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It’s. Not. Me.
six
Happy Birthday, Paisley! Roughly 9:00 p.m. on the night of the gala
Paisley
I need cake. I glance around, looking for Mary. Or the birthday gift I requested from her. My favorite treat of hers, double-chocolate cupcakes with rainbow sprinkles on top.
My mom’s prepped me that tonight Dad will make the big announcement to the family. The way gossip travels through our world, everyone already knows. Still, as with everything in classic Bachman fashion, it must be made official with an event and a big speech.
And after my dad does a birthday toast—one that will surely make me cry—he will finally, officially, announce my impending engagement to Giovanni Russo.
As my dad reminds me repeatedly, It’s a proposal of an engagement, sweetheart. If you get there and meet in person and don’t want to go through with it for any reason at all, we call it off.
I know I won’t.
Our family rules over the East Coast, parts of Greece, and have recently expanded to Italy. My marriage to the Russo family will solidify our relationships, ensure peace, and more power in Italy. Would Italy be my first choice for my forever home?
As beautiful as the countryside is, no. But it doesn’t matter what I want. I’ll make this sacrifice for the family. A shiver runs down my spine, thinking about how much my life is going to change after tonight.
There are only two things that can get me through this moment.
Sugar and chocolate. Oh. And my Mary.
She’s my adoptive grandmother. She loves to cook, is an amazing baker, and my go-to for good hugs. My mom is a terrible cook but refuses to hire a chef. Thank God Mary moved in to help when my mom had me—a third kiddo kinda tipped my princess mother over the edge. Otherwise, we’d have starved.
“Mary, Mary, quite contrary, where did your cupcakes go?” I tiptoe to the kitchen. She always uses the excess batter to make cupcakes. I’m looking for comfort food and a hug.
Caterers bang silver pans as they clear up the buffet from earlier.
I glance around, smelling only garlic and onions.
No chocolate. No Mary. Of course…
I move on to the dining room. It’s filled with tipsy older couples clinging to one another as they dance and laugh, enjoying the night. Not so much as a sugar cube in sight. I move on to the main ballroom.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the massive mirrors that line the ballroom wall.
Thanks to my mother's personal designer and the torturous glam team, I have to admit I am looking my best. The long-sleeve, floor-length pale-blue silk dress was meant to bring out the blue in my eyes. The thin fabric of the bodice dips down to a narrow silver chain belt that hangs low around my waist. The dress fits me perfectly, accentuating my curves while smoothing out any minor imperfections.
My hair brushes my bare shoulders, glossed and carefully tamed into waves. It's been highlighted with coppery streaks courtesy of my recent trip to the family's private island in Greece.My pale skin didn't get the same treatment since I burn easily and was slathered with SPF 50 the whole trip.
The glam team tried to push bronzer on me for that “sun-kissed glow,” but I refused their thick layers of makeup. I stood my ground and they settled for full raspberry lips, dark brows, and lashes.
I take a deep breath and as my lungs fill with air, my senses absorb the over-the-top event that I happen to be the center of. The party, after all, is for me. To celebrate my entry to the family. Finally twenty-one. Old enough to go to all their elaborate parties. And officially old enough to marry.
It feels surreal as I whisper the words to myself. “My marriage is already arranged. My dad will make the announcement tonight.”
The thought makes my belly flip-flop. Soft music swirls around me. An all-female string quartet dressed in deep emerald sits in the corner like sirens serenading us with their melody. Chandeliers glitter from the ceiling, shooting rainbows across the sparkling white marble floor. Men in crisp tuxedos and ladies in shimmering gowns chat near towers of flowing champagne.
My father's associates are everywhere, their faces serious as they discuss their mafia business.
The smells of freshly cut lilacs, wine, food, and perfume, the soft leather from the jackets of the bodyguards at my side, permeate the air. They’re hovering around me, ever watchful and ready to protect me from any danger.Soon, their job with me will terminate, they’ll be placed with someone else, and I’ll be handed off to a new security team that will travel with me to meet my new fiancé for the first time.
As I move further into the room, the guests take notice. Their admiring gazes burn into my skin. The attention makes me feel exposed and vulnerable. But I've always been the focus of most any room’s attention.
I am the only daughter of the powerful Bronson Bachman. But I’ve never, ever gotten used to the stares. Kate Paisley Bachman, the shining bauble of my father's collection.
