Tori
Chapter 1
Tonight I felt like Cinderella. My Marchesa dress matched the cool blue of my eyes, the full skirt embellished with silk flower petals and subtle embroidery that gleamed in the light. Thanks to some last-minute tailoring, it fit me like a glove. Such were the benefits of having a wealthy, influential father who wanted me to look my best for my eighteenth birthday party.
Even if it was a little hard to breathe.
The outfit, the whole presentation, was an homage to the rags-to-riches story my father loved to trot out for all his campaigns—how his family had come from nothing, working their fingers to the bone to give him the opportunity to make a difference. His own male version of the Cinderella story. So here I was, an emblem of his success and power. Freshly eighteen and ready to take on the world. I hoped I’d live up to his expectations. And my own.
I took one last look in the mirror, practicing my smile as I adjusted my tiara.
“Carpe noctem,” I whispered. “The night is yours.” That, at least, was true.
I headed downstairs toward the murmur of voices, the tinkling of glasses, and the soothing sounds of the chamber orchestra. It was almost like a royal ball. And it was all for me.
At first, I hadn’t been excited about the event. The only ‘parties’ my father had thrown at our luxurious Springfield home over the years had all been fundraisers for political races. Hopelessly boring despite—or maybe due to—the fact that I was fully capable of keeping up with the guests’ endless political discourse.
My father had promised tonight would be different.
“And if you do well, there will be a big surprise in it for you,” he had told me.
I knew I was too old to be excited about birthday surprises, but I couldn’t help the anticipation building inside of me. Was he finally going to give me the tuition money I needed to attend the University of Chicago in the fall? Their prestigious, uber-competitive linguistics program offered classes I hadn’t seen anywhere else, and I’d be able to study Old Church Slavonic, Turkish, and Greek. It was my dream.
“Prosciutto-peach canapé, miss?” a bow-tied server asked as I descended the final curve of the Calacatta marble staircase.
“No thank you,” I said with a smile. The truth was, I was too nervous to eat.
The day I’d gotten my acceptance letter was the best, and worst, of my life. I hadn’t partied away my senior year like everyone else at my private, all-girls preparatory academy, and it had paid off. UChicago was awarding me a partial scholarship, based on my GPA and a passionate personal essay I’d spent weeks writing. But it turned out my father was too wealthy for me to get a full ride—and he refused to pay the rest of the tuition. My own savings didn’t even get me close.
“No one wants to marry a woman with a snooty degree, sweetheart,” he had reasoned.
I hadn’t given up, though. I had subtly—and not so subtly—been singing the praises of the program, and its real world benefits (diplomatic functions, ease of traveling, better conversations at cocktail parties, etc.) for months, hoping to change my father’s mind.
Maybe it had finally worked.
I scanned the ballroom with a sinking heart. I didn’t see my father, nor a single other face I recognized. The party was fancy and glamorous, of course, but looked to be solely attended by guests my father’s age, or older. Just like always. That was what happened when you spent your formative years working your ass off to stay permanently on the honor roll. Zero social life. I’d invited Grace, my SAT study partner and only friend, but she was on a ritzy vacation in Spain.
“There’s the girl of the hour,” a soft, feminine voice crooned from behind me. I grinned. I’d recognize that southern accent anywhere.
My stepmother, Michelle, was gliding over with a champagne flute in her hand, smiling as she led a stooped older gentleman toward me. He looked like the crotchety old grandfather type. In contrast, Michelle was blonde and buxom, impeccable in her skirt suit and Jackie O. pearls—always the perfect image of a politician’s second wife.
“Woman of the hour,” I corrected. These things mattered.Wordsmattered. “Soon to be heading off into the world on my own. Because I’m an adult now.”
“Of course you are,” she groaned. “And that meansI’mgetting older. Couldn’t you have just stayed six years old forever? I’d better buy up stock in Botox.”
We all laughed.
I loved Michelle. My mother had passed when I was young, too little to remember much about her, and Michelle entered my life soon after. She’d never attempted to replace my mother, which I appreciated, and we’d always been more like friends than stepmother and daughter. She was a southern belle, through and through, and had taught me the importance of appearances in all their forms. Especially when it came to my father.
“Victoria, I’d like you to meet Congressman McDonnell,” Michelle said by way of introduction. Using my full name was code between us: she didn’t know him well and it was best to keep up my guard. “We just met, over a champagne tray.”
“Happy birthday, and congratulations on your recent graduation,” McDonnell said. He leaned closer, a gleam in his eye. “I plan to persuade your father into supporting a new environmental proposal by getting in your good graces. Do you dance?” He held out his arm.
“How devious of you,” I responded, warming to him instantly. “And of course I do.”
McDonnell was surprisingly light on his feet, and I found that I was actually enjoying myself.
“I heard you were VP of your school’s Latin club. Blessed with beauty and brains, eh? I believe the phrase is ‘quidquid Latine dictum…sit altum videtur’?” he said with a wink.
