AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter 1
Moët Misery
Whoneedstherapywhenthey have champagne and couture?
That’s why I sit on my bedroom floor in vintage Vivienne Westwood and gilded Gucci pumps, a bottle of Moet in my fist and tears running down my face.
Another day, another argument with my father. Because apparently, sending me away for seven years wasn’t enough for him. Forcing me to leave my friends behind, to give up New York—the heart of fashion, art and culture—in favour of the most uptight and boring country in the world. Forcing me to adapt to the depressing British weather, stupid British spelling and dry, annoying British humour—none of it matters to my father.
After spending my childhood and adolescence obeying his every wish and whim, he has the gall to turn around and refuse to let me choose my own future.
“You’re not wasting your time in fashion school, Seraphina!” Robert Rosenthal screamed at me through the phone ten minutes earlier. “I’ve had enough of this stupid idea! If you want to spend every cent of your trust fund on clothes, then do that, but I’m not letting you waste time and money on some silly fashion school! You’re going to stop these childish dreams, get a proper degree, and get to work, just like I did when I was your age.”
“Silly fashion school?” Even though I wanted to, I didn't dare scream back. I know my father well—he’s perfectly capable of cutting me off for something as petty as not liking the volume of my voice during a phone conversation. “I’m applying to the London College of Fashion! It’sonlythe best place in the world to study fashion.”
“Clothes are for wearing, not studying,” my father snapped. “I refuse to let you become yet another vapid New York heiress with a failed fashion line. You’re better than that—the Rosenthal name is better than that.”
Fuck the Rosenthal name, I wanted to say.
There’s a reason my mom didn’t want it. There’s a reason she left and never came back, and there’s a reason my father had two more failed marriages after she left.
The Rosenthal name isn’t the privilege and honour he thinks it is.
It’s a curse.
But I was too scared to say any of this to him.
“Please, daddy,” I said instead in my most pitiful voice. “I just want to do what I love.”
“Doing what you love is a hobby, not a career,” he replied. “Most people can’t afford an education—do you think I’m going to let you waste time and money on a whim?”
“But it’s not a whim.”
“The matter is closed, Seraphina. You’re not going.”
“Please, can we discuss it, if I—”
“If you want to discuss it, we can talk after the Siddal Gallery Gala.”
I roll my eyes, thankful he can’t see me. The Siddal Gallery in London is one of the many artistic and educational institutions my father patrons to make himself seem less like a soulless Wall Street shark.
Every year, they have a fundraising event that’s supposed to be Britain’s answer to the Met Gala. The only thing they have in common is that they both attract crowds of people who care more about being seen there than the actual art they are supposed to be supporting.
Every year, my father attends the event like he’s the king of Versailles, and every year, I’m forced to be at his side. I’m not stupid—I’m little more than one of his trophies.
And like a trophy, he thinks I’m just an object for him to use.
“University deadlines will be during the same month as the gala,” I say carefully. “I can’t afford to wait until then, daddy, so if we—”
“We’ll speak then, Seraphina.”
And then he hung up without so much as a goodbye.
After that conversation, I allowed myself a full fifteen minutes of crying. After that, I dealt with my problem the way I always do: from the outside in. Standing in front of my full-length mirror, I dressed and put on my makeup. I can only ever allow myself to be miserable so long as I look good doing it.
Now I sit on the floor in my couture, my long hair tumbling in loose golden curls down my shoulders, sipping from my bottle of champagne. I painted two lines of shimmer underneath my eyes so that my tears leave two glittering streaks down my face.
At least my angst is aesthetically pleasing. Social media only likes women’s emotions when it’s beautifully packaged.
