Superficial (DE)

Prologue.

My feet hurt so bad—

Am I standing up straight enough?

Smile— you probably look mean.

I hope my makeup isn't creasing.

"Madame—,"

Cerise blinked her big brown doe like eyes Aa few times, coming to from being riddled with the rambling of her own anxious self conscious, turning to find the source of the voice coming from behind her— a butler wearing a crisp black suit sporting a silver platter with four tall flutes of bubbly champagne, waiting for her to grab one.

"Oh— thank you," Cerise smiled politely, grabbing one of the glasses by its delicate stem.

She was more of a tequila girl; 1942 with salt on the rim of her shot and a lime wedge to be exact but there wasn't any 1942 here, especially not at an event like this— but she accepted the bubbly glass of champagne because she felt she had to, so she could fit in.

Cerise shifted all of her weight to her left foot to ease the discomfort in the balls of her feet in an attempt to not show just how visibly in pain she was from the prolonged standing in the twelve-hundred dollar pair of Christian Louboutin Red Bottoms that graced her dainty size six feet.

Cerise used to enjoy being her fathers plus one to New York's Annual Philanthropist Nonprofit Gala growing up. When she was younger, it was an excuse to dress up as a 'princess' as she would call it; to dress elegantly and be the star of the night as all of her fathers colleagues and mutuals gawked over how precious of a doll she was. But as she's gotten older, the seemingly fun occasion had started to become one of dread due to the immense amount of pressure placed upon her by the same people that used pinch her chubby cheeks as a child.

The pressure to succeed and achieve— over achieve.

"Cerise, honey!"

Cerise perked up, scanning the room full of New York's most elite with her gilded brown eyes— doctors, lawyers, businesses men, politicians, scientists and the plain old filthy rich for no reason, scouting for the familiar voice of her fathers— Michael Harvey. He himself, apart of the esteemed hierarchy being New York's top criminal defense attorney with a mean winning streak. In the entirety of his thirty year career as an attorney, he'd yet to lose a case— but he also didn't take a case he didn't think he couldn't win either.

His mantra in life— pick and choose your battles wisely so you can always win.

Cerise moved gracefully through the crowded room of well dressed individuals networking over fancy hors d'oeuvres and expensive champagne, careful not to spill her own as she made her way to her father.

" Cerise, you remember Governor Thompson don't you?" Her father Michael asked.

No

" Of course— Hi," Cerise greeted, mustering up a smile and shaking the man's old withered white hand.

" Your father was just telling me you're trying for the baby bar next month, that's quite impressive for a woman your age," The governor said. " How old are you now— twenty?"

For a woman my age?

" Twenty-two," Cerise corrected, while still being mindful to keep at least a sliver of a smile on her face as she looked up at her father who wore a smug look of accomplishment as if she were his award winning show horse or something.

Of course all parents are to be proud of their children, want to show them off every chance they get. After all, children are byproducts of their parents and how a child is raised can tell a lot about the integrity of a parent, but sometimes it felt as though Michael used his daughter to make Michael look good, and not himself as a father— boost his own ego.