“A laurel wreath.” I smile. “Dad usually wears it. Laurel leaves for Dr. Laurel—get it?”
“No, I would never have gotten that,” she deadpans.
I laugh at her sarcasm. “I guess he wants me to wear it for him. And it’s a quarter to four which means I have three hours to get ready.” I scrub at my aching eyes. “This is going to take a miracle.”
“Fortunately, you have me. Today, I’m your fairy godmother. And we have no time to lose.” She claps her hands. “You shower. I’ll make you tea. Don’t bother drying your hair. The stylist will be here in twenty minutes. When he’s done, I’ll do your makeup.”
“Sounds good.” I yawn.
“Oh don’t do that, you’ll make me tired, too. Now, you told me you already got a costume to wear?”
“Yes! I had a dress custom made.” I walk to my small closet at the back of my office and open the cabinet with a flourish.
Rachel’s mouth drops open. “What. The. Hell. Is. That?”
Two
Beast
I sip from my champagne glass and narrow my eyes at the ballroom before me.
The bubbles explode on my tongue and I want to spit the liquid out on the floor at the glittering high heels of a passing socialite. She glides by, joining a group of others just like her: beautiful people dressed in expensive finery.
I used to think these people were merely vapid and useless. Now I know the truth. No one who can afford to be in this fucking room is blameless. The rich and powerful became that way by stepping on the necks of the less fortunate.
The place is huge—a cavernous ballroom laid out under several story high columns. The room is full with a vast and glimmering sea of people, each new face more beautiful and powerful than the last.
Once, I bought into it. Less than a decade ago, I came to a function a lot like this, so full of a young man’s idealism. My whole life ahead of me.
All those dreams are bitter ash in my mouth now.
Who I was doesn’t matter anymore.
Only who I am now.
Tonight, I begin. I will re-balance the scales of justice. I guard the entrance to the ball, still as a gargoyle. No one looks my way as I study them through the eye holes in my mask.
Everyone’s wearing masks tonight. The rich and famous pretend to be gods, their hypocrisy and arrogance never more fully on display. And I’ll beat them at their own game. I won’t lie or cheat or try to manipulate.
I’ll be exactly what I am.
The monster they made me.
A trio of women dressed as Muses openly stare at me. I glare in their direction; they turn away, their laughter giddy as champagne bubbles. An insipid chorus, the perfect soundtrack for this awful event.
Then I see her. Dr. Laurel’s brilliant daughter.
She’s more beautiful than ever. Her skin is so radiant and flushed with youth. Even from across the room, her eyes sparkle. She’s full of life and mine have never been more of a mockery than in this moment.
My hands ball into fists even as I wonder:
Did she like my rose?
Three
Daphne
Every year, the rich and famous of New Olympus gather at the Parthenon for the Autumn Gala. Every year—but one—I’ve dressed up like a princess and floated up the red carpet on my father’s arm, only to spend the night lurking next to the wall. The perpetual wallflower.
The spacious ballroom is full with a vast and glimmering sea of people, each new face more beautiful and powerful than the last.
My stomach roils. Should’ve eaten more. I lean against a gigantic column bathed in green light, doing my best impersonation of a wallflower. Just part of the scenery.
“Quite a sight, aren’t they?” a smooth voice murmurs in my ear. I nearly leap out of my skin, whirling to face the suave-looking gentleman who emerges from the shadows. His face is handsome, striking, with warm, tan skin and dark brows. His mask is no more than a thin black ribbon, the perfect setting for his black eyes.
“W-what?” I stutter.
“The constellations.” Without looking away, he sweeps a hand at the ceiling. I look up and my mouth drops open. The entire ceiling is swathed in dark blue fabric dotted with tiny lights meant to resemble stars. “A clever use of fairy lights.”
He studies the ceiling, his profile limned in shadow. He’s prettier than I am. Most of the men here are.
I steady myself. I belong here, just the same as him. Even if I don’t feel like it. “It’s beautiful.”
“Worth the thousand dollar ticket?” He raises a brow.
I narrow my eyes. “I know you.” The name flashes in my memory. “Armand!” I’ve met the flashy spa magnate several times at galas like these. He’s close friends with the Ubelis. Stylish, charming, and usually up to mischief of some sort or other if the rumors can be believed.
“The one and only.” He bows.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” I blurt, then wince, wishing I could control my mouth. But he only laughs.
“Thank you, darling. You know how to flatter a guy.”
“It’s true.” He looks the same as he always has, other than a touch of grey at his temples. “Not everyone can pull off a jacket like that.”
“Shall I return the favor? Not everyone can pull off a…shall we call it a dress? like that. Now who or what are you supposed to be?” He pulls out a monocle and peers through it, studying me like a strange bug under a magnifying glass. “Green fabric with brown at the edges. And is that…bark on your bodice?”
I stifle a groan. “I’m Daphne of the myth. She turned into a laurel tree.”
“Hmm,” Armand murmurs.
“I was trying to be clever,” I mumble.
Two beautiful women traipse past us, one blonde, one brunette. Both dressed in togas that hug their butts and plunge between their breasts. Sexy Aphrodite and Slutty Athena. The blonde flutters her fingers at Armand. He smiles but gives a small shake of his head, and she turns away with a pout.
Rachel was right. Dressing like a tree was a mistake. I hold my chin up, pretending I don’t care.
“You are clever, darling.” Unbelievably, Armand turns back to me. I wrack my brain for what I know about him. Owner of a chain of spas, a top fashion line, and hair and skin treatment products shipped all over the world. “I would expect nothing less from you…Dr. Laurel.” He tweaks my leafy crown of laurels.
“Oh, call me Daphne. Dr. Laurel is my father.”
“Daphne.” He inclines his head. “How is your father?”
“Much better, thank you,” I repeat the company line. His stroke is common knowledge, widely reported, much to the board’s dismay.
“And you, the youngest CEO in New Olympus.” Armand is back to studying me with his monocle. “Perhaps ever.”
“Not quite. Adam Archer claimed that title when he took over Archer Industries for his father.”
“But that was years ago. Now you ascend to the throne. I wonder if Adam will be jealous.”
“Not of me.” I blush.
“Mmmm,” Armand purrs, tucking the monocle away. “I think you underestimate yourself.”