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She stares at my over-brushed hair a moment before nodding, finding some shining oil, rubbing it into her hands, then running it through my long stands. This seems to bring her back to the present, and once she’s calmed, I pull away and look into the mirror, attempting to fix the mess she made.
It doesn’t take long, twisting and repinning my hair back. As I raise my arms above my head to reach the back, she scrunches her brow disapprovingly, squeezing my bicep, her glare so different from Roxy's proud smile a couple of weeks ago.
"Imogen… you're looking a little… muscular," she spits out distastefully. My lips part, and I try to come up with an excuse, but I'm not even sure what to say. I've always been thin, the OFA diet pushed me hard at school and even harder at home. But since I've been in South Loop, I've been… filling in a bit. I'd hoped my mother wouldn't notice, but of course, I'm a product to her, one she's cultivated to perfection, and she can tell when it's not quite the same.
"Saul made a comment about the lipstick. I know you always wear red, but they think it sends the wrong message. You’ll be photographed more now, you want to make sure you’re fitting into their image."
I look up at her reflection standing in the mirror beside me, blotting tissues in one hand.
I love red lipstick. I love the way it looks. It’s bold and empowering.
Sensing my hesitation, she sighs, exasperated, as though my petulance knows no bounds. I’ve always tried to be perfect for her. Whatever she needs from me, I do it. I didn’t even start wearing red lipstick until she suggested it when I was sixteen, thinking it would set a certain tone about the way I looked, making me look just a little bit older—not too old, of course. I ended up loving it and it became something of a signature of mine.
Hesitantly, I take the wipes and scrub the lipstick off. Reflection Imogen is a puppet—an imposter—she stares blankly into the mirror, lips now clean of color. She applies a nude balm, and she dismisses the longing in her bright blue eyes for something more. Pretender Imogen, faking her smile. She looks perfect.
I don’t realize what my mother is doing, fussing at my nape, until the long strands of a robin’s egg blue satin ribbon come up around the sides of my head, behind my ears, and she ties it in a bow at the top of my head.
I feel sick, looking at my reflection. "Mother, this is infantile. I look like a teenager."
"Nonsense," she waves me off. "You look perfect."
I don't want to be perfect. I don't want to look like a prepubescent doll for their pleasure, it's sickening. I don't want Stevens, and their perfect image for the cameras. I want Dante. I want their gritty, exciting lives. I want their wild inhibitions and protection. I want their love.
"What if I found my scent-match?" I blurt out.
Alarmed, my mother freezes beside me. I tear my gaze away from the mirror and stare directly into hers. Unnerved by the sudden strength in my voice, she straightens her shoulders and leaves the bathroom.
I follow, and while she fluffs the pillows on my bed, she says, "I suppose that depends on who they are."
Right. Do they have money? Power? Political standing? The ability to save my family from themselves?
"Mom…"
She snaps her head toward me. She told me to stop calling her mom when I was a preteen. It’s Mother, or Regina. She asked me to stop calling my fathers Dad, and instead by their first names, though that was easier since there are four of them.
"Imogen, you promised me," she implores, dropping the pillow and clasping my hands in hers, dragging me down to a seat beside her.
"I know, Mother. But what if—"
"Did you? Meet your scent match?"
I pull my hands away and resist the urge to slump my shoulders. I desperately want to tell her the truth. Yes, I met them. Two of them, anyway.
I've seen Red briefly, but I didn't have the courage to introduce myself. Instead, I hid behind the velvet curtains when he popped in one night and watched him interact with everyone else. Red is the guy others want to be or be with, and the way he walks, with this unteachable swagger…
Dante Pack are nothing like I’d have expected, given their reputation. They're so caring, always checking in with everyone to make sure they feel safe, and have what they need. So attentive, so sexy and dangerous and vibrant with life.
My mother's fingertips touch my cheek and I realize I’m smiling, thinking of them. She can tell the difference, and a genuine smile means trouble.
"Imogen, your father didn’t fall at the gym."
"What?" I rear back.
"These collectors, we owe them a lot of money, and they are getting impatient. Your father struck a deal with Stevens Pack. You check all their boxes. You’re submissive, well-bred, beautiful. They have promised to pay our debts. Do you want to see your other fathers get hurt? Or worse? They could come after me. Or you."
"I don’t understand… what… how… how could they let it get this bad? Are we in danger?"
"Yes, Imogen, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Honestly, I thought you learned the art of subtly back in school. Perhaps we need to make an appointment with Madam Fletcher before the wedding. You’ll be hosting the upper echelon of society; your mates will expect you to keep your ears open. Have you forgotten how to read between the lines?"
