Yours To Keep (Grovewood Ink #4)

Prologue

MAGNOLIA

“Suck it in, Magnolia Azalea! I’ve already paid to have this dress altered twice.

I will not do it again, young lady!” My mom drones.

It’s always her go-to attack anytime she wants to cut me down.

For her, my appearance is never good enough, never perfect enough to live up to her standards.

My hips are too wide, my boobs are too big, my red hair is too brash and uninhibited for her idea of what a Monroe should be.

My mother pulls the strings on the white corset dress tighter and tighter, my lungs already burning for oxygen. She grumbles something about me not having the figure my sister does, and embarrassment burns in my chest.

My sister, Rose, is the picture of South Carolina beauty.

Her gorgeous blonde hair and stick thin figure have always made her the favorite in my mother’s eyes.

She stands beside the mirror, sympathy in her eyes as she smiles weakly.

She could say something, but we both know it wouldn’t make a difference to our mother. I will never be enough.

“Mom, Maggie looks beautiful. I think the dress fits perfectly.” She tries to temper my mother’s irritation with me, but I’m used to it by now.

I’ve always been the ugly duckling compared to my older sisters, Rose and Ivy.

To say our mother has a thing for gardening is a hell of an understatement.

But that’s what we’ve always been to her.

Precious flowers for her to cultivate and prune until we are award-winning perfection.

Unfortunately for me, I was blessed with more of my father’s looks than anyone else.

Thomas Monroe was once one of the most handsome bachelors in Charleston.

With his dark auburn hair, green eyes, and skin tanned from hours spent on a surfboard, my father could have had any woman below the Mason-Dixon Line.

Even as he aged, he’s still one of the most handsome men I’ve ever known.

I’ve spent my life wondering how my mother sunk her claws into him, how he didn’t see through her fake smile to the robotic woman beneath.

To my mother, the highest honor in her life was marrying rich.

I can’t blame her entirely. It’s simply the way she was raised.

My grandmother took Reba McEntire very seriously when she sang “Here’s your one chance, Fancy,” and she taught her daughters to use their bodies to get where they wanted to be in life.

I definitely favor my father in both looks and personality. I would rather be on the water with him, or curled up in bed with my books, than shopping at the mall, trying to catch the attention of a boy my mother deems “appropriate”.

“Are you even listening to me, Magnolia? I swear your head never leaves the clouds,” my mother croons next to me, drawing my attention back to the ruffled white torture device she has finally finished lacing up.

“Mother, I look like a cream puff,” I tell her.

Rose snickers beside us and my mother snaps, shooting her a glare that silences her instantly.

I remember going through this same song and dance with Rose three years ago, and again with Ivy last year.

But they looked far more demure and classy in their coming out dresses than I do now.

The freckles that line my cheeks and forehead are even more pronounced when I’m covered in white.

I know my mother is silently picking me apart right now, and I squirm under her scrutiny.

“Well, the ball is only two days away, so it will have to do,” she says, stepping out of the dressing room and pulling my sister with her.

Once I’m left alone with my reflection, all of my flaws coming roaring to the forefront.

From the top of my curly red hair to the ends of my stubby legs, I am wholly imperfect.

I will never be the person my mother expects me to be. But one day, I’ll be whoever I damn well please.