Page 23 of Fatality

What a fucking joke.

My parents only ever contact me when they need the heiress.

Their perfect family image.

I scoff.

Always out of self-interest. Never for me.

The Aurelian Plaza in District 6 rises above everything else in the district like a monument to excess, its sweeping glass façade bathed in cascading holograms and warm golden light.

I shake my head. Not in disapproval, not exactly.

More like I'm mentally bracing myself for what's coming. I already know exactly how tonight is going to go, and I deliberately chose to be myself, knowing my parents won't be able to say shit in front of everyone.

I climb the broad marble steps beneath towering crystal chandeliers visible through floor-to-ceiling windows, surrounded by immaculate gardens, sculpted fountains, and luxury vehicles gliding silently toward the entrance.

A uniformed doorman pulls the grand doors open for me, and the second my heels click against the polished floor, everyone stops whatever they're doing and stares.

At me, I hate it.

Maybe it's not me. Maybe they're staring at the doorman, right?

I take a deep breath and keep walking, my satin burgundy dress swishing around my legs with every step.

The polished black floor reflects the glow of suspended light sculptures while a live orchestra fills the grand ballroom with restrained elegance.

Champagne flows between politicians, corporate executives, celebrities, and old-money families dressed in flawless couture, every smile carefully rehearsed beneath the watchful eyes of discreet security and hovering media drones.

I sweep the room with my mismatched eyes—one pale green, the other pale blue—and spot them almost instantly.

My mother is dressed in a long black satin gown with a high collar and enough gold jewelry to remind everyone exactly who she is.

Even surrounded by breathtaking luxury, the place feels suffocating, as if every polished surface is another reminder that appearances matter more than people—Just like my parents.

Her hair falls perfectly around her shoulders, so immaculate it looks like she just stepped out of a salon.

She probably has her own personal cooling tech hidden beneath that fucking dress.

My father looks just as polished, his beard clean-shaven, his gray hair slicked back. A dark blue tuxedo tailored within an inch of its life.

The perfect image of a rich fucker.

Their gazes sweep over the room before settling on me. Instantly, I know they're not happy with how I'm dressed.

Here we go again.

I sigh and head toward them, my hands clenched at my sides.

“Riven,” my mother says, her voice flat, distant, stripped of any warmth.

Her eyes travel slowly over me, taking in every inch of my dress with silent criticism. “What an interesting choice,” she says smoothly. “I thought I made myself clear. Dress in a way that doesn't embarrass us.”

“Mother,” I reply coldly. “Hello to you too.” I glance down at my dress. “Oh, this? I thought it was very fitting for the family heiress. Don't you think?”

“Riven,” my father cuts in, interrupting the cold war. “This dress is not appropriate for an event like this. That plunging neckline, those thin straps—”

“And the backless design,” my mother adds smoothly, cutting him off. “You could've chosen not to look so cheap. You are a Laordie. Act like one.”