Page 2 of Bratva Daddy
"There's a diner on 66th Street," I said. "They have good soup. Tell them Clara sent you—they know me there."
Maria nodded, already standing, eager to escape the cold now that she had the means. She touched my cheek with one freezing hand, a benediction from someone who had nothing but still found something to give.
"You are good girl," she said. "Someone will see. Someone will know your worth."
Then she shuffled away, my cream cashmere scarf the brightest thing about her retreating figure. I sat alone on the bench, watching tourists toss coins into the fountain and make wishes.
The encounter left a familiar ache in my chest. Fifty dollars and a scarf was a band-aid on a gaping wound. It was why the "Home & Hope" auction had become my obsession. I needed to believe that I could do more—that I could help build something lasting. Every lot I'd curated, from the vintage jewelry sourced at estate sales to the emerging artists' work, felt like a small prayer for people like Maria who didn’t have much more than wishes to keep them going.
What would I wish for? Not money—I had that. Not opportunity—I had that too, for whatever it was worth. Not even love, exactly, because love was too abstract, too fairy-tale.
There was only one wish for me.
To be seen.
Not as the pretty girl in the designer clothes who showed up at the right parties and smiled at the right people. I wanted someone to see the messy, complicated truth of me and decide I was worth keeping anyway.
The October wind picked up, scattering leaves across the fountain plaza. I gathered my bags—which felt suddenly empty despite their weight—and started the walk home. Fifth Avenue stretched ahead, lined with doorman buildings and old money fortresses. My father's penthouse waited fifteen stories up, a gilded cage with Central Park views and Egyptian cotton sheets and a loneliness so profound it had its own gravitational pull.
Maria's words echoed as I walked. Someone will see. Someone will know your worth. But it didn’t feel possible. I was worth exactly what my father could trade me for—no more, no less.
The doorman tipped his cap as I passed. "Good afternoon, Miss Albright." Good of him to remember that I liked to be called by my mother’s maiden name.
"Good afternoon, George."
He held the door, and I stepped into the lobby. The elevator carried me up, and I thought about Maria, hopefully warming herself with soup by now.
Mywalk-inclosetwasbigger than most people's entire lives. I stood in its center at 6 PM sharp, surrounded by ten thousand dollars worth of armor that never quite fit right.
For a while, I’d started donating items, in secret, to charities. It felt good to get rid of the clothes and help others. But my dad had put a stop to that. He’d realized what I was doing and had hired someone to run an inventory of my damn wardrobe!
He monitored my spending, my schedule, even my clothes. The only thing he hadn't sunk his claws into, yet, was the "Home & Hope" auction. Maybe he thought it was just another harmless distraction. He didn't realize it was the most important thing in my life right now, the one place I could channel my energy into something that wasn't about him or his political maneuvering. I’d spent the entire afternoon finalizing the catalog, agonizing over the descriptions.
Even though I was immensely privileged, it was hard not to feel like a prisoner in my own life.
The overhead lighting was museum-quality, designed to show every piece in its best light. Designer dresses hung in color-coded rows like soldiers awaiting orders. Shoes lined custom shelves—Louboutins, Manolos, Jimmy Choos—each pair worn once or twice before being retired to their designated spot. Handbags sat in individual cubbies, some still wearing their tags like prisoners' numbers.
This wasn't a closet. It was a costume department for a show I'd never auditioned for, playing a character named "Viktor Petrov's Perfect Daughter." Tonight's performance required careful selection. Too casual, and he'd make cutting remarks about "dressing like a college student." Too formal, and he'd accuse me of trying to upstage him. Too fashionable meant "you look like a whore," while too conservative meant "you have no sense of style befitting our status."
I pulled out a navy blue silk blouse—Armani, conservative neckline, nothing that could be construed as provocative. Paired it with a pencil skirt that hit just below the knee. Professional.Appropriate. Invisible. The fabric whispered against my fingers, expensive and empty as everything else in this mausoleum.
My feet knew the path to the ensuite bathroom without conscious thought. More marble and gold than a Roman emperor's tomb, with a vanity that could seat three and mirrors that reflected my face from every unforgiving angle. The classical music that piped through the penthouse's hidden speakers followed me here—Chopin tonight, a nocturne that felt like a funeral march.
I sat at the vanity and opened the drawer containing my stage makeup. Foundation to even out my complexion, though my skin was already perfect from expensive facials I didn't want. Concealer for the dark circles that betrayed how little I slept, lying awake most nights staring at the ceiling and wondering if this was all there was. A neutral eyeshadow palette—nothing too dramatic, nothing that might draw attention.
The routine was automatic. I could do it blindfolded, had done it half-asleep on mornings when facing another day felt impossible. Primer, foundation, blend. Concealer, set with powder. Eyeshadow in browns and taupes—colors as forgettable as I was supposed to be. Mascara, but not too much. Lips in a shade called "Barely There," which might as well have been my life's motto.
Each stroke of the brush erased more of Clara and constructed more of The Daughter. The real me—the one who'd once dreamed of teaching literature, who'd written poetry in secret journals, who'd given a homeless woman her last fifty dollars just to feel useful—disappeared under layers of expensive products.
I stared at my reflection when I finished. Twenty-two years old and already a ghost. The girl in the mirror looked polished, refined, exactly what a corrupt city official's daughter should look like. Her smile never reached her eyes. Her hands neverquite stopped shaking. Her worth measured in how well she could disappear at dinner parties while still reflecting favorably on her father's reputation.
"Practice," I whispered to her, and stretched my lips into the empty smile I'd perfected. Pleasant but not too bright. Interested but not too eager. The smile of someone who existed solely as an accessory to someone else's life.
The Chopin nocturne swelled through the speakers, the minor key filling me with melancholy. Somewhere in this penthouse, my father was probably on his third glass of wine, reviewing whatever corrupt deal he was orchestrating today. He wouldn't look up when I entered the dining room. Wouldn't ask about my day.
A knock at my bedroom door interrupted my spiral toward self-pity. "Miss Clara?" Mrs. Brown's voice, soft and respectful. "Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes."
"Thank you, Mrs. Brown," I called back, injecting false cheer into my voice.
