Model a miniskirt.
Carry a handbag to boost that company’s sales.
No one’s ever inquired about my political affiliations.
We drive slowly past police cars. My stomach tightens, but I know I have no reason to be worried. We called them. We told them we were holding a press conference on the palace steps, coming in peace to tell the world all we stand for.
But in my core, I know I’ve bucked the system. I defied the king, the police chief and all his employees when I helped everyone escape.
“Easy, Arlanna,” Dad says, patting my hand as he catches sight of the police cars. “We have every right to be here. They’ve merely showed up to make sure the crowd doesn’t get out of hand. Just read the speech. I’ll make it clear I’m going to help your commune. I’ll get you all on your feet.”
It should be reassuring, but it’s not. Dirty money isn’t how I want to build a new life.
Sloan and I have a different plan, but I’m certain I won’t be brave enough to pull the trigger.
I try not to panic while my brows knit. “I called four news channels. How are there this many people here?”
Dad grins, his bulbous nose crinkling. “That’s the thing about being who we are. When we speak, people listen.”
He brags about it, but I take it as a serious burden and a quest for which I must do all I can to become worthy.
As my father lets himself out of the car and Sloan opens the backdoor for me, I realize that I may not be ready for this. I may not even be the best person for the job.
But I’m here, and the people at my camp need someone who can fight for them.
If I don’t chicken out, I can be that person.
At my hesitance, Sloan slides into the backseat beside me, shutting the door while my father’s voice booms into the megaphone.
Yes, Daddy now travels with a megaphone, so he can broadcast his enhanced gift of persuasion to the masses.
Sloan’s got his calming tone in full effect, because he knows my nerves are jumping. “Your dad is telling everyone to make sure they don’t draw any weapons, to give you their very best open hearts, and that the Sins of the Father bill is a corrupt law that needs to be torn up. The usual.”
That’s why we have so many supporters. “I guess him controlling people so I don’t get shot is a good idea. Can’t fault him for that.”
“No, but I can see you’d like to. Do you want to go over your speech again? He might prattle on for another minute or two.” He jerks his thumb toward where my father is standing just outside the car. “Are you ready for this? He’s not going to like that you’re getting out from under his weight.”
I wipe my sweaty palms on the tops of my thighs. “I’m not the right person for this. Paxton is far more used to addressing the public.” I look over at my best friend and deliver the hard truth. “I’m not the right person for this job. I’m not an activist. I help sell lingerie. What right do I have to tell other people what to do?”
Sloan tilts his head at me. “Are you telling them what to do? Or are you leading, regardless of who follows? If you want to get where you want to be in life, you have to go there, regardless. You have to go there because you can’t not. You’ll feel unsettled in your spirit if you ignore your destiny.” Sloan’s words tether me and push me just enough to capture my doubts and hold them at bay. “You have a right to your convictions, Arly. You have a right to your voice.”
His advice hits me like a gong, smashing into my breast. Even though I’ve heard him tell me this truth before, right now, I feel it that much more.
I have a right to my voice.
The sudden wave of confidence is too much, so I take a mental step back from the invisible fence I’ve always accepted. “I’m not the right person for this job,” I repeat, my nerves swarming back in a rush.
Sloan’s smile crooks, like he was expecting me to say something like that. “You’re right. Paxton has loads more experience. You’ve been kept quiet for most of your life. Controlled. Watched. Loads of people are counting on you to not speak your mind.” He grips my wrist, not too hard, and looks at me with pity that’s so thick, it makes me nauseous. “It’s probably for the best that you chicken out today. You’ve got your plot of land. The ex-cons don’t need or deserve more than that.”
I bristle, and I can clearly see I’ve fallen into his trap. “You’re good, Sloan. You’re a proper arse, but you’re good.”
He chuckles and drops the façade. “Go out there and tell them how you should be treated. People open doors for you not because of who your father is, but because you radiate prestige. Now, you’re going to go out there and radiate respect. Make them listen to you.”
Then Sloan smooches my cheek and opens the door, sliding out to applause that serves to settle my nerves. At least they’re not throwing things at the car.
Sloan is right. I belong exactly here, doing exactly this. If I can make people buy a perfume just because they see me holding the bottle, then I can get them to buy into my politics. I will use my sway for what counts.
I’m out of practice with my stilettos, but that doesn’t stop me. In fact, once I step out of the car, I’m fairly certain that nothing can stop me. It’s not because I’m suddenly good at political speaking, but rather because my cause is greater than just me. I’m fighting for the freedom of the five hundred who have been forgotten and cast aside.
My flowy white miniskirt swishes across the upper few inches of my thighs. I’ve always owned my superior height with pride, and today is no exception. My legs are long and bare, announcing to the world that I will not shrink my ideals for their comfort. My baby pink blouse is gauzy, showing off my lacy white bra beneath because I will have their attention today.
To hold a press conference on the palace steps is a gutsy move, but every aspect of this has been thought out and examined from all angles.
As the people part to let me through to the stairs, I don’t once lower my chin to check my footing. I don’t lower any part of me. Instead, I dare them to tell me I don’t belong near the palace. I dare them to tell me I belong in jail.
People have shown up, no doubt expecting me to be arrested.
Oh, what a show they’re about to get.
I lock eyes with the chief of police, who’s easy to pick out in the crowd. I expect him to be angry I’ve found my voice. Sander has been to our house many a time growing up. Given who my father is, the chief and I have been on a first name basis ever since I was a little girl.
Sander was always kind to me, but then again, I wasn’t the one being a problem when he would show up to arrest Dad. He used to keep peppermint candies in his pocket for me, to give me something sweet when he had to handcuff my dad and take him in for questioning.
I expect him to intervene before I can speak. Instead, Sander gives me a bolstering nod.
Is he… Is he okay with this? Is the chief of police truly just here to make sure the crowd doesn’t get out of hand? It’s his chance to come down on Conan Valentine’s daughter for disturbing the peace, but it’s clear he’s not going to jump on the opportunity.
If the police chief doesn’t judge me for the sins of my father, then perhaps there’s hope for the rest of the world to give us a clean slate.