Papa and Helen get married on my eighteenth birthday as they planned.
Happy birthday to me.
I did everything I could in the background. I tried to secretly tell Helen that Papa is very busy and never actually puts time aside for home and that’s why Mum divorced him.
I told Papa that Helen’s career is at its top level and she’ll continue writing her bestsellers instead of being a housewife.
I even stooped so low that I got Mum involved. She came over to tell Papa that he’s disgusting for bringing another person to his daughter’s life when the elections are so close.
He brushed her off.
I hated myself for being the type of bitch who’s out to sabotage her father’s marriage. That’s not me.
There’s nothing I want more than to see Papa and Helen happy.
If only she didn’t have a son. Or had a different son.
After I realised there was nothing I could or should do to stop the wedding, I helped Helen with the preparations, and a minute ago, I watched them seal it.
Yesterday, I cried in the park.
Last night, I cried in the pillow.
Today, I cried when they were pronounced husband and wife. However, cried is an exaggeration — it was a couple of tears and I quickly wiped them away, pretending they were happy tears.
More like mourning tears.
The moment I stood there witnessing the union of Papa and Helen, something inside me died and I knew I’d never be able to get it back.
I missed the timing and now I’m paying the price. I shouldn’t care, but it’s the only thing I keep thinking about: missed timing.
There’s no time machine to take me back to last month or to last year or to that damn night I set Papa and Helen up together while Cole kissed me upstairs.
We have a small reception in our house only for friends and family, and by that, I mean Papa’s party members. They fill the garden and chat amongst themselves about the elections.
It’s a rare sunny afternoon and it gives the gathering a glowing aura. Papa looks dashing in his black tuxedo and the bowtie I personally put on him. Helen wears a simple beige dress that complements her skin tone. Her hair is pulled up in an elegant way and she appears so happy as she puts her hand in Papa’s arm.
He, too, has been caressing her hand every chance he gets. I’ve never seen Papa smile this much for no official necessity. It’s almost as if it’s permanent.
I’m happy for him, I am, but I still can’t chase away the lump in my throat, no matter how much I swallow.
God. Why am I such a horrible daughter?
Papa needs this. Helen needs this.
I just have to suck it up and move on. I’m good at moving on. At pretending. At being someone everyone envies and wants to be.
My fingers reach for the necklace around my neck, but I quickly drop my hand before I touch it.
I need to keep it together.
I help the catering guys, directing them to the kitchen. Since Mum left, I’ve always taken care of these things; I became an adult at a young age. I guess Helen will take that burden away from me now.
Not that I ever considered it one.
Ronan and Xander join me to steal food.
Xander has a blond exotic look with piercing blue eyes and charming dimples. The worst thing about his whole package is that he’s very well aware of it and uses it every chance he gets.
Ronan, too. He’s developed a charismatic personality that he takes advantage by shagging everyone who wears a skirt.
They both showed up with their parents. Ronan’s father, Earl Edric Astor, is one of Papa’s friends and a crucial sponsor like Uncle Jonathan.
Xander’s father, Lewis Knight, is a powerful member in Papa’s party and basically his right hand — besides Frederic.
I’ve been thrust with these guys since a young age whether I liked it or not. Not that I dislike them — they’re actually fun — but I’ll never tell them that so it doesn’t get into their already big heads.
I swat Ronan’s hand away from the container. “Stop it.”
“Hey!” He stuffs a scone in his mouth. “Food is free. Don’t be a snob, chéri.”
“There’s an open buffet outside.”
“Nah, my father glares at me when I eat this much in public.” He steals another one. “I have to do it in secret like a proper gentleman.”
“Amongst other things you do in secret.” Xander winks at him.
“Mais bien sûr.” Ronan grins. “Remember those tits?”
“Ronan!” I scold.
“What? You didn’t show us yours, so we had to outsource it.” Ronan stares at my cleavage. “Unless you changed your mind.”
“I might.” I open more containers on the counter.
“Really?” both Ronan and Xander nearly shout.
“Really. I have one condition, though.”
“I’m in.” Xander smirks.
“Moi aussi.” Ronan swallows the food in his mouth. “Threesome anyone?”
“What’s the condition?” Xander insists.
“Wank a cactus.” I give them a smug look.
Both their expressions fall when they realise I never planned to go through with it anyway in the first place. They can be so dramatic sometimes.
“Pass.” Xander sighs.
“Silver, mon amour, your tits are beautiful but not beautiful enough to have me cause damage to Ron Astor the Second.”
“Ron Astor the Second?” I ask.
“That’s his dick.” Xander rolls his eyes.
“Ew, I can’t believe you named your dick.”
“All healthy males do. Not my problem you only get close to psychos.” Ronan grins and snatches another dessert from between my fingers to devour it as if he’s been starving.
“So, new family, huh?” Xander waggles his brows, flashing me his dimples.
“It’s just Helen.” I continue with my task.
“And Cole.” Ronan follows me like a puppy to steal from every container I open.
I swat his hands away.
“What? I’m tasting them for you, chéri. You should thank me. Anyway, where was I? Right, Cole. How could you forget him?”
It doesn’t hurt to try.
Today, I haven’t held eye contact with him. I’ve passed him by every time I can. I haven’t looked at his pressed suit Helen is so proud of. I haven’t spoken when people are congratulating us for becoming siblings.
I’ve simply kept my mouth shut and played “Moonlight Sonata” in my head. I’ve pretended I’m somewhere out of here.
Somewhere where he isn’t outside accepting congratulations and acting as if this is the happiest day of his life.
Why can’t I do that?
Just why?
“Where’s Aiden?” I ask instead.
He showed up with Uncle Jonathan, but then he disappeared somewhere out of sight.
