Page 14 of I'm sorry, Princess
Her long blonde hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, no strand out of place. Her silk blouse, champagne-colored, of course, flows perfectly over her frame, paired with a tight black skirt that hugs her hips, the expensive fabric whispering money and status. Her heels click softly on the hardwood. The subtle nude lipstick, the faint blush, the glow of her skin, it’s like yesterday’s version of her never existed.
I wonder what changed overnight.
Or maybe this is just how she copes, wipe away the blood, put on another mask.
“You should get dressed soon, darling,” she says, smoothing imaginary wrinkles on her skirt. Her voice is light, melodic. The kind of voice she uses when there are cameras, or when she’s pretending.
“Thomas wants us to have lunch together. And guess what? John and Ian will be joining us too. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Her eyes sparkle, and for some reason, it makes my stomach tighten.
Why does she sound so thrilled? It’s just lunch.
“Yes. Amazing.”
My voice is a blade wrapped in velvet.
I slip into my closet, choosing a black fitted office dress that hugs my curves just enough to avoid criticism but not enough to invite it. Nude heels. A sweep of mascara, some concealer to hide the exhaustion under my eyes, and clear lip gloss. I leave my hair straight, long and loose down my back. Effortless. Or at least, that’s what I want them to think.
When I walk into the kitchen, everything is perfect. Of course.
It looks like a five-star Michelin set-up, but I know better. My mother didn’t cook. She ordered in, yet she managed to arrange the dishes like she just stepped out of a lifestyle magazine. White porcelain plates. Crystal glasses. The silverware polished to the point of obsession.
Steak for the men.
Grilled chicken with salad for the women, because God forbid we get above a size four.
I should stop judging her, but I can’t. It’s easier than forgiving her.
“Everything looks amazing, Mom.”
I try to sound warm, but my lips barely curve. It’s more of a sad smile, the kind that aches in your jaw.
Her eyes flick to mine, but she looks through me. Like I’m glass. She smiles back, shallow and hollow. A rehearsed expression, not real emotion.
The front door opens. My father enters the room, John Archibald right beside him. Of course. They always come as a pair, two sides of the same rotten coin.
My mother’s entire face changes, lights up like she’s on stage. Her smile widens unnaturally, her body language shifts, shoulders back, chest lifted, hips tilted just enough to be feminine but submissive.
And John’s eyes?
They linger on her. Too long. Too shameless. His gaze slithers over her body like she’s prey.
I clench my jaw.
She floats over to my father, John’s stare glued to her ass, and she kisses my father’s cheek like she’s the perfect, loyal wife.
“Welcome home, my love. Lunch is ready,” she purrs.
Then, with feigned innocence, she looks around the room, her tone softer but still syrupy sweet.
“Is Ian not joining us?”
John’s eyes roam over my mother again, and for a split second, the urge to grab the steak knife and plunge it into his eye flashes through my mind.
Gosh. What the hell is wrong with me?
But the thought lingers, heavy and intrusive, like a devil perched on my shoulder. Watching him ogle her like that? It makes my skin crawl.
