Bad Boys

Family? What a quaint concept

I shooed Ida away, she had been in my presence much too long for my liking. Quickly she scuttled away, closing my room doors loudly behind her as she made her hasty retreat to her room. You would think she could be more quieter and more respectable as hired work, but no. Bang, it sounded as she closed the precious gates to my sanctuary. They probably cost more than her entire being. No. Not probably - definitely. She would pay for this.

Shaking my perfect little head, I walked into my room, grabbing the phone I had left on my desk. I checked my Instagram, my story had 6 million views and I had 500,000 more followers. What a cute small number for someone who isn't social media obsessed like little old me. Lol, I must be the only one. Those other girls who post gross selfies every five seconds and who's self esteem depend highly upon the amount of likes they receive are so cringeworthy. Sad that all girls, even the ugly ones, are like that and I'm the only who has self respect and feminist values.

Checking my messages I saw that I had 11 285 unread notifications and only 10 were from a group chat. Oh, I was so popular, but right now only one message mattered to me. The company (and sorry, I won't be disclosing their name. A magician doesn't tell anyone her secrets) had sent me back the photo. I looked the same amount of gorgeous, it was hard to improve perfection even for professionals, but my bracelets and watch seem to have a new twinkle to them. Those wrist accessories still lay strewn across my bed, maybe I would it give them to a needy homeless person who needs a makeover. Jk, there's no homeless people from where I'm from. They can be Ida's end of the day gift. Oh, I could be cruel sometimes.

I posted up the selfie and instantaneously it got 2 million likes. I've got so many stalkers and have broken the hearts of so many boys that they must just look at old photos of me to reminisce the only good time in my life and probably saw that I had posted something new and liked it straight away. Yep, that was a good explanation.

I checked the time, 8:45. Superb. My parents had asked me to be there 45 minutes ago, this was perfect timing. I went to elevator and there, to my great surprise, I was joined by my dashing brother, Jaxxon Prince Charming Tomas Antony Vegas. Huh, I guess great minds do think a like. He was dressed in a glamorous Gucci suit and I was about to compliment him when I realised something -

I was mad at him.

He had a relationship with my, well not friend, but something close to that, Bentley. For an entire, I dunno, month or something and he didn't even tell me about. Sure, we were both genetically gifted but that didn't mean that I would always be kind to him.

I smiled at him in the coldest way possible, whilst I calculated his demise in my head. Maybe at the ball I would play some DJ music that chants his name over and over again, so people think it's him. That would be so embarrassing. Or, even worse, I could tell everyone he wanted to be called Jackie. They would trust me. Yes, that would be fantastic.

The elevator door pinged open, and, not even looking at my brother, I sashayed into the large dining room, my parents sitting in one corner at the very end of the 20-foot long table, and, as courtesy permits, I sat opposite of my mother.

"Good evening," I said, feigning a posh English accent. My parents were British and loved everything to be high class. That's why I was their favourite, Jaxxon never used an English accent. To them, he might as well have been a foreigner.

"Oh hello dear," my mother addressed me politely, my father grunting in approval to our use of etiquette. My mother was a slender, beautiful women as any married women should be. She was in her late thirties and, although I have never mentioned it, pregnant with quadruplets, though she was still skinnier than most people. She wore a tight fitting, backless red dress, with her hair cascading down her back and her lips coloured a deep red. Perfectly suitable attire for a pregnant woman, although a bit too daggy for my liking.

My father, on the other hand, was a broad gentleman well into his fifties. He faced looked like a pug dog, with little folds and creases everywhere, and 78 rolls all tied onto his gut. And yet he still looked refined and respectable. His extremely large moustache fitted his face perfectly.

Now, dear reader, I will tell you that you must always respect your parents. That is why I'm going to be so nice about my completely stereotypical ones, although throwing a little bit of relatability in there because I'm just like you, but still not like any other girl. When I shout at them and everyone of my actions seem to be rude or against them, that just goes to show that I feel lucky to be in a supportive environment and love them dearly.

Anyway, back to me being a goddess.

"So, what have you been up to lately?" she questioned me.

This is the point where would I have told my mean mother to stop trying to interrogate me, but before I could have my speech Jaxxon entered in, finding a seat beside me. He did the courteous greetings and what not, being his usual obnoxious self.

"Now honeys," my mother said, reaching out to place her well moisturised palms on both our perfectly sculpted hands. We looked back at her inquisitively. The last time she had called us honeys was after she had discovered my father was having an affair and had gotten us both tacky Mercedes-Benz. This was going to be good.

"Your father and I have something to tell you. Right Ruperto?" she said nudging my father with her elbow, making his eyes flutter open from his daze.

"Yes," he replied. I think it was the fourth time in my life that I'd ever heard his voice. I was on the edge on my seat now.

"Dears, you aren't our only children."