Chapter 3 Perfect Daughter
Before
“Hold still, darling,” Mother says, her manicured fingers pinning another golden curl to my scalp. The hairpin scrapes against my skin, but I don’t flinch. I’ve learned that being still means being good, and being good means Mother’s hands are gentle.
The bathroom mirror reflects a stranger back at me—an eleven-year-old girl drowning in silk and lace, her blonde hair twisted into perfect ringlets that fall past her shoulders.
The dress is pale pink, a confection of ruffles and bows that makes me look younger than I am.
Mother chose it specifically for tonight’s “gathering,” as she calls it.
Special guests, special dress, special girl.
I am special. Mother has been telling me this all day, her voice honeyed with excitement I’ve never heard before.
“Nearly perfect,” she murmurs, stepping back to assess her work.
Her reflection hovers behind mine—tall, elegant, flawless in a black cocktail dress that costs more than most people’s cars.
We share the same blue eyes, the same delicate features, but hers are sharpened by years of knowing exactly how the world works.
Mine are still round with questions I’m not allowed to ask.
“Why do I have to wear makeup?” I venture, watching as she reaches for the cosmetics case. “Martha’s mother doesn’t make her wear makeup.”
Mother’s laugh tinkles like champagne glasses clinking.
“Martha isn’t a Gallagher, darling. We have different responsibilities.
” She begins dusting powder across my cheeks, erasing the natural flush of childhood.
“Tonight is very important. There are people coming—powerful people—who want to meet you.”
My stomach twists. I’ve been to Mother and Father’s parties before, relegated to brief appearances before being whisked back to my room by the nanny.
But this feels different. The way Mother’s hands tremble slightly as she applies lip gloss to my mouth.
The way Father has been pacing his study all afternoon, his voice sharp on phone calls I’m not supposed to overhear.
“What kind of people?” I ask as she spritzes me with perfume—something floral and cloying that makes my nose itch.
“Business associates. Friends of the family.” She meets my eyes in the mirror, and for just a moment, something flickers in her gaze. Regret? Fear? But it’s gone before I can be sure, replaced by her practiced smile. “You’ll be charming, won’t you, Belle? Show them what a perfect daughter you are?”
Perfect daughter. The words echo in my head as she leads me downstairs, her grip on my hand just tight enough to prevent escape.
The mansion has been transformed for tonight’s event—fresh flowers everywhere, crystal gleaming under the chandeliers, soft jazz floating through rooms that smell of expensive cigars and anticipation.
Guests have already begun arriving. Men in tailored suits with faces I recognize from newspaper headlines.
Women in designer gowns who air-kiss Mother and compliment her on the décor while their eyes assess everything with calculated precision.
They all stop to look at me, their gazes lingering in a way that makes my skin crawl beneath the itchy lace.
“Is this Belle?” A man with silver hair and cold gray eyes crouches to my level, his smile too wide to be genuine. “My, my, Olivia. She’s even lovelier than you described.”
“Belle, this is Mr. Murphy,” Mother says, her fingers tightening on my shoulder. “He’s a very important friend of your father’s.”
I curtsey as I’ve been taught, the movement mechanical. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Murphy.”
He chuckles, the sound reminding me of ice cubes rattling in an empty glass. “Such beautiful manners. I look forward to seeing more of you tonight, Belle.”
Something about the way he says it makes my stomach hurt, but I smile because that’s what perfect daughters do.
More introductions follow. Judge Ratford with his perpetual sneer. Senator Langston, who smells like mothballs and gin. Banker Gates, whose pudgy fingers linger too long when he shakes my small hand. They all look at me the same way—like I’m a delicacy on a silver platter, waiting to be consumed.
“Richard!” A booming voice cuts through the classical music, and I turn to see a heavy-set man embracing Father near the bar. “Magnificent party, as always.”
Father’s professional smile is firmly in place, but there’s tension in his shoulders. “Jacob. Glad you could make it.” His eyes find me across the room, and he beckons. “Belle, come here. I want you to meet someone.”
I navigate through the crowd of adults, their conversations pausing as I pass. Father’s hand lands on my head, not quite a caress, not quite possessive. Just… claiming.
“Jacob, this is my daughter, Belle. Belle, this is Mr. Morrison. He owns several media companies.”
Mr. Morrison’s face is flushed, whether from alcohol or something else, I can’t tell. When he looks at me, his eyes glitter with an interest that makes me want to hide behind Father’s legs like I did when I was younger.
