1. Tori
TORI
Tonight I felt like Cinderella. My Marchesa dress matched the cool blue of my eyes, the full skirt embellished with silk flower petals and subtle embroidery that gleamed in the light.
Thanks to some last-minute tailoring, it fit me like a glove.
Such were the benefits of having a wealthy, influential father who wanted me to look my best for my eighteenth birthday party.
Even if it was a little hard to breathe.
The outfit, the whole presentation, was an homage to the rags-to-riches story my father loved to trot out for all his campaigns—how his family had come from nothing, working their fingers to the bone to give him the opportunity to make a difference.
His own male version of the Cinderella story.
So here I was, an emblem of his success and power.
Freshly eighteen and ready to take on the world.
I hoped I’d live up to his expectations. And my own.
I took one last look in the mirror, practicing my smile as I adjusted my tiara.
“Carpe noctem,” I whispered. “The night is yours.” That, at least, was true.
I headed downstairs toward the murmur of voices, the tinkling of glasses, and the soothing sounds of the chamber orchestra. It was almost like a royal ball. And it was all for me.
At first, I hadn’t been excited about the event.
The only ‘parties’ my father had thrown at our luxurious Springfield home over the years had all been fundraisers for political races.
Hopelessly boring despite—or maybe due to—the fact that I was fully capable of keeping up with the guests’ endless political discourse.
My father had promised tonight would be different.
“And if you do well, there will be a big surprise in it for you,” he had told me.
I knew I was too old to be excited about birthday surprises, but I couldn’t help the anticipation building inside of me.
Was he finally going to give me the tuition money I needed to attend the University of Chicago in the fall?
Their prestigious, uber-competitive linguistics program offered classes I hadn’t seen anywhere else, and I’d be able to study Old Church Slavonic, Turkish, and Greek. It was my dream.
“Prosciutto-peach canapé, miss?” a bow-tied server asked as I descended the final curve of the Calacatta marble staircase.
“No thank you,” I said with a smile. The truth was, I was too nervous to eat.
The day I’d gotten my acceptance letter was the best, and worst, of my life.
I hadn’t partied away my senior year like everyone else at my private, all-girls preparatory academy, and it had paid off.
UChicago was awarding me a partial scholarship, based on my GPA and a passionate personal essay I’d spent weeks writing.
But it turned out my father was too wealthy for me to get a full ride—and he refused to pay the rest of the tuition.
My own savings didn’t even get me close.
“No one wants to marry a woman with a snooty degree, sweetheart,” he had reasoned.
I hadn’t given up, though. I had subtly—and not so subtly—been singing the praises of the program, and its real world benefits (diplomatic functions, ease of traveling, better conversations at cocktail parties, etc.) for months, hoping to change my father’s mind.
Maybe it had finally worked.
I scanned the ballroom with a sinking heart.
I didn’t see my father, nor a single other face I recognized.
The party was fancy and glamorous, of course, but looked to be solely attended by guests my father’s age, or older.
Just like always. That was what happened when you spent your formative years working your ass off to stay permanently on the honor roll.
Zero social life. I’d invited Grace, my SAT study partner and only friend, but she was on a ritzy vacation in Spain.
“There’s the girl of the hour,” a soft, feminine voice crooned from behind me. I grinned. I’d recognize that southern accent anywhere.
My stepmother, Michelle, was gliding over with a champagne flute in her hand, smiling as she led a stooped older gentleman toward me.
He looked like the crotchety old grandfather type.
In contrast, Michelle was blonde and buxom, impeccable in her skirt suit and Jackie O.
pearls—always the perfect image of a politician’s second wife.
“Woman of the hour,” I corrected. These things mattered. Words mattered. “Soon to be heading off into the world on my own. Because I’m an adult now.”
“Of course you are,” she groaned. “And that means I’m getting older. Couldn’t you have just stayed six years old forever? I’d better buy up stock in Botox.”
We all laughed.
I loved Michelle. My mother had passed when I was young, too little to remember much about her, and Michelle entered my life soon after.
She’d never attempted to replace my mother, which I appreciated, and we’d always been more like friends than stepmother and daughter.
