At the Stroke of Midnight (Naughty Princess Club 1)

“And you made them gluten free, nut free, wheat free, and sugar free, right? You know we had that issue with Corbin Michaelson’s mother during the Halloween party last year when she found out the cookies we were serving had gluten, and there are currently four children on the street with nut allergies, and—”

“Caroline, I’ve got it covered.” I cut her off, pasting a smile on my face even though she can’t see me as I hold the phone in one hand and start rearranging the two-hundred cupcakes cooling on the counter into a more uniform fashion with the other hand. “I’m the president of the PTA and chair of the homeowner’s association. I’ve planned and successfully executed hundreds of events over the last thirteen years since we bought this home, including our yearly Halloween party. I’ve always got it covered.”

I hear Caroline sigh through the line and realize she must have never learned the proper etiquette of keeping your cool when you’re frustrated.

“I know that, it’s just . . . you’ve been a bit distracted lately, what with Brian gone and all,” she says softly.

My hands move faster along the counter organizing the cupcakes into perfect, neat rows, and I let out a small, nervous laugh.

“I told you, everything with Brian is fine. He’s just been traveling a lot with work recently and that’s why he hasn’t been able to attend any of the functions with me. He’ll be home soon and everything will be back to normal and perfect, just like always.”

I realize I’m rambling and quickly clamp my mouth closed, blinking my eyes rapidly to stop the tears that have pooled in them from falling down my cheeks.

A lady never shows her emotions.

A lady should also never lie, but under the circumstances, it’s better this way. I have to believe that Brian will be home soon. Maybe everything won’t go back to the way it was, but telling everyone the truth would just make both of us look bad. At this point, my reputation is all I have, and there is no way I’m going to tarnish it by feeding the gossip mill in this town. I’ve spent too much time becoming the perfect mother, the perfect wife, the perfect head of every organization I come in contact with, and maintaining the perfect home that is the envy of everyone on this street, to let anything ruin it. Brian literally plucked me from the trailer park. He took me away from a home where I never knew when my next meal would be, freed me from a stepmother who made my life miserable and stepsisters who constantly tried to one-up her in the misery department. He released me from that prison and he handed me the world on a silver platter. Literally.

When he proposed, he put my engagement ring on a vintage Tiffany and Co. silver, oval, footed tray. I was blinded by sparkly things, and luxury I never imagined in a million years would be mine with just a snap of my fingers or a swipe of a black Amex card. I was so afraid of losing everything and being forced to go back to that trailer park with my tail between my legs, that for years I did everything I could to be what Brian wanted. I took etiquette lessons from his mother, and I spent every waking moment of our marriage emulating her, being perfect like her, being classy like her, and ignoring the signs that were right in front of my face. Ignoring the fact that Brian got a thrill out of rescuing the damsel in distress, but that once I stopped being the girl who needed him to be my knight in shining armor, he stopped wanting me.

Hearing the slam of the front door, I quickly end the call with Caroline, promising her I’ll meet her out on the street tomorrow afternoon to begin setting up for the party with the gluten-free, nut-free, wheat-free, sugar-free cupcakes, perfectly frosted with gluten-free, nut-free, wheat-free, sugar-free frosting.

A blur of black rushes by the kitchen doorway, and I slide my phone into the front pocket of the white apron that covers my knee-length, pale-blue tea dress, the heels of my matching pale-blue pumps clacking against the white Italian tile as I rush to the doorway and out into the foyer.

“Anastasia, you’re late.”

The black blur comes to a stop at the base of the stairs with her back to me, her heavily black-charcoal-lined eyes still midroll in annoyance as she slowly turns to face me.

“I told you, it’s Asia now. And I had shit to do,” my thirteen-year-old daughter mutters with a sigh, sliding her hands into the front pockets of her black skinny jeans.

“Language, young lady!” I scold, crossing my arms in front of me as I shake my head at her and take a few deep, calming breaths. A lady never shouts or makes a scene, even in the privacy of her own home. “You have a closet full of bright-colored clothing; I don’t understand why you insist on always wearing black.”