So I remain perfectly still, my entire body a ball of anxiety. I’m going to end up looking like I’m trying too hard. I just know it. When she finally allows me to turn toward the mirror, I suck in a sharp breath at first glance.
I look like myself, only enhanced. My eyes are brighter. My cheeks more accentuated. My lips redder. But it doesn’t look like too much.
More like Goldilocks did her work on me and I turned out just right.
“Do you hate it?” Sylvie asks after I remain silent for a bit too long. I meet her worried gaze in the mirror. “I tried to keep you as natural as possible.”
“It’s…amazing,” I say, my voice light. “I love it.”
“Are you sure?”
I turn in my seat to smile up at her. “I’m sure. Thank you, Sylvie. I feel like a princess.”
“You’re welcome. Happy Birthday.” She envelops me in a tight hug, almost crushing me to her.
“I appreciate it. But…can you make sure and not mention my birthday at dinner tonight?” I ask once I pull out of her arms.
Sylvie frowns. “You don’t want anyone to know?”
“I don’t want to make a big deal about it.” This night isn’t about me. I just want to be a quiet observer.
I also don’t want to piss Whit off.
“I can do that,” she says eagerly, pulling me in for another hug. “Thank you for coming here with me this week. I don’t think I could’ve stood this alone.”
I pull away from her with a frown. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m being foolish.” She makes a disparaging noise. “I’ll be fine. Especially with you here. Just—don’t abandon me for anyone else, okay? I-I might need you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmur, and I mean every word. I’ll stick by Sylvie’s side this entire week. No one will be able to separate us.
I’ll make sure of that.
The same driver awaits us as we exit the house, and we take the town car that brought us here to the restaurant near the wharf, right on the water. It’s freezing outside, and I wear the cropped black puffer jacket I bought online last month. Sylvie is similarly dressed in jeans and a dark blue, oversized sweater. Her blonde hair is pulled into a loose braid and it’s draped over one shoulder. Giant diamond studs sparkle in her ears, bringing out the brightness in her blue eyes.
“Where’s the rest of your family?” I ask nervously, gazing around the interior of the car. I figured we’d all go to the restaurant together.
Sylvie yawns. “Mother’s already there. We got into a huge fight while you were napping. She wanted us to ride with her, but I told her you were asleep.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to cause any problems,” I start.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, interrupting me. “Daddy is meeting us there. He just came in from London, so he had his driver bring him straight to the restaurant.”
“What about Whit?”
“Again, driving his own car. In case he wants to make a quick escape.” She rolls her eyes. “He might be bringing a friend or two. I have no idea.”
This makes me nervous. Just the thought of seeing Whit fills me with trepidation. Will he be mad I’m here? Or will he not even care?
I don’t know what’s worse.
We arrive at the restaurant within minutes, both of us slipping out the back door of the car, shaking when the cold air hits us. We dash toward the front door, the warmth of the restaurant drawing us in. The front area is crowded with people waiting for a seat, reminding me of the last time Sylvie and I went out to eat. Sylvie speaks with the host, giving her name and he smiles broadly before leading us to a private room in the back of the building.
My nerves are beyond amped up. My legs are shaky and my breaths are rapid. I tell myself to keep it together, but I swear I’m going to hyperventilate if I don’t watch out.
We enter the room and I see their mother first. An elegant, painfully thin woman clad in a black sweater dress, each slender arm dripping with gold bangles almost to her elbows. Her hair is cut into a severe, platinum bob and her delicate features remind me of Sylvie, though hers are more pinched.
A flash of annoyance crosses her face when she spots us. “There you are. Couldn’t you have at least worn a dress?”
I ignore the jab, since it’s not directed at me, but her greeting reminds me of my own mother.
“Mother.” Sylvie’s voice is firm. “I want you to meet my friend, Summer Savage. Summer, this is my mother. Sylvia Lancaster.”
Her namesake. I step closer to the table, extending my hand out toward her. She takes it, offering a limp handshake. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say, my voice even. The epitome of polite. “Thank you for having me in your home. It’s so beautiful.”
“Any friend of Sylvie’s is a friend of ours, dear,” Sylvia says coolly, her ice blue eyes locking on mine. They remind me of her son’s. Her demeanor does as well. Cool. Detached.
Judging.
“Have a seat,” Sylvia says to the two of us, and we automatically sit next to each other, across from Sylvie’s mother. “Tell me. How was your trip here?”
“Oh, it went perfectly smooth,” I start, but Sylvie interrupts me.
“The traffic was awful, I already told you,” she says, glancing around the small room. “Where’s Daddy and Whit?”
“Your father should be here soon. He just texted me. Claims his plane landed late.” Mrs. Lancaster’s lips draw into a thin line. “And your brother is at the bar, ordering himself a drink.”
“Oh, I want a drink,” Sylvie says with a little pout, crossing her arms.
“I’m sure your father will pour you a glass of wine,” Sylvia says, irritation flitting across her face. “Are you part of the textile Savage family?”
I frown. “No.”
“The retail Savages then. Oh, their athletic wear is to die for.”
“I’m not related to them either.” I’m guessing she already knows this. She’s just…what? Making me feel inferior?
“Oh.” Sylvia wrinkles her nose. “Who’s your father then? What’s his name?”
“Lionel Savage. And I don’t keep in contact with him,” I admit.
“Hmm.” Sylvia taps her finger against her pursed lips. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”
Last I heard, Lionel Savage was a gym rat and personal trainer somewhere in Jersey. Of course, his name doesn’t sound familiar.
“What is your family doing for the holidays?” she asks me pointedly.
“My mother is in the Caribbean,” I admit.
Her gaze flickers with irritation at the mention of my mother. No surprise.
“What about Jonas? Oh, I adored that man, especially when he worked with my husband. He was always so sweet,” she says, her lips curling upward in what vaguely resembles a smile.
But her words are sharp. Carving at my emotions. Reminding me of what I’ve done, and how we can never get them back.
“Mother,” Sylvie chastises, sending her a meaningful look.
Sylvia Lancaster’s expression is one of complete and utter innocence. “What? I did adore Jonas so much. I know he and his first wife suffered through that horrible divorce, thanks to the affair.” She sends me a quick look, full of ire. “But I assumed his new wife was keeping him very happy.”