She was a southern belle, through and through, and had taught me the importance of appearances in all their forms. Especially when it came to my father.
“Victoria, I’d like you to meet Congressman McDonnell,” Michelle said by way of introduction. Using my full name was code between us: she didn’t know him well and it was best to keep up my guard. “We just met, over a champagne tray.”
“Happy birthday, and congratulations on your recent graduation,” McDonnell said. He leaned closer, a gleam in his eye. “I plan to persuade your father into supporting a new environmental proposal by getting in your good graces. Do you dance?” He held out his arm.
“How devious of you,” I responded, warming to him instantly. “And of course I do.”
McDonnell was surprisingly light on his feet, and I found that I was actually enjoying myself.
“I heard you were VP of your school’s Latin club. Blessed with beauty and brains, eh? I believe the phrase is ‘quidquid Latine dictum…sit altum videtur’?” he said with a wink.
I laughed. “‘Anything you say in Latin sounds profound,’” I translated delightedly.
I’d been obsessed with language—its history, its influence—since I was little, and as the daughter of a politician I’d seen firsthand how words could be used to change people’s minds.
My father was an expert at it. In fact, my logophilia—my love of words—came from him.
From a young age, he was always quizzing me on vocabulary.
Always urging me to choose my words carefully.
Suddenly, though, I found myself speechless.
Across the ballroom, in a shawl-collar tux that looked like Tom Ford had made it just for him, was the most attractive man I’d ever seen in my life.
Raw, animal magnetism seemed to emanate from him.
He was dark and handsome and strong-jawed, the sleeves of his jacket hugging broad, sculpted shoulders.
His posture was both laid-back and confident.
When he threw his head back to laugh, I felt a tightening in my gut.
I wanted nothing more than to be in on the joke.
“Victoria?” the congressman broke in. “Are you alright?”
I’d stopped dead in my tracks.
“Sorry,” I said, realizing I had been holding my breath.
We resumed, dancing closer to the mystery man. He seemed to be focused on the gentleman in front of him—an older, leaner, grayer version of himself. I couldn’t tear my gaze away, desperate for the younger man to look in my direction.
Finally—finally—he looked up. His eyes were green.
Not just any green. A pale shade, like sunlight through leaves, a color you’d call…viridescent. From the Latin viridis. So striking against his warm skin tone.
And then our eyes caught.
I felt my pulse quicken under his gaze. I wasn’t usually one to bask in the attention of strangers, but amid the sea of black and white eveningwear, I knew I was impossible to ignore.
In my shimmery blue dress and diamond earrings, I was meant to give the impression of an American princess, down to the tiara in my upswept hair.
My skin glowed, my makeup natural except for a dark red lipstick; a concession from my father.
The lipstick made it clear that I was a woman now. I hoped the green-eyed man had noticed.
Over McDonnell’s shoulder, I could see him still looking my way. My skin tingled.
Who was he?
Feeling bold, I murmured an apology and pulled away from the congressman mid-step, making my way toward the man even as I tottered a little in my silver satin heels.
There had to be a way to meet him. He was here for a reason; my father never invited people to events like this unless he needed something from them.
Across the room, the man abruptly turned his back to me as his companion grabbed his arm in emphasis. I halted in the crowd, my pulse still pounding in my ears.
How was he having this effect on me? It wasn’t as if I hadn’t been around attractive men before. As a politician’s daughter, I’d rubbed elbows with celebrities of all sorts—actors, musicians, artists. None of them had ever made me breathless the way this stranger did.
I’d had crushes, too—fleeting moments of infatuation with the older brothers of school friends or the college-age baristas at Starbucks—but this felt completely different. The source of those previous crushes had been boys. Whoever this guy was, he was a man.
I shivered.
Forcing myself to act casual, I feigned interest in the orchestra. The last thing I wanted was for him to look back and discover I was still staring at him like he was my birthday cake. I might not have been very experienced with men, but I knew they appreciated a chase.
“There you are!” Michelle said, sweeping up behind me to take my arm. “Daddy needs you.”