31. Maeve
CHAPTER 31
MAEVE
The first Sinclair Gala I attended was when I was thirteen years old. It was late March, and it landed on my birthday, but I knew from a young age that it didn’t matter. The day wasn’t and never would be about me. That year would prove especially disappointing for me, as Miss Angie had coordinated my last few birthday parties, and that was the year she and Dad broke things off.
That change left me especially angry and rebellious, and being lied to about the situation didn’t make anything better. Daddy made me believe she never cared, and that pain nearly killed me after losing my mother so young. Why should it surprise me now that my cruel and unloving father has always been those things? Rationally understanding things doesn’t prevent them from making you sick, though.
On my thirteenth birthday, I was all dressed up in an outfit I didn’t choose with guests I didn’t know, and there was no cake at all. I remember realizing then that I could have all the proper education, good grades, and success in the world, and I would still be meaningless to the Sinclairs. After everything that happened in the last weeks, this is one event I was sure I could skip.
Diego is forcing me to return, and experience tells me it will be a memorable moment. Nervousness buzzes through my system, but it sits under a haze of what I saw early this morning. I haven’t even had a full night’s sleep since I watched a man die and sucked Diego’s dick, and now I’m forced to face not only my family but all of society. On the plus side, the dress is definitely an improvement. A daring neckline with a dip that goes down almost to my belly button, the wide open neckline centering my tattoo.
My waist looks tiny with the cutouts, and my breasts defy gravity, but the pièce de résistance is the black feathers covering the entire thing. Rather than a feather duster, it gives supreme elegance.
Black Swan.
Diego only allows me a couple of hours of sleep before there’s a knock on my door. Peeling my eyes open, I find he brought me a makeup artist and a hairdresser. They ask about a million questions about my preferences for makeup and hair. My hair is always stiff with gel and in a bun, and the makeup is bold to be seen from the stage. Whenever I have a chance, I prefer to stay away from makeup and rest my skin.
My clear ignorance of the subject doesn’t stop them, and once they are done, I have to keep checking the mirror to be sure it is truly me. My eyes shine more than ever; my eyelashes are long and thick. My skin is flawless, and my cheeks have a beautiful and warm color.
With uncertain steps, I make my way to the living where Diego waits for me. He’s in a tux, his hair brushed back, and he almost looks like the type of guy my dad would set me up with if it wasn’t for the sliver of tattoos showing on his neck above the collar. Fuck, that’s hot .
A moment passes between us. I hold my breath as I watch him, but he doesn’t let me off the hook and say something. He dips his chin and turns to the door. We walk out of the building together in silence. People watch us as we pass, and a small girl points at my dress in wonder. It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed attention like that, so I’ll savor this rare moment, sure the gala will be the extreme opposite.
We get into his car. I’m quiet, but he is too. He’s nervous. I can tell by the way he taps his fingers against the wheel. I don’t dare to ask what’s happening tonight. I know it’s bad. I can feel it in my bones. There’s an unspoken air of finality between us. Whatever happens tonight, we can’t go back from it. He’s not attending the Sinclair Gala just because he enjoys watching rich people pretend to care about social issues for tax deductions.
But I’d dare to say this isn’t even about me. He’s not paying me all that much attention.
The photographers are on the scene as soon as we arrive, snapping away as we step out. The short walk to the door is lit by the flashbulbs, and my eyes are blurry and full of starburst as Diego takes control and leads me to the doorman to hand over our invitation. Dad always makes sure to invite the most influential people and make a splash in every newspaper. I forgot how inconvenient his lifestyle can be.
The man takes the piece of paper and shoots us each a curious look before moving the velvet rope and allowing us to pass. The event is especially overstated this year. The vaulted ceilings are filled with hanging silver and gold paper-mache decorations that I know cost tens of thousands, and everything else is white.
I grab a champagne glass the second a server comes my way and drink it all at once. Diego watches me, then takes the glass from my hand and places it on a tray of another passing server.
“That one’s for courage, but you want to be sober for this.”
“No, I truly don’t,” I tell him, looking around for another glass. A lot can be said about Cornelius Sinclair, but he’s not a cheapskate.
Diego is serious again, and I tell myself not to ask why. I’ll know what he’s up to soon enough, and I’m not in any rush for the suffering. In a twisted way, I miss the cocky grin he used to have on his lips anytime he was trying to torture me. Right now, that man is gone, and all that’s left is grim determination. He knows enough about my family to know here is not a place to let your guard down.
I recognize some people, but not all of them. They came with the most expensive gowns, and they talk loudly about things that don’t matter. I know too many unflattering things about the people here to buy into their superiority complex. I’d take my throat tattoo and the husband who hates me any day of the week over them.
Diego takes my chin between his fingers, drawing my attention back to him. He tips his head back and gives the tattoo a good look before concentrating on my eyes. He’s too serious, and my stomach flips.
“You’re going to make a decision tonight, Maeve,” he tells me, coming closer. His warm, minty breath hits my cheeks. “Are you one of them? Or are you with me? There’s no coming back from whatever you decide.”
I frown. With him? Didn’t he already take the name Sinclair from me, humiliate me at my profession, and mark my skin so I would never fit in that society? He always made it clear that I would suffer for ever having been one of them, but I would never be allowed to be one of them again. My confusion must show in my expression, and next, he takes my face into his hands. I feel his fingers on the back of my neck.
“The other times, you had no choice. This time, I want you to choose.”
“What does that mean? We’re married, Diego. You run this city. It’s your world.”
“But I want you here by choice.”
The admission levels me, and I can’t even begin to respond.
“Tell me who you are.”
The request is full of weight, and he slips a hand into his pocket without taking his eyes off me. He places a small object in the middle of my palm. He says nothing else, and for a second, I just feel the weight of his gaze and cool metal on my skin. I look down, and nestled in my hand is Miss Angie’s arrow necklace. The pain takes my breath away, and I’m back to the same place I was before. How can I hold this necklace again and trust him after everything we’ve been through?
“You need to decide.” Finally, he lets my hand go and moves to the bar without me despite telling me not to drink.