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7
“Oh. My. God.”
Birdie’s eyes widened as she stood in front of the full-length mirror wearing the bathing suit Ariana had purchased, along with an entire wardrobe a starlet would shiv you for, without blinking a fake eyelash.
Second thought, not a wardrobe of a Hollywood starlet. That was Ariana’s role. Maybe an actress relegated to second billing. One who had talent but not the face or body for the leading lady.
And she thought her family was deranged.
Maybe that was the reason for Ariana naming her sons Errol and Flynn, so she could use them in her effed-up fantasies that made her the starring attraction?
How had she not picked up on this?
Her wedding.
Omigod.
She brought her hand to her mouth as it was all coming together.
Ariana had picked out her wedding dress because Birdie couldn’t stomach the thought of planning a wedding with her Mr. Burns from theSimpsonsstepson, along with the decorations, Limoges china, and fancy embellishments.
At first, Birdie had thought the aesthetic from the Belle Epoch era, or maybe more in line with an Art Nouveau wedding motif. Her assumptions were a couple decades ahead of the poorly designed Golden Age of Hollywood theme.
All part of the elaborate cinematography where she was expected to play along. Without reservation, or allowing her the professional courtesy of reading the script or the chance to memorize her lines.
Her job was to ad-lib, but not color outside the lines.
Thinking back, that NDA didn’t seem quite so obtuse now.
Birdie had inadvertently become part of a family living their lives of a bygone era that fed into Errol and Ariana’s sick and twisted sexual proclivities.
Were they sexual, though?
She wasn’t really sure.
Last night, after dragging Flynn into the kitchen and bribing him with all the dinner rolls he could eat, he had assured her that as far as he was aware, his brother and mother had never consummated their…special relationship, post spanking scene.
Despite that, from Birdie’s perspective, Errol seemed to really enjoy his face being squeezed between Ariana’s humongous breasts. A little too much.
That was not acting.
The vapid man was clearly aroused from where she was standing, wide-eyed, slack-jawed, and eager to hit her mark and make her exit.
And now, as she stood in front of the mirror wearing a one-piece bathing suit that looked more like a red sleeveless romper with shorts, she realized the role she was cast to play. One of a supporting actress expected to carry out scenes mimicking those of the swashbuckling age of Hollywood.
Like that was normal.
Now that she thought about it, Errol dressed in suits expressing current-day fashion. Probably because he had to appear lucid as opposed to bat-shit crazy for his fellow board members and underlings. But at night, he too was dressed rather retro. Although, it was hard to tell with men’s clothing.
Ariana was definitely pouring herself into gowns that she had no business wearing with tons of pasty gems and strings of pearls. Shimmery satins that showed every transgression and over-indulgence, making her look more like Ursula, the evil sea witch, than any notable Hollywood starlet.
Birdie wasn’t one to body shame, but given the way Ariana tormented Flynn for every morsel he put into his mouth, she certainly didn’t exhibit any discernible restraint for herself.
Grabbing her phone on the side table, sure Errol had left for the office for his obligatory three-hour workday, which included a two-hour lunch, she removed the offensive garment and put her original bathing suit back on.
If Ariana was still combing the mansion and objected to her attire, she would change. For the simple fact that she was too tired to argue, having spent the night rifling through Errol’s office and trying to hack into his computer.
Otherwise, she’d take her chances.
