After trying—and failing—to find a gown that was passably elegant, I work with Trini on her look. Trini might be shattered on the inside, but from the outside, she’s beauty pageant perfection. Her lean, tall physique is crowned by wavy blonde hair and a fair shade of skin that looks good in anything.
“You’re stunning,” I say, tugging the zipper all the way up. Trinity does a small twirl. She’s in an off-the-shoulder blush gown with a cinched waist and chiffon skirt. By the way it fits, it had to be custom-made and probably one of a kind. She does a small curtsy to her reflection, and her smile widens, warm and bright.
“Thank you. It was my mothers,” she says as her smile twists with sadness. “I’ve always wanted a reason to wear it.”
“And now you have one. Erede al trono.”
Her eyes light as she hops on the bed and urges me to sit beside her. “Our family has a tradition. When an heir wants the keys to the kingdom, he—”
“Or she?” I ask cheekily.
Trinity plays along. “Or she—has to announce it. Formally. Before the family. And if anyone objects, they fight over it.”
My mouth falls open, stunned. “Are you serious? A knock-down, drag-out fight?”
She giggles. “No. Well, maybe. I mean, Enzo’s a bit of a wildcard. It’s more for ceremony.” Her hand clasps mine. “This will be the first time we've ever had someone outside the family attending. And I'm so happy you're going to be there, Ivy.”
“It’s important to you?”
“You being there? Of course.” Trini has an uncanny way of peering into my thoughts. The way I sometimes can see into hers. “You are coming, aren’t you?”
Her big, blue eyes are hopeful and expectant. Maybe this is the right time to tell Trinity the truth.
But which truth do I start with?
The truth that I might be her sister? Or the truth that there is no way this Cinderella is getting to the ball without a bunch of sewing mice and a pumpkin or two. My paycheck is set aside for Aunt Grace’s pharmacy fund, and the little I was able to scrape together from selling my old textbooks has all the buying power of a toilet paper wedding dress.
Her brow pinches with worry. I take her hand and squeeze. “Of course, I’ll be there.”
“Do you need something to wear?” Trinity floats to her closet—the location of her couture collection, aka, the cave of wonders. Even from here, I can tell there is no way my ass is gliding into any of those dresses without a tub of Crisco and three pairs of Spanx.
Trinity moves an armful of gorgeous gowns to the bed. “Try them on.”
I give her a warm hug and decline. “It’s all right. I’ve got it,” I say because, at this point, I’m so knee-deep in deception, another inch won’t drown me. My gaze moves to several shelves in her closet, and I gear up to beg. “But is there any way I could possibly borrow a pair of shoes?”
Trini claps excitedly and rushes me to the Louboutin shelf. “Anything you need.”
Because I gaze at a sparkly pair for more than two seconds, Trinity has them on my feet. The stiletto heel is ten feet tall with dainty straps and bright red bottoms. From what I can tell, they’ve never been worn. When I slide them on, they feel like clouds of heaven under my feet.
“They’re…oh…I don’t know what to say.” I stand, and for half a second, I let myself imagine a different life. Where shoes fit like a glove, and I feel like I belong.
I take several steps. “We wear the same size?”
She nods, and I'm not exactly sure how to feel about that because Trinity is tall and slender, and on her frame, this shoe size is elegant and small. How my Barney Rubble feet fit into them is a mystery, but magically, they do.
“These are great. They complement any outfit. What color is your dress?” she asks while holding a crimson gown against my body. It’s beautiful enough to make me want to shoehorn my backside into it.
“The color?” I ask, trying to think fast on my feet. “It’s…uh…”
A small ping chimes on my phone. Saved by the bell. I read the message, underwhelmed.
Call me: Now!
“Unbelievable.” I show Trinity the message.
“Who is it?” she asks.
“No one I know.” I shake my head dismissively. “Possibly the pushiest telemarketer ever.”
She scrunches her face. “Why not block them?”
I shake my head. “Because they’re like Hydra.”