“Exquisite,” he murmurs, and I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or about me. “You’ve outdone yourself, Richard. She’s absolutely exquisite.”
Pride radiates from Father, but it feels wrong, like when Bobby Martinez showed off his new bike at school, except I’m the bike.
“Belle is our treasure,” Father says, his hand sliding to my shoulder, anchoring me in place when every instinct screams to run. “She’s been preparing for tonight for weeks.”
I haven’t, though. No one told me what to prepare for. Just to be good, be pretty, be perfect.
“I’m sure she has.” Mr. Morrison’s gaze travels over my dress, my carefully styled hair, my painted face. “The first one is always special, isn’t it? I remember when my Angela…” He trails off, lost in some memory that clouds his expression.
“Indeed,” Father agrees, though I don’t understand what they’re talking about. “Belle, why don’t you show Mr. Morrison to the library? He’s interested in seeing my collection of first editions.”
The library? At night? During a party? But Father’s grip tightens infinitesimally—a warning I’ve learned to heed.
“Of course, Father.” I turn to Mr. Morrison, forcing my voice to remain steady. “This way, please.”
He follows me through the crowd, his heavy footsteps too close behind. The library is dimly lit, shadows dancing between the towering bookshelves. The party noise fades to a distant murmur, and suddenly we’re alone.
“Such a bright girl,” Mr. Morrison says, closing the door behind us with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. “Your father tells me you’re quite accomplished. Piano? Ballet?”
“Yes, sir.” My voice comes out smaller than intended. The room feels too warm, too close. “Would you like to see the Shakespeare collection? Father is very proud of—”
“Later, perhaps.” He settles into one of the leather armchairs, patting his knee. “Come sit with me, Belle. Let’s chat.”
Every lesson in manners wars with the alarm bells ringing in my head. Good girls don’t refuse adults. Perfect daughters obey. But my feet remain frozen to the Persian rug.
“I… I should probably get back to the party. Mother will be looking for me.”
His face darkens, just for a moment, before the practiced smile returns. “Your mother knows exactly where you are, dear. Now come here. Don’t make me ask again.”
The threat is subtle but unmistakable. This is a test. Father is testing me, seeing if I’m truly the perfect daughter he’s been sculpting. With legs that feel like water, I approach the chair.
Mr. Morrison’s hands are soft but strong as he pulls me onto his lap. I perch stiffly, every muscle tensed to flee. He smells wrong—cigars and alcohol and something else, something that makes my throat tight.
“There’s a good girl,” he croons, one arm circling my waist while the other hand rests on my knee, just below the hem of my dress. “You know, Belle, you’re very special. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper, staring at the bookshelf across the room. First edition of Pride and Prejudice. Father bought it at auction last year for more money than most people make in a lifetime.
“Special girls have special responsibilities.” His hand moves slightly higher, fingers tracing patterns on my thigh through the silk. “They make people happy. Important people. Do you want to make people happy, Belle?”
The room spins slightly. This is wrong. Every cell in my body knows this is wrong. But Father sent me here. Mother dressed me up like a doll and sent me to this man. They wouldn’t… they couldn’t…
“I want to be a good daughter,” I manage, the words automatic.
“Of course you do.” His breath is hot against my ear. “And good daughters do what they’re told, don’t they?”
Before I can answer, the library door opens. Mother stands silhouetted in the doorway, her expression unreadable in the backlighting.
“Jacob,” she says, her voice calm but firm. “Richard needs you in his study. Something about the Singapore deal.”
Mr. Morrison’s hands tighten briefly before releasing me. “Of course. Business first.” He sets me on my feet, his touch lingering. “We’ll continue our chat later, Belle.”
I watch him leave, my legs trembling beneath layers of pink silk. Mother approaches, her heels clicking on hardwood. When she reaches me, she kneels—something she never does, not in her designer dresses—and straightens my skirt with careful hands.
“Did you do what Mr. Morrison asked?” she asks quietly.
“He… he wanted me to sit with him.” My voice cracks. “Mother, I don’t understand what’s happening.”
She cups my face in her cool hands, and for a moment, I see something raw in her eyes. Pain? Guilt? But like always, it’s quickly buried beneath layers of practiced composure.
“I know, darling. I know it’s confusing.” She smooths my hair, fixes a curl that’s come loose. “But this is how our world works. This is how we maintain our position, our power. Do you understand?”