“Why?” Ronan grins. “You miss him?”
Not in a million years. “We need to take pictures.”
“He’s probably playing chess against himself.” Xander sips from a glass of champagne and grimaces. “This shit is awful. Do you have any Vodka somewhere?”
“We have no relationship with the mafia, thank you very much.”
“You don’t have to be a bitch about it.” He messes up my plates for good measure before running away.
I nearly hit him with a pan. Ronan steals one more scone and jogs away, too, before I can catch him. He almost runs into Mum on his way out.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Davis.” He takes her hand in his and kisses the back of it. “Is it only me or have you become even more beautiful over the years?”
She laughs, the sound throaty. “You’re such a darling, Ronan.”
He bows to her like the proper gentleman he’ll never be and leaves.
Mum joins me at the counter, walking in that confident, lady-like way. She’s wearing a red dress. No kidding. Her golden locks are styled like an actress’s and she has perfect makeup made for models.
When I told her she’s not supposed to look better than the bride, she said, “Nonsense. Do you want the media to say Cynthia Davis is heartbroken over her husband’s remarriage? I need to look my absolute best.”
That was after she cried in the bathroom and I hugged her, crying too, but for different reasons.
Yes, I now realise my parents will never be together, but I lost something else too.
“How many times have I told you that you don’t have to do this, Babydoll?” She glances down at the containers with distaste. “Your father pays people for that.”
“I just want to help.”
“Go outside and take pictures. That’ll be your greatest help. But don’t you dare play the piano and appear too happy for him.”
“I’ll go out in a bit.” We have that dreadful new family picture we need to take.
“Helen looks awful in that dress. She should’ve put in more effort.”
“Mum…”
“What? I’m just saying. I’d hoped for some competition, but she doesn’t even stand a chance. Ever since school, she’s always been a nerd.”
“Can we stop talking about Helen?”
“Fine. I can’t believe your scoundrel father invited the entire party,” she hisses under her breath. “It’s like he’s out to embarrass me and make me look pitiful in front of them.”
Or he just wanted them to share his happiness. But I don’t say that, or Mum would go bonkers. She constantly thinks I’m siding with him anyway.
“You can leave, Mum. You don’t have to stay.”
“Cynthia Davis running from her ex-husband’s wedding. Do you want to see that in tomorrow’s headlines? I thought you were on my side, Silver.”
I’m on both your sides. I want to yell, but I don’t, because that will freak her out more than the words themselves.
“Well, are you?” she insists, her brow furrowing.
“Of course I am.”
“That’s my Babydoll. Now, come here. Let me look at you.” She takes me by the hand and spins me around so she can get a full view of my soft pink dress with tulle as a skirt. It stops a little above my knees and is tight at my breasts and waist. My hair is straight and falls to the small of my back in thick blonde strands. I have worn light pink lipstick to match.
“I’m so proud of how you’ve grown up into a fine lady, Babydoll. Happy birthday.” She kisses my cheek and I nearly break then and there.
Papa and Helen did wish me a happy birthday this morning, but they seem to have forgotten all about me now. Not that I blame them, but still.
It’s the first time Mum is one step ahead of everyone.
“Your father is a selfish bastard for scheduling his wedding on your birthday.” Disgust is written all over her face. “He was out to ruin your special day.”
“Mum…” I trail off.
“What? I’m only stating facts.” She pulls out her phone and brings me to her side. “Let’s take a picture.”
My lips curve in an automatic smile as I stare at the camera. It comes too naturally to me now, I don’t even have to stop before I fake it.
Mum posts the shot on Twitter with the caption: Having the greatest fun on my only daughter’s eighteenth birthday. This girl right here is the future. #MotherandDaughter #ReplicaofMe
Almost immediately, the comments filter in about how she looks like my eldest sister, not my mother, or how I turned out stunning like her.
It’s the type of comments that Mum thrives on. The type she screenshots and sends me in our chat. She saves each and every one that says I’m taking after her, not Papa, then forwards it to the both of us.
I can’t help stealing a look at her wrist. It’s covered with a thick watch, but I can never forget what that watch is hiding. For the rest of my life, I’ll constantly worry that Mum’s black thoughts will one day take over and I’ll lose her.
Cole has always said I’m Mum’s puppet and that I’m turning like her, but that bastard didn’t see what I did. He didn’t walk in on a pool of blood and nearly faint.
If being her puppet will allow me to keep her, I don’t mind. That’s why I never, ever antagonise her. Since the divorce, I’ve learnt to bottle all my thoughts and feelings inside, put on a mask, and move along.
It’s been the safest choice for everyone.
Just not for me.
The same wave from earlier is about to hit me again, and I have no confidence that I’ll be able to hold it in when Mum is around.
As much as I want to protect her, sometimes I hate it. I hate that I can’t sleep at night, thinking about what she could be doing, or that I have to call her first thing in the morning and five times a day like a clingy boyfriend.
I’m not supposed to have had these bursts of anxiety on a daily basis since I was freaking eleven.
“I’m going to get the camera from Papa’s office,” I tell her.
She says we don’t need that since my pretentious father has paid a ton of photographers, but I deflect and leave the scene anyway.
I ignore all the chaos in the house and smile at Papa’s friends, accepting their congratulations. I slip out of their usual questions about who would I vote for if I was given the choice between Papa and Mum.
As soon as I’m inside Papa’s office, I close the door and lean my forehead on the cool surface.
My shoulders shake and my head is about to explode from the pent-up thoughts crowding inside it.
“Why can’t this day end already?” I mutter under my breath.
Then the voice that comes from behind me shuffles all my cards, “Bored already, Butterfly?”
