Page 71 of Ruthless Chaos
I do as she says, light-headed. We’ve been struggling to get me into this dress for the past few minutes. I’m ready to pass out.
“What’s the point of this, again?” I ask. I sound like I’ve run a marathon.
Tara can finally cinch it and begin tying the laces to keep it that way. The next few hours are going to be torture.
“Tradition,” she says. “The Council Nomination Ceremony is a part of Hemlock House history.” I suppress the urge to roll my eyes.
I arch my back, standing up a little straighter to take the pressure off my ribs. “So, we have to dress like we’re in the nineteenth century.”
Tara chuckles. “Yes. It’s a Legacy House tradition.”
When she’s finished squeezing me into the corset and helping me into the dress, she guides me to the nearby full-length mirror with a hand on my shoulders.
She’s already dressed in a floor length fuchsia silk taffeta gown with a dramatic v-neckline. Mine looks drab in comparison.
I’m not an official member of Hemlock House yet, so my dress was selected by the Council. They probably chose the most unflattering thing they could find and ordered it two sizes too small.
It’s the color of a spoiled pumpkin, which doesn’t work well with my skin. The dress gives me an unflattering shape. To be honest, I look like a can of root beer.
At least my boobs don’t look awful in it; my cleavage peeks out from the neckline.
“I hate this dress,” I mutter to Tara.
She’s started styling my hair.
I’ve already done my makeup according to the instructions that came with the dress—nude lips, no eyeshadow, no blush. I look like aplaincan of root beer.
I’m hoping that my hair can salvage the look.
“The dresses they choose for the freshmen are always the worst,” she says, a bobby pin between her teeth. “You should’ve seen mine, I looked like a Christmas tree.”
That doesn’t make me feel any better.
From what I understand, the Council Nomination Ceremony is a joint ceremony between Hemlock, Chaos, and Kingmaker—the “Legacy” Houses. It’s one thing for all the Hemlock girls to see me like this, but the thought of everyone else? That makes my stomach turn.
By everyone else, I mean Alexander.
“We’ll all be dressed in this style.” Tara is working my tightly coiled hair into an updo with the help of styling gel, a wide tooth comb and a spray bottle filled with water. “You won’t be too out of place.”
I shrug, wincing as she detangles my hair.
I’ve always had a sensitive scalp. Dolores was the only person who could do it without it hurting too much. A wave of grief washes over me at the thought of her.
“How do you feel about seeing Alexander?” Tara asks, meeting my eyes in the mirror.
It’s funny that she would bring him up.
The ache blooming on my scalp reminds me of him. Strangely, that pain didn’t feel as jarring as this. It felt…soothing.
I didn’t tell Tara about our encounter at the hotel a few days ago.
By the time she and Nya made it back from the club in the wee hours of the morning, she was too drunk to notice my bandaged hand or the angry bruise on my lip from where hebitme.
Now, the wound is healed, and the bruise has faded.
“I don’t feel anything in particular,” I lie.
I’m nervous as hell and can scarcely think of anything else.
