Chapter 41 Mara
FORTY-ONE
MARA
Aswarm of stylists flutter around me, tugging, pinning, and primping—turning me into America’s princess for the events of the evening. Standing on a platform surrounded by mirrors, I barely recognize the person they’re creating in front of me.
The designer gown my mother accepted as my attire is a pale gold silk that clings to my frame, glistening against my skin in the vanity lights.
A gilded cage draped over my body.
Powder flickers across my cheeks as a makeup brush sweeps over my skin. Another stylist kneels at my feet, adjusting the hem of the gown that pools around me. I lift my arms obediently when told, turn my head just so…
Be perfect, Mara.
I am to be flawlessly beautiful today of all days. Because tonight, appearance is everything.
In the mirror, I watch a stranger’s eyes: wide, dark, edged with a quiet fear that only I can see. Those eyes belong to Mara Black, dutiful daughter of Clark Black, soon-to-be President of the United States.
They do not blink, even as a stylist leans in with a mascara wand.
Don’t flinch.
Don’t ruin the makeup.
From the next room, I hear my father’s voice echo down the hall. “Tonight, our family becomes history, Mara.”
Tonight, our family becomes history. The triumph in his tone turns my stomach. He means it as a celebration. By midnight, Clark Black will have sculpted his legacy.
But to me, the phrase tastes like an omen.
Perhaps he doesn’t realize how perfectly he’s phrased my fate. Tonight, I will cease to be a person and become an artifact—a footnote in his story.
I swallow hard and lower my eyes from the mirror as a stylist approaches with a diamond comb that she carefully pins into the sleek twist of my hair. A heartbeat later, I feel a cool sliver of metal against my neck. One of the women is fastening a delicate gold chain around my throat.
“Hold still, dear,” she murmurs.
I lift my chin and gaze at my reflection with the new necklace.
It is lovely—an understated strand of fine gold links that meet at a teardrop diamond right at the hollow of my throat.
Lovely, and far too much like a collar. In the mirror, it looks like I’m wearing a leash.
I force myself to take a slow breath, careful not to let the sudden anger or fear show on my face.
“You look beautiful, Miss Black,” chirps another stylist as she steps back to admire their handiwork. “Like a princess.”
A doll, I think bitterly. That’s what they really mean. A perfect, pretty doll for the proud father to display and the nation to adore. My lips curve into the polite smile I’ve practiced since childhood. It pleases them; I can see the relief in their faces when I perform exactly as expected.
“Tonight is a big night,” one of the stylists prattles on as she packs away a palette of eye shadows. “The whole country will be watching. You must be so excited, dear.”
“Of course. I can’t wait,” I lie softly. My voice barely trembles; I make sure of it.
I’ve become an excellent liar.
They beam, oblivious to the truth behind my carefully-composed face.
None of them see the cold sweat slicking my palms, or hear the way my heart is slamming against my ribs.
None notice the subtle tremor in my fingers as I clutch the edge of the vanity table to steady myself.
They’ve done their job. I look every inch the gilded youth of American royalty.
And if my smile is a little tight at the edges, well, cameras won’t pick up something so small.
“All done,” announces the head stylist. She steps back and gestures grandly toward the mirror. “What do you think?”
What do I think? I stare at the elegant young woman in gold and diamonds before me. Her ebony hair gleams, twisted up with the Black family comb. Her skin is luminous, her lips the shade of peonies and politics. She looks untouchable, pristine.
She looks… not me.
I hate her.
“Thank you,” I say instead. “It’s perfect.”
The stylists bustle out with their kits, leaving behind a haze of perfume and hairspray. As the door closes behind the last of them, I exhale, my shoulders slumping for just a second.
I step down from the platform in front of the mirror, the skirts of my gown whispering around my legs.
I walk to the window to distract myself from the anxiety coiling tighter by the minute.
Outside, the gardens of the Black estate glow under the late afternoon sun.
The gardeners trimmed the hedges at dawn, preparing for the press photos planned for tomorrow.
Beyond these walls, the country is voting.
Election Day.
Polls opened hours ago, and by tonight my father will have won.
The outcome was decided long before any voter stepped into a booth. He said our family will become history. He really believes this is a golden day.
