PROLOGUE
ZARIA
Sixteen Years Old
It isn’t something anybody can understand.
The pain is hidden down inside me, burrowed deep in my bones.
It’s as if I’ve been tattooed with this invisible agony that will haunt me for the rest of my days. The itch to do something about it lingers in my mind. Most times, I shove it into the box with all the vicious words—fake, liar, spoiled, slut, whore—my followers spew at me, and I lock it up tight. In that hidden box, I’ve included my broken heart as well, because I lost it a long time ago.
It may sound silly, but I recall the moment I gave it away. He was someone my parents would never have agreed to let me date, let alone marry. I have all of that set out for me, it’s been that way since I was thirteen. I’ve seen the contract, my father signed it and told me one day, I’ll be given to a family, and it will strengthen our foothold in America. I don’t understand it, but I have to obey because it’s my duty as a daughter to the Abadi name.
I break my focus from the mirror on my vanity and glance at the phone screen again, wondering if I should do some research on the family my father mentioned that day. But the moment I unlock my device, I realize it was a mistake to do so. The apps that lead to my social media always draw me in, but as much as I smile looking at my friends’ photos, I have to see the comments on mine. Notifications that remind me of why I’ve decided to do something about the state of my life.
Useless. Ugly. Stupid.
I shake my head to clear my mind of the negative thoughts that instantly attack me. The house is empty as I pad from my bedroom to the staircase heading down to the entrance hall. I’m alone with the morbid and unrelenting thoughts as they swirl through my mind. And I willingly go into the darkness. It’s where I’m comfortable. Even though my thoughts hurt me both physically and mentally, I can’t stop them from consuming me. No amount of medication will ease it, no amount of talking can ever stop the voices.
Nothing you do is right.
You’re a burden on them.
They don’t really love you.
Even when my parents wanted to sit down and talk to me, I couldn’t explain it. There were no words to explain just how broken I felt. There was no way to explain the constant negative thoughts that plagued me. No encouragement or positivity, just a barrage of destructive words.
They were convinced I was just being a normal teenager.
I had to be perfect in the public eye since my father is one of the most prominent senators in California, which means he’s constantly in the news, his face on every post from the East Coast to the West. My mother runs her own import and export company. Seen as a confident woman in the business world, she’s obsessed with keeping up appearances. Convinced that portraying the picture-perfect family would only elevate her popularity.
In the bright lights of the media, I’m the princess of the Abadi family. I’m already well-known at sixteen, which means I’m followed around, hounded by paparazzi, and have been on the front of tabloids across the country. But even when I make the news, it’s always for something good.
They’ve labeled me the Abadi princess.
The up-and-coming role model for girls my age.
But my parents don’t believe the hype, because they see what I want them to. As does the public. I allow them to glimpse the perfectly-polished persona that I’ve been given and crafted accordingly. My reputation has been built to perfection. It cements my place in society once my parents marry me off to some rich asshole who will keep me around as merely eye candy.
I lift my phone, tapping the camera to selfie mode. Once it’s focused on my pretty smile, I tap the screen a few more times, offering the world the face they want to see. After taking a few photos, I select the perfectly posed one and open Instagram.
Once I’ve edited the fuck out the image, making sure that it shows exactly what I want it to, I smile and post with a caption I know will lure the followers, the likes, and the comments. Most times, they’re positive, but then there are times I find myself in tears from the bullies who think being behind their screens safeguard them. It makes them more confident in their slander, becoming nastier, ruder, than they would be in person.
My parents don’t know about what I deal with when it comes to being in the public eye. I’m alone in it. I don’t tell anyone it bothers me. I simply grit my teeth and smile.
Showing off the perfect veneer, allowing those who taunt and torment to watch you shine bright is the only thing I’ve been taught. So, instead of allowing the pain to take hold of and crush me, I slide on a mask, and allow the public to see the lie.
But there are times, like tonight, where I’m alone with my thoughts, and anything could set me off.
Sighing, I stand before slipping my phone into the pocket of my shorts, and I make my way down the staircase which leads to the entrance hall. From there, I pad barefoot into my dad’s office and find the bottle of shimmering, copper-colored liquid and pour a double shot into one of his tumblers.
You’re so fucked up.
Why do people even like you?
I choke down the alcohol and pray it helps just a bit. Most times when I steal my father’s whiskey or brandy, I can quiet the voices that bring about negative thoughts, but tonight, they’re particularly evil. They’re all real, though, every opinion, each declaration that plays like an echo in my mind comes from an actual person on the other side of a screen.
Every comment has turned into a voice, a vocal wound hitting right through me. Their words have become my normal. I’ve come to believe what they say. And I can’t stop it because they’re right. I am convinced they are. Perhaps that’s what they’re trying to do, and I’m allowing them to win. Fighting it is no longer an option; it’s too difficult.
You should just stop breathing.
You’re nothing but a fucking waste of space.
I fill the glass once more and slowly sip on the fiery liquid. It burns its way down my throat, twisting in my stomach like a tornado about to explode through every inch of me. And I welcome it. I flick open my screen, opening the app that’s brought me the pain, the heartache, the agonizing knowledge that I’m whatever they call me. I scroll through the comments. It’s something my shrink told me to refrain from doing, but I can’t stop myself.
Fake princess.
Pretentious bitch.
Gag, you’re so fucking fake it’s gross.
Disgusting whore.
Why don’t you come show me what those lips can do?
Just die.
Kill yourself already.
The words blur into nothingness, and the pain grips my heart, more fire licking against my throat as I swallow the last of the drink and make my way upstairs. The memory of my father lying to my face is still fresh in my mind, and that piled on top of the words from my so-called fans, all takes a toll.
I want to fight the dark thoughts which attempt to take over me.
But I also want to hide and never come out.
If they don’t see me, perhaps they can’t hurt me. But I know there’s no way I can disappear, because my mother will never allow it. She enjoys the attention, craves it. It’s as if she basks in it because it’s her way of being validated for who she is. But I’m not the same.