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Chapter Three – Giselle
I stood before a floor-length mirror in my bedroom. I wore an all-white dress, beautiful lace work around my chest. I hadn’t put on my gloves yet, still having to put on my necklace. My blond hair was up, a few wavy strands left out to frame my face. I’d done my makeup a bit, my dark eyes smoky and blended.
I looked older than eighteen. My mother, my father had once told me, had been a model. He’d fallen in love with her at first sight, and he’d done everything he could to have her. They got married in a whirlwind, and she’d had me. Not too long after that, she’d died.
Of course, I knew I owed a lot of my looks to my mother, although I did wonder if the story my father had told me was true. My father had a way of lying when it suited him, you see, and I’d learned to not trust a single word he said to me.
Today was the day I would be paraded around as his heir. Today I’d meet the other men vying for the Black Hand position, along with the current members. It was going to be a busy, busy day, to say the least, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. I’d have to smile, laugh, be sweet and innocent and alluring all while watching my back.
Yes, that was the game my father wanted me to play. He wanted the others to underestimate me, and they would, because they’d take one look at me and see nothing but a pretty girl in white. I doubted anyone else there would be wearing white. Black was more their color, go figure.
A knock echoed on my bedroom door, and for a split second, I thought it was Zander. It wasn’t, though; it was only my father, and he walked right in without waiting for me to give him the go-ahead.
My father had already changed into a suit, the sleek dark color hugging his body tightly. He wore a white undershirt with a black tie, looking as ready to go as ever. One of his hands was in his pocket, while the one that had knocked hung at his side. He studied me as his legs drew him across the room.
“You look beautiful, Giselle,” he spoke, stopping when he stood directly behind me, his gaze meeting mine in the mirror. “You will be the belle of the ball tonight.” His compliment meant nothing to me, but I forced a smile out regardless.
Because I knew he liked it when I asked him for help, I pointed to the necklace resting on my dresser a few feet away and said, “Could you?”
“Of course.” He went for the necklace, carefully picking it up. He returned to me, undoing the clasp before lowering it around my head. His fingers never once brushed my skin, but that did not stop the chill from sweeping over me, didn’t stop the feeling of wanting to crawl out of my own flesh just to get away from him.
I hated him. I hated him so much.
“There,” he said, taking a step back once the necklace was clasped around my neck. “I’m so glad you didn’t go for the gaudy cross you’ve been wearing lately.” He remarked about Father Charlie’s cross, which sat tucked away in my nightstand.
It didn’t go with the outfit, you see. A silver heart pendant worked so much better. Simple yet elegant; it gave off the kind of vibe I wanted to have.
“You really do remind me of your mother,” my father remarked, black eyes studying me again. “She would be proud of the woman you’ve become.” Though his words rang hollow to me, I found myself turning around and thanking him with another smile.
I wanted to ask him if she would be proud of the man he was today, but I knew that would set him off. I did not rile up my father at every turn; I had to save the anger and the vitriol for the moments when it counted the most. Now was not one of those times, and so I swallowed the comeback down.
“Let me get my gloves,” I said, “and then I’ll be ready to go.” I stepped around him, moving to my dresser, where the gloves lay, right beside where the necklace had been.
“About your gloves,” he started, “I was thinking it might be better to go without them today.”
I froze, one of my hands hovering over the white glove. I blinked. He wanted me to go without them? He wanted… what he wanted shouldn’t matter, but I knew he would make my life a living hell if I went against him and put on the gloves, anyway. Sometimes it was easier to give him what he wanted rather than fight constantly. Pick your battles and all that.
So I left my gloves, walking with my father out of my bedroom. We went down the hall, to the main stairwell. He’d already informed me of everyone who would be there; we had to make the rounds and talk to everyone, especially the current Black Hand members. To the other hopeful people there, we had to show our backbone.
I didn’t know how we would do that at a party, but whatever.
My father went to hold the front door to the house open for me, and I stepped outside. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t the man standing on the driveway, leaning against a black car, talking to my father’s driver.
Zander. Of course he was here.
The moment I walked out, he stopped chatting, turning his brown-haired head in my direction. He wore a suit much like my father did, only he looked a hell of a lot better in his—but maybe that was just because I hated my father. Maybe it was because he started to smile at me, something my father never really did, the grin lighting up his face.
Or maybe it was the fact that he had indeed kept it a secret, what we did that night. Going to all those clubs, going to the Playground. I’d turned in my papers already and was waiting for an email confirmation that I was accepted as an official member of the club, and I’d done so without Zander being around. There were a million ways to sneak out of a house that large. I was learning.
Zander said nothing as his gaze studied me, though the small smile resting on his lips told me enough—and the way he couldn’t take his eyes off me, even when my father appeared by my side, guiding me to the backseat of the car. Only when we reached the car did Zander leap into action and open the door for us.
I slid into the car first, my father just behind me. I imagined my father tossed him a glare, but then again, I couldn’t be too sure, since my view of the world was suddenly car-focused.
My father’s driver walked around the car and got in, while Zander did the same after my father and I were in the backseat. He got into the front passenger’s seat, and he stole another glance at me as he buckled his seatbelt.
It was hard to pretend not to notice. I didn’t care about Zander—I didn’t. Having his attention like that wasn’t something I wanted. Getting involved with someone who my father had in his pocket was just asking for trouble. Sooner or later Zander would be forced to choose between his loyalty to my father and his feelings for me, and we all knew what he’d choose.
My father, because to men like them, loyalty was everything. Women were fun, nice to look at and nicer to fuck, but that’s it. We were daughters and wives, not girlfriends. Not loves. We could never mean much to men like them.
