Without warning, I reached down and gave her ass a hard smack.
"That's for spray painting my car," I said.
Her breath hitched, and she bit her lip, trying to suppress a smile. "You're such a caveman."
"Caveman? How about this?" I said, smacking her...
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Esmeralda's POV – 3 Years Ago
The wedding was a dazzling spectacle—golden chandeliers casting a warm glow over the grand ballroom, the hum of elegant chatter mixing with the soft melody of a string quartet. Everything shimmered. The champagne glasses, the silverware, even the sequined gowns that swayed under the soft lights as couples danced across the marble floors.
It was the kind of event that felt plucked straight out of a fairy tale. And yet, I felt like an outsider watching from the pages rather than living in it.
Dressed in a soft blush gown that flowed around me like liquid silk, I looked every bit the picture-perfect daughter of a rising socialite. My hair had been curled into loose waves, cascading down my shoulders, and a delicate crown of fresh flowers rested atop my head. Mom had insisted I look "perfect"—poised, graceful, an extension of her carefully crafted image.
And so, I played my part.
I smiled in all the right places, nodded politely as guests cooed about how much I'd grown, how beautiful I looked, how proud my mother must be. I murmured my thank-yous, sipped sparkling cider from an elegant flute, and let myself be paraded around like a prize.
But inside?
Inside, I was suffocating.
I wasn't blind to what this night really was. A show. A performance. My mother, Cecily Fergusson now, had climbed another rung on the social ladder, and this wedding was the crowning jewel of her carefully constructed empire. She had traded my father's last name for a more powerful one, and this celebration was proof that she had solidified her place among the elite.
I should've been happy for her.
So why did it feel like I was losing a part of myself?
As I stood near the edge of the ballroom, watching my mother bask in the attention of high-society elites, a dull ache settled in my chest. My brother, Trevor, stood stiffly beside her, his expression carefully blank. Gwen, our older sister, was the perfect vision of composure, poised with a champagne flute in hand, offering the occasional smile to guests who approached her.
And me?
I felt like I didn't belong.
This wasn't my world.
I never knew my father.
Not really.
Freddy Kensington died before I was even born, leaving nothing behind but a name I was supposed to carry and a legacy I was never meant to understand.
They told me it was an accident. A tragedy. One of those things that just happens. But I never believed that.
