25. Harper
HARPER
Ihad never understood why people called it getting ready.
There was nothing ready about me, everything felt uncertain.
The dress had arrived that morning under the supervision of three different people, in a climate-controlled garment bag.
My father had tried to act casual about it when he handed it to me over breakfast. We had decided that he should stay with me at the family townhouse instead of in a suite while he was in Chicago.
"I thought perhaps you might wear this tonight."
I laughed. "With that much security, I am guessing this is more than just a thought and somewhere close to a carefully orchestrated plan."
He smiled into his coffee. "Maybe."
I hadn't thought much of it until I unzipped the bag, then I forgot how to breathe.
The gown was black, and not a polite or professional black.
It was something else entirely. Layers of black silk and hand-appliqued lace flowed into one another so seamlessly that it looked less like fabric and more like art.
Tiny black stones had been hand sewn into the lacework, catching the light only when the dress moved.
The sleeves were fitted and entirely sheer lace, intricate enough that I spent five minutes tracing the pattern with my fingertips. It was breathtaking.
I stood in my bedroom staring at it for so long that Thomas eventually knocked.
"Miss Montgomery?"
I blinked. "Yes?"
"The stylist has arrived."
Three hours later, I still wasn't sure I recognized myself.
My hair had been curled and pinned and then deliberately loosened again until it was the perfect mix of soft curls that somehow looked both elegant and effortless.
My makeup was subtle, until we got to the lipstick.
It was what my stylist called a confident red, and my nails matched.
I stared at myself in the mirror, the dress fit perfectly and I had no idea how my father had pulled that off.
Before I was helped into it, I was handed the card that was attached. My hands shook as I opened it.
For my angel.
Your mother wore this once.
She would be very upset if it stayed hidden forever.
Love,
Dad
Alone in my room, I looked at the card again, and then myself in the reflection. Wondering if it was me or the dress that my dad was referring to. My memories of her had started to fade, things were harder to remember and place. Sometimes it was hard to discern if something was a dream or a memory?
A soft knock sounded.
"Come in."
My father stepped into the room, and stopped. For a moment, neither of us spoke. His eyes moved over the dress, and then his eyes trailed across my face and he smiled. The smile that belonged only to me.
"My angel."
My throat tightened. "Is it too much?"
He laughed softly. "No." The word came out immediately, then quieter, “You look perfect.” His smile softened, as he added, "Your mother wore this in Vienna."
I looked up. "What?"
He crossed the room. "The international children's foundation gala." His voice had gone distant. "She said the dress made her feel dangerous, when people always assumed she was soft and fragile."
I smiled. "Did it?"
He offered me his hand. "No." He squeezed my fingers. "She already was."
The room went quiet, as we let the weight of this moment settle over us. Then I moved towards my father, adjusted his lapels that were perfect and then slipped my hand through his arm.
"Ready?"
He smiled, and then chuckled saying, "No. But I need to get used to sharing you with the world."
We were told the ballroom was already full when we arrived.
You could hear it before we entered. Music, and conversation.
The low hum of wealth and power and people who had spent their lives learning how to occupy a room.
I hadn't. At least, I didn't think I had.
I thought I had learned how to hide, blend in…
Until the doors opened, then something strange happened, I stopped feeling afraid.
Because I knew this world. I had been raised by the man beside me, and a mother who had not been from this world but walked through rooms like this and owned them.
My father squeezed my hand once, then we walked. People turned, conversations stopped, and the flashes began. I kept walking. One step, and then another. My head held high. And for the first time in years, I wasn't pretending to be anyone else.
We had almost reached the area that was treated more like a receiving line, than a space for pre-dinner drinks and conversation, where Oliver and his family would be waiting for us, when I saw them.
My grandparents, my father's parents. I tensed, but kept my expression unchanged, my grandfather looked older.
Smaller than I remembered, or maybe that is the thing about giants in stories or memories, they always seem bigger until you faced them.
My grandmother looked exactly the same, like time had barely touched her.
I felt my father's arm tighten beneath my hand.
"Dad."
"I know." His voice had changed. I hadn't heard that voice in years. The one he used when he thought something might hurt me, and he was ready to throw around his weight to protect me.
"You invited them?"
"No."
That surprised me. My grandmother smiled, politely, like we were strangers. My father stepped slightly closer to me. A movement so subtle nobody else would notice.
"We can ask them to leave," he said quietly.
I looked at him, then the room, the cameras. At the people staring, then I looked back at my father.
"No."
He searched my face. "You sure?"
Absolutely not, but I smiled anyway.
"I'm tired of hiding, and that means from them too."
He smiled, and then his gaze shifted over my shoulder. His expression changed, but I could not read it. So I turned, to see what had caught his attention, and groaned.
Because the group from Northwell were here and all staring with varying degrees of shock and or amusement.
"Dad."
He didn't even attempt innocence. "Yes?"
"Why are they here?" I asked, adding as much bite to my tone as I could while keeping my smile in place.
"I invited them." He said with amusement.
I stared at him. "You invited them."
"I did."
"Why?"
He smiled, not like my polite smile or Alexander Montgomery’s practiced smile. He smiled like my father.
"Because." He reached up and adjusted a curl that had fallen near my cheek. "We're done hiding, my angel."