Trinity tilts her head. “Hydra?”
“In Greek mythology, Hydra was a monster. If you chopped off her head, two grew in its place. I’m finding it’s the same with telemarketers. Block one, and two return with a vengeance.” I scowl at the screen.
Trinity grabs my phone and blocks it for me. “Now you’ve got your own Hydra.”
Or my own sister. Before I ruin them, I wobble out of the shoes. Trinity frowns. “Don’t you like them?”
“I love them. But I don’t want to break them before the big event.”
She grabs a bag from the closet. “Here.”
I can’t believe what I’m looking at. The bag is bright red with the name Christian Louboutin and Paris in black letters across the front. “Oh, my God. Your shoes have a bag?”
“No, your shoes have a bag. It’s called a dust cover, and they’re yours.” She places the delicate stilettos inside the bag.
Shoes that have a dust cover probably cost more than a refrigerator. I hand them back. “I couldn’t.”
Her eyes roll with amusement. “Yes, you can. I have another pair. In pink. It’ll be our connection during the ceremony.”
I blink back, stunned. I’m not sure which is more surprising. That she wants to gift me her exorbitantly expensive pair of shoes or that she wants to connect us like this.
As if we really are sisters.
Emotion overwhelms me, and I make an excuse to go. “It’s late.”
“Too late to catch up on your studies?” she asks, nudging me with her elbow. “I saw the box of textbooks. Are you enrolled somewhere?”
I shake my head. “Just something I’ve always been interested in.” Not that it matters now. The books are gone.
For a long time, I sit on the windowsill alone in my room. The striking pair of high heels sit across from me, asking me what I’m going to do with them. I seat Mr. Whiskers at their tips.
I hug my legs and look longingly at them. “I’d love to take you out, girls, but pairing you with jeans and a T-shirt would be a crime.”
Phone in hand, I consider calling Aunt Grace. Maybe she’s got something I can wear. There could be couture in her closet, hidden behind stacks of posh velour tracksuits. Besides, there's no way she's letting me near her closet without telling her why, and why would lead to a shopping spree. One that neither of us can afford.
My thumb hovers over her number for a second before I give up. A trickle of rain drums against the window as I stare out into the dark.
Somehow, I got it in my head that if I got to know the D'Angelos, and they got to know me, my life would magically fall into place. All my insecurities and doubts would evaporate away. I’d be home.
But I know them, and they know me. So, why are all those feelings still there? I’m on a massive estate with dozens of people roaming about at any given time, and I feel…alone.
What am I saying? I’m not alone. I snatch Mr. Whiskers and hold him in my hand. He’s just a toy—but stroking his soft faux fur makes me feel less alone. A shrink would say I need to ditch the security blanket and face my fears head-on.
Screw that. I say, do what feels right. If I want to embrace a harmless childhood indulgence to feel less insignificant, I’m doing it. Freud be damned.
I dot a finger to his nose and flip him to his backside, unzipping his bottom to remove the contents.
The emergency fund I came here with is untouched—for the moment. I unfold the cash. Five hundred dollars. What if Aunt Grace needs more meds? Between a gown for the ball and Aunt Grace’s meds, she wins. Every. Single. Time. I tuck the money back into Mr. Whiskers. My priceless photograph is noticeably absent, and I frown and wonder what could’ve happened to it.
It should be enough that I’m here, even if the photograph is gone. But it was the only image of Antonio D’Angelo with my mother and is the entire reason I’m here. My eyes close, and I try to reimagine it. The dashing Antonio D’Angelo and the cheerful version of my mother. A version I never knew. It’s strange to miss something I managed to lose in under a week, but I do.
My furry, little Mr. Whiskers stares back with a persistent smile, reminding me that I’m a grown-ass woman who cuddles toys for comfort.
But maybe that’s the point. I can’t change who I am. Fitting into fancy shoes is a world away from fitting in.
I’m amongst the rich and powerful D’Angelos. Titans of the underworld. Rulers of Chicago.
And I am…nobody.