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I close my eyes, contradictory thoughts of Lucian whizzing around in my mind. Time passes, and I’m not sure if I doze off at one point, but I’m awoken from my thoughts when Farrah shakes me.
“Finished,” she announces. My eyes snap open and I jump as the stool beneath me jerks suddenly. I hold out my hands to try to steady myself as I’m spun anticlockwise to face the mirror.
The stool stops suddenly, and I come face to face with my reflection. Apart from being a little generous with the blusher, Farrah has done a really nice job. My eyeshadow is a mix of golds, not the colours I would have personally chosen, but it looks nice.
“What do you think?” she asks.
I glance up to meet her eyes in the mirror. “Looks fab,” I say, and notice that she’s even managed to glue the false eyelashes into place without sticking my eyes together.
Farrah squeaks in excitement. “I knew I was a wasted talent.”
“Perhaps I’ll employ you to work in my beauty salon as an apprentice makeup artist.” I laugh, but Farrah does not. I of course was only joking, because an heiress working in a beauty salon is just unheard of. But Farrah’s expression sobers, as does mine, and an awkwardness passes between us.
“I mean, you’re welcome to work with me at the salon,” I say, feeling the need to say something to fill the silence.
Farrah’s gaze lowers and she runs her fingers through her long ebony locks. “Yeah. No. It’s a terrible idea. Me working? My father would never allow it.”
Her statement surprises me. Duncan Calloway is portrayed by the media as a hard-working man, and his sons follow in his footsteps. Yet here is his daughter, seventeen years old and not allowed to work? I’m unsure if her father is overprotective or chauvinistic.
Tears glisten in Farrah’s eyes, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. I reach up and squeeze her fingers, which she has placed on my shoulder. “You’re welcome to come to my salon any time, be it for treatments or training.”
We hold one another’s stare for long seconds, even when Lucian knocks on the door to inform us that they are getting ready to leave.
“We aren’t ready,” Farrah calls and I follow her mirrored gaze to where our dresses hang.
“That’s okay, we’ll wait.”
“Please, go ahead without us.” Farrah quickly wipes at her eyes. “Chelsea and I want to arrive in style.”
There’s a beat of silence before Lucian speaks. “As you wish. The event starts promptly at seven. Don’t be late.”
“We’ll be right behind you.”
After changing into our dresses, we watch from the bedroom window as the Range Rover Lucian and Malachi are in leaves through the wrought-iron gates.
“I guess it’s time to get the show on the road,” Farrah says, checking her makeup one final time. Though she needn’t bother, her makeup is flawless. Mine is too, now I’ve had a chance to blend the blusher when Farrah wasn’t looking.
Farrah’s bodyguard, Dante, escorts us from the bedroom and to the large driveway where the Mercedes is parked. The engine is purring like a regal cat when Farrah and I slide inside. With Dante sitting in the front passenger seat, we have the entire back of the car to ourselves.
I’m quiet during the journey, and Farrah is only too happy to fill the silence with reams of conversation. She talks about her studies and tells me about all the things she likes to do in her spare time, which ranges from singing to playing the piano and horse riding. I keep my gaze trained on my lap and focus on the intricately designed patterns made from the lace. I feel awful—no, more than awful, I feel like a fraud. Wearing this dress is dishonouring a dead woman’s memory. I begged Valerie not to cut the material and pleaded with her not to shorten the length. She didn’t listen.
“What do you think?” Farrah asks.
I look up and am met by her emerald gaze. She looks stunning this evening, and a lot older than her seventeen years. She is wearing an off-the-shoulder maroon gown; the skirt falls all the way to the floor with a slight slit up her right calf. Her ebony locks fall in tight spirals and dance around her face as she talks.
“I’m sorry, what do I think about what?”
Farrah rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “About the handbags. Do I go straight in at ten thousand, or start lower?”
Ten thousand? For handbags? Is she insane? “Lower. Much lower.”
“That’s a good idea,” Farrah says.
I notice Farrah meeting her bodyguard’s gaze in the mirrored visor. She smiles at him. Dante’s eyes don’t crease at the corners, which tells me he isn’t returning her smile, but he is looking at her. I wonder how old he is—my guess would be twenty-five. He isn’t bad-looking, in a ripped gym-goer kind of way. His black dress shirt hugs his chest, showing the guy is in very good physical shape. His hair is dark, and his eyes…oh, my God, his eyes meet my gaze through the reflection, and I quickly look away.
Distraction over, I hold my head in my hands and say the words I’ve wanted to say all day. “I can’t do this.” I can’t pretend any more.
“Stop the car,” Farrah announces.
