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The car pulled up outside the Metropolitan Museum then, breaking me out of my gloomy thoughts, and its grandeur loomed before us.
Clark ended his call and his attention shifted to me, his gaze meeting mine. "We’re here, sweetheart," he murmured as if I hadn’t noticed, reaching up to brush his fingers across my cheek. His tone was gentle, but it still served as a reminder that tonight held a weight beyond the glittering surface of the gala.
His business partners and all the who’s who of the city would be there. Another night of pretending to be something I wasn’t.
His eyes lingered over me and his gaze intensified, as if he were taking in every detail, every nuance of my appearance. I felt a rush of vulnerability under that scrutiny, my insecurities threatening to bubble to the surface.
“Most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he finally said, when his inspection was complete.
But I didn’t feel the words like I should’ve.
His driver, Ryan, opened the door, and Clark’s mask slipped on, that gorgeous smile of his there for everyone to see. Backlit by the camera flashes of the paparazzi who stalked these events, he extended his hand to help me out. His touch was warm, his demeanor exuding confidence and charm as he guided me onto the steps of the museum.
We stepped into the horde of flashing lights and the chorus of society photographers calling our names. Clark moved me this way and that, making sure they got all our best angles. It was a dance we’d perfected, a game of smiles and posed elegance that masked the real emotions lurking beneath. I plastered on a smile, my gaze fixed on Clark like he waseverythingas he expertly navigated the spectacle.
The cameras captured our every move, the bright flashes turning the night into a whirlwind of frozen moments. With each click of the camera, I felt a wave of pressure, the weight of expectations crashing over me. And as Clark led me inside the museum, his arm tightly around me like he knew I wanted to bolt…I felt like I was going to be sick.
Inside, the museum had undergone a remarkable metamorphosis, shedding its usual air of quiet reverence for an opulent transformation.
Maura had outdone herself.
The entrance staircase bloomed with cascading flowers and flowing drapes of purple and cream, like a grand portal into a realm of extravagance. The atrium had become an ethereal ballroom, aglow with the radiance of crystal chandeliers that dripped from the ceiling like suspended stardust. The velvet curtain-lined corridors whispered with the melodies of live music, inviting guests to twirl and converse amidst the echoes of artistry. The museum’s scholarly skin was gone, in its place a living, breathing masterpiece of elegance.
We mingled with the crowd, or should I say, Clark mingled with the crowd. I stood there. Kind of like an accessory. Clark's hand rested lightly on my back the entire time, his conversations a drudgery of smooth, fake words. He was a master of this world, and I…was not.
I grimaced when I heard a familiar, tinkling laugh.
Maura.
I didn’t call them Mom and Dad behind closed doors. That was only in public.
Her laugh was somehow a mixture of refinement and superiority, and it always made me cringe inwardly. Taking a deep breath, I waited for her to approach, dread dripping down my spine like a bead of sweat.
And then there they were. Thomas and Maura Shepfield.
Maura’s appearance was as polished as ever, a vision of refined beauty that drew eyes to her like a siren song. Just looking at her, she could be anywhere between her twenties and forties, not a line marring her face. Her blonde hair was perfectly coiffed, every strand carefully placed. Her black gown the epitome of couture, clinging to her figure in all the right places.
I actually resembled her. I’d overheard them discussing it one night, how that was one of the reasons they’d picked me instead of a baby. Because anyone meeting them would assume I was really theirs.
Lucky me.
Thomas, standing beside her, was the embodiment of classic charm. His tailored tuxedo exuded an air of effortlessness, his silver streaked hair adding a touch of distinguished elegance. His eyes held a warmth that offered a stark contrast to Maura’s demeanor, a warmth that I knew, however, didn’t go skin deep.
As they approached Clark and me, Maura’s eyes scanned my body with a scrutinizing gaze that only made the dread clawing at my insides thicken. With a calculated smile, she said, "Blake…I see you didn’t use the makeup and hair team I suggested."
Her words were laced with subtle venom. And the comment, which would sound pretty innocuous to anyone listening around us, hit me like a brick to the face, the pain a stark contrast to the façade of smiles and laughter around us.
“It’s good to see you too, Mother,” I replied coolly as Clark brushed his fingers down my back soothingly.
She and Thomas cooed over Clark and he spat back some equally idiotic pleasantries. I could normally force myself to listen to them for however long I needed to, but tonight the sound of their voices was like ants burrowing into my skin.
“I’ll be right back,” I murmured, pulling away from Clark’s hand with a strained smile, ignoring the shock and dismay all over Maura’s face over my rudeness.
I turned to head toward the bathroom. I just needed a minute, a minute to gather my thoughts and mend the cracks that threatened to widen within me. I could feel their gazes piercing into me, and that ever present feeling grew. The one that said I’d never be good enough.
For anybody.
The bathroom was somehow blissfully empty when I walked in, and I stood in front of the mirror, taking a few deep breaths, trying to get ahold of myself. Trying to keep all that emotion thrashing around inside me, firmly locked in my chest.
