Page 6 of I'm sorry, Princess
I could’ve graduated top of my class, which I did. I could’ve bled for this career, studied until my eyes burned, which I did. But in the end, his name opened the door, not mine.
The Chief of Detectives made sure I got the job. Just like my father planned.
The illusion of choice is still a freaking cage.
Still, a part of me feels something, relief? Pride?
I don’t know. It’s a tiny flicker of warmth I haven’t felt in a while. I guess it’s nice to be wanted, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.
I grab my phone and call Sienna. She picks up on the first ring.
“I hate men,” she snaps without even saying hello. Her voice is sharp, but I hear the crack beneath it. “Especially ones whose names start with K.”
I almost laugh. That’s so Sienna, leading with chaos, hiding her heartbreak under a joke.
“I got the job,” I say softly, needing to say it out loud to someone who actually gives a damn.
There’s a beat of silence, and then a scream so loud I wince, my ear practically ringing.
“SERENA! Oh my God! We’re celebrating tonight! I’m coming to pick you up right now!”
I can’t help it, I smile. For the first time today, my lips curve into something that isn’t forced.
“Give me ten minutes.”
I hang up before she can protest.
I stand in front of the mirror and look at the girl staring back at me.
Mascara. A little highlighter. Gloss. That’ll do. No need for my mother’s version of beauty tonight, heels and perfect curls, lipstick sharp as a blade.
I pull on my favorite denim shorts and a T-shirt that says “Hot Girls Read Books.”
White sneakers. Ponytail. Done.
My mother would have a meltdown if she saw me walking out like this. Even for coffee, she expects me to look like I’m about to step onto the cover of Vogue. But tonight? Tonight she’s too busy crying over her broken marriage to notice what her daughter is doing. Or wearing. Or feeling.
Good. Let her stay in her world. I’ll stay in mine.
I grab my bag and head for the door. A tiny voice in the back of my head tells me I should check on her before I leave.
I don’t.
Instead, I shut the door behind me and lock it.
Sienna’s car is already outside, engine humming, windows down. She waves at me with that big, reckless smile like she’s about to steal me away from the mess I’m drowning in.
Chapter Three
Serena
“Girl you loud” by Chris Brown is currently shaking the entire street, and probably half of Manhattan, thanks to Sienna.
Apparently, her personal mission tonight is to ensure everyone within a 10-block radius knows this song by heart.
Her caramel hair is thrown into a messy bun, strands dancing around her face, and she’s wearing this ridiculous yet perfect little sundress covered in lemons, paired with flat sandals. Sienna is the walking definition of summer, even if it’s just the end of May and the city hasn’t caught up yet.
She’s grinning, glowing, but I know her well enough to see the crack beneath the surface.
