To Have and to Hold

Chapter 1

Scarlett

Eight years ago

“Pretty is the beginning. Perfection is the goal,” I whisper to myself in my visor mirror outside of Pierce Plastic Surgery Center located on the Las Vegas Strip. It’s a hot summer day, the blistering heat sitting at a thirst-inducing 106 degrees. I look my face over one more time, knowing I plan to have a consultation on my nose and my lips today.

The city of sin is what most people call it, but really, it’s the city of sin and beauty, and to make it here or find someone worthy, Mother always said, “You must do whatever it takes.” She tells me that daily with gusto. I’m only twenty-two, and I don’t think I look that bad. I’m no beast to look at, but I guess there are some things I could… fix up, if you will.

I have piercing blue eyes that most people compare to the Mediterranean Sea. My nose seems fitting for my face, but Mother points out the tip and how it curves up a bit too much. My lips are not small, but they’re not large and voluptuous. My blonde hair is mid-length, recently touched up at the roots, like I do every six weeks. I don’t dare go past the scheduled time or my mother will notice, and noticing me not keeping up with her ageless beauty isn’t something a Wells woman would do.

I would like to say I know where this all comes from—this deep-seated need to chase outer perfection, but Mother says it’s a choice, not a burden. Maybe her parents talked down to her? I don’t know; my grandparents passed when I was too young to remember.

Maybe my biological father? Who knows. He walked out the moment my mother said she was pregnant. Or maybe it really is just about timeless beauty and grace. Has this created heavy tension and strain in my relationship with my mother? Yes. But that wouldn’t matter to her. She’s too busy bouncing from husband to husband, the richest of the rich on the Las Vegas Strip.

Climbing out of the car, I’m greeted with instant heat, and not the humid kind; more like a blow dryer straight to your face. Adjusting my Louis Vuitton sunglasses, I grab the same brand purse and look myself over in the reflection of the car window. I went with a white bodycon dress and nude Louboutins.

I notice men looking at me as I make my way around the sleek all-black glass building, and I ignore the catcalls. I don’t want attention from men; it’s not my top priority. I have goals that live outside Mother’s demands that I maintain an appearance of straight perfection. I want to go to school, earn a degree in business, maybe own my own one day. Who knows. I bartend for now, four nights a week at Coyote Ugly, and I stash away those tips to hopefully get through business school without my mother’s help.

Mother would never let me go to school. Wells women don’t lift a finger; men do it for them. But that’s not me. I’m no shallow woman. I would like to distance myself and get a life of my own. Be free from this idea that I’m not allowed to step out of the squeaky-clean bubble Linette Wells created for me—better yet, forced me to climb into.

Entering the lobby, I enjoy the distinguished sound when the heels of my expensive shoes hit the even more expensive flooring. Straight ahead, I see the glass doors with the elegant writing Pierce Plastic Surgery Center. The heels clack on the floor, and with my head held high, I walk in the room as if I own it. That’s also something a Wells woman must do—command the room.

“Welcome! Are you Ms. Wells?” the receptionist summons me, and I give her a sweet smile.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Perfect. We see you filled out the new patient paperwork online, so all I will need is a copy of your license.” Her name is Rose, according to her name tag. Surprisingly, she doesn’t look at all like a receptionist who works here. Beautiful, of course, because all women are, but she’s older. Dare I say her sixties? It doesn’t look to me like she’s had work done, but I will say she’s aged beautifully.

Now that?

That is elegance to me.

Handing her my identification card, I wait patiently as she scans it in. Giving it back to me, she offers me some sparkling water, which I decline with a shake of my head.

“No, thank you. I’ll just have a seat. Thank you so much, Rose.”

She seems shocked at my politeness. “Well, you are very welcome, my dear. Dr. Pierce is with a client and should be finished in a moment. I will bring you back when he’s ready.”

“No rush.” With one more soft smile, I tuck my blonde hair behind my ear and take a seat on the plush white seat in the modern waiting room.