𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐘 (+𝟏𝟖)

CH. 19: INVITATION

M A L L O R Y

4 YEARS AGO

Stepping out of the Uber, I thank the driver, tugging my coat tighter as the mid-December air bites at my skin. The cold was sharp, stinging, and I can't help but resent every step toward the plastic surgery clinic.

Radiance Surgical Arts. The gold-lettered sign glistens,catching the pale winter sunlight that barely filters through the overcast sky. I stare at it for a moment, my breath clouding in front of me.

A sharp breath escapes as I trudge forward, my boots crunching on the snow-covered pavement. I wasn’t exactly excited to see my father, but he’d insisted on lunch, and I really needed to get out of the house. Semester break was starting to drag, and the Miss Massachusetts pageant was already behind me.

Second place. Not good enough.

Not for her, at least. Then again, nothing ever was.

There wasn’t much to do in the house but stew in my mother’s unspoken judgment. So, with little enthusiasm, I accepted my father’s invitation.

The clinic doors swoosh open as I step inside, the warmth a welcome relief from the biting cold. The place is polished and pristine. Designer furniture, the kind no one actually sits on, fills the lobby, and a massive Christmas tree sparkles in one corner, its lights casting reflections off the marble floor.

Posters of perfectly sculpted faces line the walls, the plastic smiles as lifeless as mannequins. The lobby's empty of people but filled with the cloying scent of lemon and neroli, dancing with sterile antiseptic. I pull out my phone, shooting my mother a quick text.

ME: Made it to Dad’s clinic. Safe.

Read.

The screen lights up with “Read,” but there’s no response. I sigh and send another message.

ME: I’ll be back in a couple hours.

Read.

A scoff departs my lips as I realize she wasn't going to reply; she never did these days unless it was to remind me of my failures or the two pounds I gained.

Rolling my eyes, I throw my phone in my purse before approaching the blonde woman at the front desk. Her manicured fingers tap away at the keyboard as she barely acknowledges my presence.

“Can I help you?” she asks dismissively, her tone almost as frosty as the weather outside.

“Hi, I'm here to see Dr. Grayson Carter. I’m his daughter, Mallory. We’re meeting for lunch.”

The receptionist barely looks up, her eyes trailing over me with a thinly veiled skepticism. “Do you have an appointment?” she asks, like I’m just another patient, as if she barely listened to a word I said.

I blinked. “No, I’m his daughter. He’s expecting me.”

Her lips press into a thin line as she picks up the phone. “Dr. Carter, your daughter is here,” she says, giving me a quick once-over, her gaze lingering just a little too long. Without even looking up from her computer, she adds, “Third floor, room 316,” her voice flat and indifferent. The fake smile flickers back for a second, then vanishes just as fast.

“Thanks,” I mutter, mirroring her synthetic smile before heading toward the elevator. Bitch.

The ride up is quick, and when I reach my father’s office, he greeted me outside with a smile.

“There you are,” he says, giving a brief, perfunctory hug that almost feels robotic. “How’s your mother?”

I shrug and step inside. “She’s barely speaking to me. Still pissed I came in second at that stupid pageant—losing to Cynthia Reyes, her rival’s daughter.”