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“Stop fussing with it,” Mom insists, slapping my hand away from the shoulder of my dress, which I attempt to crank higher up my arm at every opportunity I get.
“You’re sure you got her the right size?” Dad asks pointedly, and I’m not sure whether to be grateful to him or embarrassed by the fact that clearly, even my dad thinks I’m wearing something too revealing for this charity dinner.
“It says it’s a size four,” she insists.
“I think it’s missing the top half,” I observe dryly, staring down at the swell of my breasts and wondering if I can get away with carrying a program over my chest for the duration of the evening.
“Well, I didn’t realize it would be so low-cut when I bought it. It looked perfectly fine on the mannequin. I just thought the color was beautiful.”
“Hopefully, everyone else will be so dazzled by the sequins that they don’t notice I’m wearing a skirt with sleeves,” I agree.
“If you want to be so ungrateful about it, you should have gone out and gotten your own dress,” Mom snaps, her cheeks coloring as she juts her chin out in self-defense.
“Or you could have let me stay home,” I point out.
“You need to get out of the house, pumpkin. Aside from school, all you do is lock yourself in your room anymore,” Dad says.
I am sooo tired of the parent alliance. With Ben gone and me living under their roof once again, I’m really starting to feel the fact that I’m outnumbered and coping with my parents’ rule-as-law way of talking to me. Like I’m still sixteen.
Not that I have any other solution for where to go or what to do with my life now, but after too many days pent up with them, I’m starting to remember why I was so ready to leave in the first place. And without Ben as a buffer—or at least backup—I feel like I might lose the last ounce of sanity I have left.
“You look beautiful, honey,” Mom insists. “And you’re dad’s right. This will be good for you.”
“Mm-hmm,” I acknowledge skeptically, then I take a deep breath, trying to fix my attitude because I know tonight means a lot to my parents—even if they’re forcing me out of the house against my will.
And maybe they’re right, though, since my last encounter with Adam Page, the one guy I used to consider my ally at these froofy social events, I don’t see how milling about in a crowd of trust fund baby billionaires is going to be particularly good for me.
The elevator door dings open, and I plaster on a smile as we make our way out into the hallway along with several other charity ball attendees who rode up in separate lifts. The mirror walls and glass windows offer a kind of visual maze of seeming open space as we enter the Rainbow Room and head down the glass stairs toward the main event.
The decor of the grand ballroom is as elaborate as the event itself, showcasing the wealth of the event host like a shining beacon.
“What’s this charity ball for again?” I murmur, leaning close to my dad.
“This goes toward the families of New York that have suffered a personal loss due to violent crime,” he says solemnly.
A knot forms in my throat, and I glance sidelong at my dad. Does he mean people like us? Because he’s saying it as if he doesn’t believe that’s the kind of family we are. Not that we need the charity or that it would bring Ben back or ease the pain of his loss—nor would it do that for anyone who lost someone to violence. But my parents just lost their son, and rather than grieving it at a deep, personal level, like I have been, it sounds like they’re using Ben’s death as a reason to get behind a charity event. Like attending this fancy dinner will somehow make things all better.
But since we’re already in a room full of polite society, half of whom have major contributions toward my father’s campaign for governor, I’m not about to blurt that out.
Clearly, I haven’t done my homework, so I plan on just shutting my mouth and hoping for the best this evening. Not that I’m off to a great start.
“Drinks?” Mom offers, gesturing toward the elaborate display of champagne flutes and punch bowls that line one long wall of the ballroom.
We make our way over, my parents each collecting a glass of champagne while I stick to water. The entourage of friends and admirers, some to speak with my parents, begin shortly after. And though I might normally be inclined to wander in search of hors d’oeuvres or something that might catch my attention, tonight I stay closer to my parents, more willing to zone out as they converse.
Only, it seems every time my mind starts to wander, the name Mikhail Sidorov pulls me back to the present moment. The first few comments are so off-hand, I almost don’t catch them. Mentions of what good taste he has or how broadly his business has expanded over the past few years.
But then the comments roll in more personally, several political rivals of my father over the years teasing Dad about catching such a big fish before congratulating him on finding such a generous benefactor as Mikhail.
And then still more seem to care to boast about what a philanthropist he is, how he must have a heart of gold to be so incredibly generous with the people of New York.
“I’m sorry, did you say Mikhail Sidorov?” I cut in as probably the tenth person mentions his name in the first hour of mingling and polite conversation.
“Well… yes,” Dr. Jenna Estrada says, cocking her head in silent question. “Don’t you know Mr. Sidorov? He’s quite the public figure.”
“Oh, yes. I know him. Of course. It’s only that I keep hearing him come up tonight, it seems.” I try to keep the explanation casual, not like I’m burning to know just what the hell he’s doing on the lips of elite society and how in the hell he has them all eating out of his hand.
Dr. Estrada beams warmly at me. “Well, he is the man of the hour,” she says kindly. “He’s hosting tonight’s event. And if you don’t know that, then you must not know that he’s already agreed to match whatever funds we manage to raise tonight. Such a generous offer, isn’t it?”
