we signed included an NDA about finances… or the lack thereof.
Exclusive luxury spas really are the most incredible way to dig through the elite’s dirty laundry while they are being scrubbed clean. After a brush at a charity gala, Marietta issued an invitation to our New York spa, and everything came to light. At the same time, the Bradshaw matriarchy steamed all the vodka martinis out of her system. She will have used that knowledge to negotiate this whole shambles of a marriage, because the only thing worse than being attached to new money is no money at all.
Another part of our agreement is that neither of us is to cause a public scene, such as excessive drug use. Otherwise, the contract is null and void. My parents refused to be involved in such a scandal, especially after Paris. Miles has a long history in the party scene and has made tabloid headlines on multiple occasions. The man is as subtle as a bull in a China shop with his vices, yet he is still viewed as a boon to my reputation and status among the wealth of America.
“Please, Phi, it will be a great time. Everyone will drink until they are messy, someone will break the ice sculpture, and tomorrow, the papers will be screaming about what an absolute bash it was,” Lottie says as a waiter drops off sparkling water for her. Condensation drips down the glass bottle, and I get lost in the rivulet, slowly soaking the table.
“You’re right,” I sigh, forcing a weak smile. “Plus, what’s the point of having a new dress if I don’t have a party to show it off at?”
She squeals and does a little dance in her seat. Discussion of the party is easily pushed aside for a more important topic– fashion.
On the whole, I am damn conscious of everything I wear. Not only because I am a plus-size woman but because I need my brands to be as exceptional as I am. Tonight, my dress is from an up-and-coming designer based in New York who had the most diverse and body-inclusive show I have ever seen. It was all the rage, so I commissioned them for an evening dress then and there. It took an age to nail their schedule down, but the custom dress is mine. They were a doll to work with, selecting fabrics and cuts that made me feel as beautiful as I am.
I pull up a photo of the dress on my phone. Charlotte gasps so loudly that several other women enjoying a liquid brunch turn to us. They look at us, and just as they are about to say something, one of the women recognises me. The sheepish smiles and apologetic shrugs tell me they don’t want to risk their chance of getting an invite to one of our exclusive spas. I’m drawn back to our table when she rips my phone from my hand and starts pinching and moving around the screen.
“One, I need the details for this designer. Two, you look stunning. Show-stopping. Iconic,” she gushes, but doesn’t stop inspecting the picture.
That had been a good weekend, all on my own. A train ride up to New York, meeting a few of my fellow influencers and friends for brunch, followed by the fitting of a lifetime. And trust me, I have had my fair share of fittings in my short life.
For the party, I have gone with a sleeveless, fuchsia dress, with draped panelling reminiscent of my mother’s Greek heritage. The silk is fine and smooth and flows ethereally with every step I take in it. A portion is nipped at my waist and accents the flare of my hip, showing off my hourglass figure. I have never felt more like a goddess than I do when I have that dress on.
All the better, Miles hates it.
Chapter four
Delphini
NightsinGwenmorearecold. Maybe all of the East Coast is like this, but here? A thick fog rolls in like an old lover, and the breeze finds all your personal warm spots to freeze over. In Chicago, you expect it. There were days when the lake would be near frozen, beautiful shards of ice creaking and knocking together as the wind kept pushing you closer and closer to the edge like it wanted you to fall into the icy depths of Lake Michigan.
Here, it feels different.
Looking out at the water, the champagne glass in my hand near full still while my stomach riots, there is no wind calling me to the bay. The waves of the Atlantic are enough. The sounds of the party directly behind me fades in and out of focus asThe Platinum Signalslices through the water, until we are a decent distance from the harbour. I can feel it slowing down, the anchors weighing the ship so we don’t float off, and still, the pre-party granola bar I had while diffusing my hair threatens to go overboard.
The boat is still, but I can feel the waves. The rocking, the motions of the tide sinking. That sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous, I tell myself. It’s a silly fear of the open water that a lot of people have. I swallow the thick lump in my throat and return to the party full of people I don’t know.
Lottie and Marcus are here, of course. She is dangling on his arm like he is god’s gift to mankind. Gone is the linen, replaced with delicate lace, a navy colour that reminds me of the seas near myyiayia’svilla in Paxos.
I’m envious of them, jealous beyond belief now that I really think about it. Before I was thrust into the marriage of convenience, soulmates, and true love, the whole romance seemed pointless. My life was scheduled and organised down to the last second before everything happened. There wasn’t an ounce of fiction that could convince me that romance was what I needed in my life. But after months of seeing Marcus look at her like he’d walk over hot coals just for her to spit in his direction has changed me. I want to be a part of something like that. Their love is fucking palpable, and Miles?
Miles is surrounded by a flock of girls who look even younger than me. As I am already a burden to my parents at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, that man whore is what I deserve. Except I have prospects and money beyond imagination that should have saved me from all this. My parents are too greedy.
My future mother-in-law is insect-like as she walks over to me. She’s deathly pale, unlike quite a few of the other women here, and downright fucking mean. She reminds me of the overly secure rich girls I went to prep school with. I guess it’s proof that some people don’t grow out of being a bully.
“Delphini, darling, I thought Miles said he spoke to you about that dress?” Her gaze shifts down my body and I get a bit happier knowing I’ve pissed her off, but she can’t do anything too heinous to me about it. She’s dead fucking broke; she needs me and my family’s wealth to keep up this lavish lifestyle. “You’re practically glowing in the dark compared to everyone else.”
This is a black-tie event. All the men are dressed in subtly different versions of the exact same black suit, and nearly all the women are wearing some dark-shaded evening dress. I am the only one in something bright. I am the only one dressed like I’m not going to a royal funeral.
“Miles even went so far as to try and rip the dress out of my hands, Evelyn,” I say with a smile. One of the photography team members walks by, and his camera flash is discombobulating. “But you will see me dead before I stop wearing my signature pink.”
“Oh would you look at the Vanderburgs, I have to speak with them about our Sunday tee time.”
Evelyn Bradshaw doesn’t scowl, too much Botox if I had to guess, but the chill that washes over me at her last look at me is terrifying enough. My fiancé makes eye contact with his mother and then turns his death glare right on me. I raise my glass of champagne and take a delicate sip, unbothered and unfazed by his pathetic attempt at intimidation.
I learned from the best. He will have to try harder.
