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Ariana
My phone vibrates against my thigh as I navigate the bustling city streets.
It’s Dad.
Taking in a deep breath, I brace myself for the familiar letdown.
With a resigned tap on my Bluetooth headphones, I answer.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” My tone is flat.
"Sorry, honey, but I need to cancel dinner tomorrow. There's an urgent staff meeting," he explains, his tone devoid of any real regret.
I ascend the steps to my apartment building, the click of my low heels echoing on the concrete. "Figures," I mutter, more to myself than to him.
“Ariana, this meeting is critical for my Senate campaign. We're launching the fundraising phase, and some key supporters will be there," he continues, trying to justify his absence.
“Right. The campaign,” I mutter, feeling the sting of being second to his political ambitions yet again."I get it. And next week? What will it be? Your task force against the Steel Knights MC? The biker boy vigilantes who have been terrorizing Everton City.”
He pauses, irritation in his tone. “Ariana, please.
I press on, frustration mounting. “And after that? A city council issue? Dad, really, when does it end?”
He's silent for a moment. "I'm sorry, Ari. We'll reschedule. Talk to Laura; she'll find a time."
"Sure, I'll just slot myself in between your more important commitments," I retort, my frustration boiling over.
"Ariana..."
"Enjoy your evening, Dad." I end the call, feeling both defiant and deflated.
It’s a shame his career has always been more important than his family.
Ever since Mom passed away five years ago, it's been mostly me, navigating life with an array of tutors and family friends, while Dad chased his political dreams.
His career always came first before all else.
Rejecting Harvard for the Rhode Island School of Design only widened the rift between us. His disappointment has been a constant companion, and now, at 23, I'm still grappling with it.
Entering my apartment, I shake off the conversation and check my mail.
An eerie sense of being watched causes me to glance around, but there's nothing. Just the usual quiet of the hallway.
“Home, sweet home,” I mutter, locking the door behind me.
Being his daughter, I know I’m expected to aspire to greatness, but I find a simpler satisfaction in my job at a jewelry store, a stepping stone to my dream of opening my own boutique. My designs are still on paper, but their potential is real, tangible.
I shed my clothes and prepare for a bath, the freedom of solitude enveloping me. “Come to mama,” I chuckle, pouring a glass of red wine.
As I settle into the mango-scented foam, my muscles relax, but my mind races. It’s been a hard day dodging advances from a handsy boss, fueling my dream for independence.
My thoughts drift to Dad's relentless campaign against the Steel Knights, a notorious motorcycle club led by three irresistibly sexy older men.
Though I've never met them, my imagination paints a vivid picture of rugged, charismatic rebels, each embodying a raw, magnetic allure that stands in stark contrast to the starched suits of my father's political world.
This imagined trio not only fuels my fantasies but also symbolizes the thrilling freedom I desperately crave.
