𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐑𝐮𝐛𝐲 𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝟏𝟖+

1

RUBY

I bite into the delicious juicy cherry from my Shirley Temple, moaning at the fizzy aftertaste. Meeting my mom's gaze head-on brought me a pleasant amount of joy at the sharp look in her hazel eyes. "I'll have another, please!" I wave down a waiter.

Mom's sigh makes my smirk widen. "He smelled like cheese, Mom. You expect me to sleep with a man that smells like cheese?" I peer at her over my new glass of Shirley Temple after a few sips.

"I'd at least expect you to show up when he invites you to dinner," Mom explains, forking a piece of salad elegantly. "His parents reached out to me about it this morning."

I roll my eyes. What is this, high school? He's 35 yet still needs his parents to speak for him. Another reason for him to fuck off. "Papa?"

He sat tall next to my mother while reading the newspaper and half listening to the conversation. Papa mumbles incoherently, flipping the next page idly. "Papa." I try again.

Papa sets the newspaper down poshly, placing an arm around Mom atop the red leather booth. "We've already been over this, mia cara. You're not getting any younger and if you want inheritance you need at least one child. It is-"

"Tradition. I know, I know." I finish for him, biting the plastic straw a bit too hard. "Why do I have to have a child!? Ask Blake, Cornelia, or Amelia to have some." I plant my head on my hand, swirling the cherries at the bottom of the icy glass. "I love kids, but they're like little gremlins."

Mom appeared like she lost her appetite, pushing around the sauced leafy greens. Papa's expression was stoic, and I was adamantly impressed that he hasn't lost his temper yet. A temper that ran in or bloodline. Chuckling, I finish off the Shirley before grasping my black Chanel purse and coming to a stand. "I love you, Mom, papa, but I will not be tamed by some stranger who'd rather boast about pocket watches and yachts." I look between both of them carefully before leaving the restaurant.

~

"Guess who got sent another bouquet of roses?" My sister Amelia groans.

I admire my black French tip toes for a second longer before responding. "You...." I mumble, slacking into the massage chair. I picked up Amelia for a much-needed girls' afternoon after the horrendous lunch with our parents. Amelia, my poor dear sister seemed to have a secret office admirer. "What's so wrong with receiving flowers? It's hardly uncanny."

"It's been like this since last November. No name or note! I even ask the deliverers, but they won't speak a word," she explains.

"Probably got paid to keep quiet." Shrugging, I take a deep dive into my thoughts and hold tight to the idea that my birthday gala will go off with a hit and my parents will leave me alone for the evening. No doubt they've probably already built a new roster full of men for me to meet. It's always your standards are too high, how will you ever marry? I have nothing against arranged marriages-in fact-I encourage them for some couples, but that's only if it's mutual benefit. I'm by no means miserable at the idea of being married off, but I have a particular taste that doesn't fancy my parents.

I'm high maintenance, needy, and know what I want. I admit that. For men of such caliber to exist in my personal space, they must know this as well-most men I've met say I'm too much for them. "At least you're not being forced to get married and have kids, but that doesn't mean you won't be next, my dear sister," I openly admit.

Cornelia and Blake were the oldest of 7 Jones siblings. Cornelia took after our papa, known for her gushing blue eyes, and slender body, but received the grandma's rare blonde hair. While Blake took after our mom. He has Papa's height though, we all did, and he has Mom's deep auburn hair and hazel eyes. A dashing combo and popular with the ladies. Blake, our parents' unspoken favorite is engaged and has been for some time now, having yet to tie the knot. I wouldn't be surprised if he was balls-deep in someone else's cunt right now.

Our nail ladies finish up our nails and we tip them, smiling at our nails that were painted to perfection. "I think you should hire a private investigator," I suggested with a wink, "they can find out who's been pinning over you."

"I suppose," she mutters unenthusiastically.

"Girls!" Mom calls from downstairs, her high voice echoing off the fancy stone walls.

We make our way downstairs towards the dining room to find Mom and Papa sitting with stern expressions. Sweat began to line my hairline. "Yes?"

Papa speaks first. "Your dresses for this evening have arrived and are in your rooms. Ruby...a word?" His tone shows the seriousness of the dreading conversation.

Amelia gives me a look before wandering off. Sitting down at the long family table, I offer Papa a smile. "Yes?" I say again.

"You're picky, mia cara," he starts, "I have only a few more bachelors left in line before you've officially wiped all of Chicago men clean."

I fold my arms, irritation creeping up my spine. "And? I'll pick whomever I want. Papa, when are you going to understand that I don't want just anybody?"

His dark eyes glistened with tiredness and looked yellow, making my heart sting with regret. Both mom and papa had spent years making sure our family was picture and publicly perfect, but they neglected the more important things. In all of my 30 years of living, they've only shown genuine interest in me whenever it came to my love life. They were worried. I didn't come off like my sisters who were more midsize and skinny, I was fuller in most places and it confused me as a child when I wasn't allowed to do certain things because of my appearance. I remember crying one year on Christmas because when we got our annual Christmas card, I was accidentally cropped out.

Over time, I stopped letting the idea that my appearance defined whom I'd marry, fuck, or date get to me, and growing up I've learned to love the way I look, I've embraced my curvy body more immensely since I was a child. But my parents believed that I'd put off marriage and kids because of my weight-which is nowhere near the reason why. A part of me also knew other particular reasons why they were rushing me.

Mom and Papa aren't young anymore. At ages 55 and 56, they've grown to have a loving family of 7 kids, the youngest being only 6 years old. After mom had me, they stopped trying and then started up again, having my twin brothers, Jackson and Mikey, followed by Penelope 4 years later. They're physically and mentally old and borderline narcissistically unstable.

"Papa," I sigh, fighting the urge to go over and grab his wrinkled hands.

He holds up his hand, his dark brows furrowing. "Go get ready. You have people to meet tonight. And don't. Embarrass. Me."

I swallow, gripping the edges of my black fitted dress. Without a word, I leave, but not before catching moms look she sent my way. You selfish brat. I could read it all over her face like a blaring highway sign. My gut twisted at the realization that in just a few hours, I'd be engaged.

As I twist my family ring on my ring finger that would soon be replaced with a real one, I don't know if I'm ready to leave this place.