My mother saw me. Her face tightened. “Is that what you are wearing?” she hissed. “You look like a servant.”
“I am comfortable,” I said.
My father looked at me, a long, cold look. “It does not matter. Let’s go.”
The car ride was silent. The silence was loud. It was filled with what we were not saying. My father was going to do this. He was going to do this in front of everyone.
We arrived at the ballroom. It was a sea of people. Cameras flashed as we walked in. The Hail family—perfect, beautiful, powerful. I smiled. I was trained to smile. My muscles knew how to do it, even if my mind was screaming.
“Richard! Catherine! Wonderful to see you.” People came up to us. They shook my father’s hand. They kissed my mother’s cheek. “And this must be Ethan—happy birthday, son. You’re the man of the hour.”
Ethan laughed. “Thank you. Thank you. It’s a great night.”
Then they would look at me.
“And your daughter, Charlotte,” my mother would say, her voice tight. “Yes.” I could hear the whispers as we walked away. “That’s the one I told you about—the unwell one. She looks so pale. It’s a tragedy.”
My father’s plan was working. He had already painted me as a ghost.
