Control

Chapter 2.

     I circled my fingertip around the rim of my wine glass as I sat caged inside the Ouránios restaurant.

     My father gave me a sour look from across the table and pursed his lips disapprovingly. Our table was huge with eight seats, yet John was squeezed next to him in a tall black leather chair—and still— the symbolic Rolex of their friendship was clasped permanently to his wrist, half hidden by his sleeve but visible enough to make a pathetic statement. My eyes rolled and I ignored him, choosing to continue being a unapproachable nuisance while scanning the room for anything interesting.

     Ouránios had rich written all over it.

     Every surface was draped in a pearlescent silk tablecloth and tiny crystals were scattered across the tables alongside the cliché presence of rose petals. The walls were panelled with wood enveloped with golden edges and the windows were dressed with flowing white voile curtains. Other families similar to mine were coddled together at numerous tables—their overly glossed mouths hurriedly chatted to one another about their sad, materialistic opinions on other sad and materialistic people.

     All of the waiters were remarkably attractive people that seemed to have been hired from a fashion catalogue including our own attentive Pierro with olive skin and gorgeous black eyes, who was now patiently noting down our dinner order from Charlotte.

     Her pale blonde hair was in an elegant updo and a separate section had been plaited and arranged to wrap around the bun on top of her horribly perfect head. She had such softly feminine features; defined bone structure, a small but tall nose, rosebud lips and a clear porcelain complexion. That night she was dressed in a long Grecian white dress. I imagined the intention was to blend with her surroundings—only it made her stand out like a peacock flaring its feathers for a potential mate. It adorned her figure wonderfully. As well as beautiful she was also openly kind, caring and seemed to have a pleasant relationship with everybody. I kept my distance.

     Charlotte was flawless. And that was exactly why I did not trust her as far as I could throw her—no one was flawless, but I had yet to find a fault in her.

     "Would you like salad with your pastitsio?" she asked, her blue eyes smiling at me.

     "Yes," I almost grunted, earning another look from my father. Pierro appeared taken aback yet kept a polite exterior.

     "And would you, sir?" He gestured to John.

     Whenever we went out for dinner he, without fail, always ordered the same meals as me. I told him to stop and have a mind of his own but he insisted. It was bordering on ridiculous. My father, however, seemed to find John considerate in his actions and that it was another thing that made us 'such a great couple' so I had to endure it.

     "Yes, please," he said meekly, despite the fact I knew for a fact he hated salad and had previously named and shamed it as rabbit food. His eyes wavered over to mine for a second—he knew it annoyed me yet continued to mimic my eating habits to continue being close buddies with my old man. It was infuriating.

     "Anything else, miss?" Pierro added.

     "That's all, thank you," Charlotte said as she tucked a stray curl behind her ear in which a small amethyst earring was placed. She looked at me with sympathy and it made me even more uncomfortable. My father cleared his throat and his lip twitched with agitation as he rose from his seat.

     "May I have a word, Frances?"

     I nodded and rose begrudgingly from my seat. It was difficult to follow him out in my high black stilettos at the speed he was going but I managed and soon we were at the entrance of the restaurant. He sighed as he combed a hand through his slicked back hair.