Saints (SAINTS #1) | ✓

17

JASMINA ALWAYS HAD LOVED that scent of Chanel no. 5. Her mother sprayed it on as if it was water, before turning towards where her daughter was seated on the couch in her dressing room.

Mahsati Nawar was a woman made of those last warm rays of the sun - the kind of person whose presence you wanted to linger in forever and whose charming words warmed your heart as you wondered how you were graced with her.

Her Uzbek and Brazilian heritage had caused her to be fluent in at least five languages before she was eleven, something Mahsati had been able to use well in her modeling and acting carreer across the world. A long sheet of onyx hair fell down her back, her cinnamon eyes glowing golden in the light everytime she laughed.

And although her mother was one of the most well-known people in the world, Jasmina didn't admire her for that. No, she admired how her mother always got her way, she admired how everyone fell for that charm, she admired her cunning mind and cutting words.

"Mina," her mother said and she looked up, bored eyes meeting her mother's.

"Yeah?" she said.

She was twelve at that point, but nothing in the world interested her. Every day consisted out of her waking up and having to study, from manners to business, all to raise her to be the best possible heir to the Nawar fortune. She was good at it, that much could be given, so much even that some proclaimed her a genius.

It was a statement that irked her. She wasn't a genius, she worked hard for everything she achieved. Not that it seemed to matter - she had learned early that the whole world thought she got everything handed to her on a silver platter.

This was one of her rare breaks, where her mother brought her out to show off her pretty, wonderful daughter. She always did her best to perform well, if only to prove to herself that she could be as good an actor as her mother. Although she would never admit how much, she did love acting. There was some sort of freedom in becoming whoever, in not being the Jasmina Nawar, the girl everyone should look up to and fear.

It wasn't always fun to learn her whole youth how to stand tall with the weight of the world's expectations on her shoulders.

Still, despite how she liked acting and following her mother to star along with her in a minor role in whatever she was playing in, she had a new reason to want to go home these days.

She had picked up a cat a few days ago, a thin tabby which she had found at the side of the road. Alan had asked her what compelled her to do it, had chastised her that it was dirty, but she just ignored him. The cat was hers now and she would take care of it.

"You seem like you'd rather be somewhere else," her mother said with raised eyebrows," don't you always like coming here and playing with your lovely mother?"

"I suppose," Jasmina said as she looked away.

"Don't tell me you'd pick something over quality time with me," her mother said as she neared, full lips set in a pout as she patted Jasmina on her head," you'd break my heart."

Jasmina was pretty sure her mother didn't have a heart. It was another thing she admired about the woman - her father may be one of the most powerful men in the world, but her mother, oh her mother could end people with a flick of her manicured hand.

"You know there's nothing I'd rather do," she smiled up at her.

"That's what I'd like to hear," her mother said," now come dress up, you're supposed to look pretty and presentable in ten minutes."