For him, it is a triumph.
For me, it’s an execution date.
My eyes burn, and I realize I’m holding my breath. I force myself to inhale slowly. Don’t cry, I command myself. Not now. Not when I’m perfectly made up. I can’t ruin their creation. I won’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me crack.
Instead, I let my mind drift to the only safe place it can: them.
A brisk knock at the door jolts me from my thoughts. I turn, already smoothing my features back into a mask of composure. The door opens and my father’s personal assistant, a thin-lipped woman named Regina, steps inside.
“Miss Black,” she says, eyes flicking over me to ensure I’m presentable. A small, approving smile touches her mouth when she sees the polished doll I’ve become. “Your father is ready for you. The car is waiting to take you downtown.”
“Of course.”
By the time we arrive downtown, a victory hum already crackles in the air. I barely remember the drive over. Father spent it on the phone with advisors, finalizing his speech that he is to give.
Now, as I stand at the grand entrance of the Ashen Grove ballroom with my hand resting lightly on my father’s arm, reality swallows me whole.
Black-and-gold banners drape from the balcony railings, emblazoned with the slogan “BLACK FOR AMERICA” in bold letters.
Father guides me forward through a path clearing in the crowd.
Everywhere hands reach out to congratulate him, voices effusive: “We did it, Clark!” “Congratulations, Mr. President!” He meets each well-wisher with a charismatic smile and a firm handshake, projecting humble gratitude.
I know better. Behind that politician’s grin lies pure triumph.
People I recognize only from magazines and television beam at me as I pass. Senators, CEOs, foreign dignitaries, I catalog numbly. They all see the smiling First Daughter.
Father pauses near the center of the ballroom, turning to the crowd with a raised hand—a signal.
The applause that had quieted during his mingling rises again to a spirited cheer.
An announcer’s voice booms through the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the President-elect of the United States, Clark Black!”
A fresh wave of exhilarated cheers crashes over us. President-elect.
It’s real now.
On a giant screen above the stage, I catch the bold graphics of a news network broadcast: a map awash in my father’s victory color, the words BLACK WINS splashed triumphantly across it.
It’s official, Clark Black has been deemed the next President of the United States.
Father gives a genteel nod to the room and then to me, my mother, and Milo to follow him up the stage.
Before I take another step, Chase is there, taking my arm. I stiffen, the reflexive surge of revulsion at his touch flaring under my skin. My smile threatens to falter, but I catch it and quickly fasten it back in place.
The lights dim except for the stage, and a hush falls over the ballroom. Chase keeps a hold on me, steering me smoothly to stand just below the stage, in full view of the crowd but a step behind the spotlight. His hand slides to the small of my back in what must look like a supportive gesture.
To anyone watching, we’re the picture of young love, standing close as we await a proud father’s words.
My eyes flick upward regardless, searching the sea of faces now turned toward the stage.
The thunder of my father’s amplified voice rolls through the ballroom as he begins, but for a second I can’t process his words.
My gaze snags on movement near the main doors at the back.
Three figures slip in, moving through the standing crowd.
Jasper. Dredyn. Talon.
They came.
A mixture of relief and alarm floods through me in equal measure. I feel suddenly, dizzyingly alive.
Before I can fully react, Chase’s fingers press harder into my back, almost making me flinch.
The pain snaps me back, and I tear my eyes away from the boys and face forward, masking the slip with a turn of my head that could be mistaken for scanning the crowd.
My heart drums wildly against my ribs. Dozens of cameras are trained on Father, and by extension, me and Chase.
We must look composed, happy.
Chase leans in, his breath hot at my ear. “Easy,” he murmurs, the single word edged in threat beneath an outward appearance of a lover’s whisper. My cheeks hurt from maintaining my smile.
Up on stage, Father is in his element. The applause fades as he launches into his speech, voice rich with emotion that I suspect he doesn’t truly feel.
“Tonight marks the beginning of a new era for our family… and our nation,” he declares, spreading his arms wide to encompass everyone present.
The crowd responds with a swell of cheers.
I force myself to focus on his speech, if only to stop my knees from shaking. He speaks of unity and progress, of hard work and destiny. I catch words here and there—honor, service, legacy—but they swirl meaninglessly around me.