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“What are your plans for today?” she asks.
I shrug. “Mainly just to chill. I’m going to do some yoga, eat breakfast, read, and basically lie in bed all day.”
She seems surprised. “Are you not doing something with your friends?”
“Nope.”
Camile had mentioned a drink, but we didn’t put any definite plans in place.
She arches an eyebrow. “You sure about that? ’Cause Dom was talking to Nataniele about using the bar for your birthday party. I’m pretty sure something is going on.”
I arched my brow. “He was?”
She clamps a hand over her mouth. “Oh, crap. I hope I haven’t spoiled a surprise or anything.”
“No, you didn’t. I’m sure he wasn’t being serious.”
“Why wouldn’t he be? You’re going to be Dom’s stepsister. I think it’s sweet that he’s making an effort for you.”
Oh, Mom. If only you knew…
“Yeah, sweet,” I mutter.
I don’t know how I feel about a party, assuming what Mom says is true. I don’t want to see any of them, but at the same time a part of me is craving their attention.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I some kind of masochist? I’d never considered it before, but I’m starting to wonder. Does a part of me enjoy being humiliated? Was that why I stayed with the professor for so long?
“I hope I at least get to have dinner with you before your party,” Mom says.
I nod. “Of course. I’d like that.”
The rest of my day passes exactly as I’d planned, but after dinner, I return to my room to find a party invite slid under my door.
I unfold it and read.
It says I need to be in the bar at nine p.m. and that the dress code is glamorous.
I consider not showing up, but I’m pretty sure if I don’t, one of them will come and find me. I don’t want to be dragged there against my will. I’d rather walk in with my head held high.
I text Camile.
I’m a little disappointed I haven’t heard from her already, but I guess if she thought she was going to see me at the party, she might have wanted to give me some time with my mom.
The reply comes within seconds.
I find myself grinning. Okay, maybe this will be fun. I am twenty, after all, not fifty. I make a promise to myself to stay off the booze, though, and I won’t stay out too late.
I turn my mind to what I’m going to wear. The invitation says glamorous, but I don’t want to make the same mistake as last time.
My stomach churns with nerves as I head toward the bar. The music blasts out—old school R&B—and, despite myself, I find my hips and shoulders moving. I do love to dance.
I open the door, and my mouth drops. The place is heaving. Strung above the bar is a banner that reads ‘Happy Birthday, Duchess.’ Duchess? Are they fucking serious? They must have had that thing specially made.
This is too much. I don’t even know the majority of the people here. They’re complete strangers, though they seem to know me. Faces I don’t recognize smile at me and wish me a happy birthday.
Desperately, I seek out a familiar face through the crowd.
