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Nice nonanswer.
I wrinkle my face up, glaring at the phone.
“Well?” Grandma asks just a little too mildly.
“He’s picking me up in the morning,” I say with dread numbing me. “Then I guess the whole world gets to meet August Marshall’s fiancée as she falls on her face.”
I’m so not ready for this.
God, what was I thinking? Why are all these people staring at me?
The cameras pop like fireworks every three seconds.
Just how rich is August to have this many people obsessing over his personal life?
I thought I could handle this.
I mean, I’ve made it through an art exhibition full of snooty rich people who’d only come to gawk at the ordinary girl’s art and pretend they were getting culture by slumming it.
I didn’t even have a nice dress then. Just a basic glittery black cocktail dress that was a little too slutty for the occasion but was perfect for what I normally used it for—the one date-night dress that worked reliably every time.
Back then I could feel them looking at me with thin-lipped suspicion that said I hadn’t actually been chosen for that exhibit based on any kind of talent.
No, they just liked feeling good about themselves by plucking up some little street urchin and making her sparkle like she mattered for a few nights.
Still, I breezed through it.
I laughed.
I smiled.
I was awkward and silly and brazen and I let myself have fun. Because no matter their reasons, I still had a gallery exhibit, and the rich bitches weren’t the only ones who showed up.
Plenty of other folks came because they wanted to appreciate the art. I couldn’t be miserable about any extenuating circumstances when I got to hang back and watch people stop to study my paintings with that thoughtful look that said they honestly appreciated what they saw.
This time, at least I have a proper dress.
Somehow, I survived putting on that dress while Lena helped me with a more demure makeup style than my usual colorful eye shadow wings and bold pink lipstick.
Once Lena did my hair pretty in a delicate chignon with sideswept bangs, I felt like a real lady.
Once I put on the pale-lavender open-weave cardigan to go with the dress and added my pantyhose and the pretty off-white slingback heels Angelique helped me pick out, I felt like a goddess.
When August came to the door to escort me to the car and stared just a few seconds longer than he really needed to, and he handled me like he was grasping something delicate?
I was breathless.
Gratefully trapped in a thrill I can’t describe.
Maybe this is my Cinderella moment. Maybe once he saw me as a princess, the prince would easily fall in love.
But no.
I’m not Cinderella, and this is no fairy tale.
I’m not even the ugly stepsisters, the stepmother, or the fairy godmother.
I’m the damned pumpkin, and there’s no one here to make me shiny while I stand in front of this podium with August by my side and my face frozen in a smile that will turn into a grimace if it gets any wider.
