Vain (The Seven Deadly, #1)(8)

I relieved myself and brushed my teeth then met them in my room. Peter had already set up his portable massage chair, modified so Katy could do my nails while he did his thing. I almost sat before realizing I’d yet to put undergarments on. I ran to my dressing room and slipped them on before joining them again.

I sat down and Peter started in with the massage. “Any place in particular I need to focus on today, Miss Price?”

“No, Peter. Just the standard.”

“Very well, miss.”

I’d already closed my eyes when I felt Katy at my feet, removing my polish. “And what are you wearing this evening, Miss Price?”

“I’m unsure. Let’s just do a French. That’s all encompassing.”

“Of course.”

Very well, Miss Price. Of course, Miss Price. I very nearly yelled at them to quiet the ridiculous platitudes but checked myself. It’d be good practice for this evening.

When my nails were dry, they sat me in the leather chair stool in my bathroom in front of the mirror. I studied myself, ensuring my skin was still flawless, my hair still long and beautiful, my eyes still shining. I would never have admitted this to anyone, but I panicked if I hadn’t seen a mirror in a few hours, affirming I still had the only thing that made me so adored.

Katy and Gillian worked their magic and within two hours I was plucked, polished, buffed and readied to entertain the only son of Calico, a company I knew nothing about. Shit.

“Peter,” I called out to my room while Katy finished up my hair.

“Yes?”

“Bring my laptop in here, will you?”

I heard shuffling in my bedroom and then Peter entered the bathroom with my computer. I pried open the monitor and put in my password. My father would kill me if I wasn’t schooled on the boy’s father’s company. I Googled Calico.

Ah, plastics. And a durable product at that. In fact, their plastics were damn near indestructible. It made sense my father wanted in. Impervious electronic products would make him unstoppable. Okay, let’s see. Founded by Henry Rokul, married to Harriet Rokul. One child by Harriet named Devon. Devon Rokul is a twenty-year-old Harvard student studying, what else, business. I further Googled Devon Rokul’s picture and stumbled upon his social media. I familiarized myself with Devon’s Twitter updates and almost gagged at how mundane they seemed to be.

Took the dog for a walk today.

Studying for an exam.

Meeting Sam for a film.

Blech! Boring! But he wasn’t a bad-looking boy, and that made me not dread the evening as badly. I’d also discovered he was tall and would be able to wear heels, thank God, unlike my last charade where the guests were terminally short. I was forced to wear flats that night.

“Done!” Katy said, obviously proud of herself.

When I looked up, I saw that I looked as I always did. Impeccable.

“Thank you, Katy,” I said drily. “Settle with Matilda, I’ll ensure she includes a generous tip.”

“Oh, of course, Miss Price. Thank you.”

I stood, not bothering to see them out, and entered my dressing room. My closet was compartmentalized according to color and event. If I didn’t do that, I’d never find anything. The thousand-square-foot room was filled with clothing from floor to ceiling save for a small step to the massive wall mirror. My shoes were housed below the large island in the center and the counter held my jewelry and hats.

“Let’s see here,” I told no one. I made for the not-too-formal section of my wardrobe and chose a couture Chanel gown. Black and white. Gasp. Shocking, right?

I dressed and was downstairs in half an hour, awaiting the guests in the library where my father brought all his guests before dinner.

My mother walked in five minutes later. “Sophie,” she said, barely acknowledging me. She leaned over the mirror beside the door and examined her makeup.

“Hello, love,” my father laid on thickly for my mother when he entered the room. He kissed her with such fervid mania, I had to clear my throat to alert my presence. Disgusting. The lust poured off them. “Sophie,” my dad spit out, still looking at my mother.

“Asshole,” I said under my breath, but he didn’t hear.

Finally, the doorbell rang and I heard the clamor of feet in the marbled foyer. Our Steward, Leith, lead the Rokul family into the library. “The Rokul family,” Leith formally announced before swiftly exiting.

“Henry! Harriet! Devon!” My dad said jovially, hugging each like he wasn’t the giant prick we all knew he really was. “This is my lovely wife, Sarah, and my daughter, Sophie.”

I plastered the most genuine smile I possibly could and made my way their direction, taking each hand after my mother did.

“What a lovely family you have, Robert,” Henry complimented.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he told Henry, grabbing us each by the waist.

I absently recognized that that was the first physical contact I’d had with my father in more than six months.

Harriet and my mother sat together on the tufted fainting couch and the men, except for Devon, observed the grounds from the window. This left poor Devon shifting near the door.

“So, I hear you attend Harvard?” I approached and asked him.

He seemed to soften at my question. “Yes, I study business.”

“What else?” I asked, not realizing how rude that was until it was too late.