"You look stunning." Barrington leers at me from the foyer of my parents’ home. His teeth are blinding, his hair perfectly styled, his tuxedo sharp. "As always."

Daddy clasps him on the shoulder. "Ah, Taylor knows how to light up a room."

Mom presses her hands together and smiles at me sweetly, her eyes brightening at Barrington's words.

"Thank you, Barrington." I manage to mutter.

He nods, turning toward my father to exchange a few words as I stand as still as a statue, blending into the decor of the room like a piece of art. Something to be quietly admired, but still part of the backdrop. My spine is rigid as I try not to fidget. I hate playing this role, the one of the sweet and dazzling young woman delighted to accompany one of Savannah’s most eligible bachelors to a charity gala.

My heart sinks as Daddy and Barrington discuss business. Business which seems to be failing these days. I’ve heard the hushed conversations between my parents, and noticed the frown lines that have deepened around Daddy’s mouth, the pinch between Mom’s eyebrows. Whatever is happening with Clarke Enterprises is not good, which is why when Daddy asked me to attend several events with Barrington Wade in order to give the Clarke Brand a positive spin in the media, I agreed.

Except now, staring at Barrington’s back as his shoulders roll forward, the lines of his tuxedo crisp, I cringe. The tinny sound of his voice and the arrogant remarks that constantly fall out of it makes my blood boil. How is it possible to have zero common ground with someone you’ve spent your entire childhood and adolescence mingling with?

"You ready to go, darling?" Barrington's hand is at the small of my back, an intense pressure digging downward into my skin.

"Of course," I answer politely, leaning forward to kiss Daddy and Mom goodbye. I wish them a safe and fun trip as they’re catching a flight to California in a few hours.

Barrington escorts me out of my family home to his waiting black Lamborghini. Not caring much for cars, I know that this sleek bad boy is expensive, exclusive, and an attention grabber. I fight the urge to roll my eyes as I place my hand gently in Barrington's to lower myself into the car.

He crosses around the back of the car, momentarily disappearing from view before settling behind the wheel. "Sorry about the ride, doll," he says, offering me a wry grin, "my Bentley is in for routine maintenance."

I turn and offer him a toothy grin, attempting to be pleasant, to act like riding in a Lamborghini is exciting even though this scenario grew old when I was in high school.

Barrington revs the engine and presses a button to flood the car with music from one of his playlists. He raises the volume so conversation is impossible, and we ride to the gala in silence.

Just the way I prefer it.

The gala is beautiful: the venue, the decor, the flowers, every single detail decided with careful attention and consideration. The breeze blowing off the river is gentle as it ruffles my hair. I breathe in deeply, holding the air in my lungs as I take in the tiny lights strung throughout the shrubbery, winking like fireflies. I love Savannah.

Ascending the stairs to the entrance, paparazzi snap photos as Barrington carefully angles us to make sure we're being captured at our absolute best. Once we're inside, he places a hand on my shoulder, his fingers caressing my bare skin, causing a flicker of annoyance to skate up my spine.

"Remember, darling, we need to make a certain impression tonight. Your father is counting on my closing a few deals that can be lucrative for the both of us. Don't forget your place," he whispers in my ear, his posture casual. To a passerby, it would look like a sweet moment between a young couple. In reality, his tone holds a warning, his words hard and cold.

Turning, I place my open palm on his cheek and blink. "Of course, Barrington. As long as you try not to act like a complete douchebag."

His jaw tightens and his nostrils flare at my words, his grip tightening on my upper arm. I pull back quickly and he releases me, his gaze hard. Once his eyes leave me, they sweep across the great ballroom and work a quick inventory of who is present, a calculated assessment of who needs to be approached and who should approach him, and the beginning of a strategy for how the night will unfold.

"Champagne?" An impeccably dressed waiter holding a small tray filled with champagne flutes stops next to us.

"Thank you." Barrington nods at him, never making eye contact, as he takes two flutes and places one between my fingers. "Don't drink too much," he growls at me under his breath.

Noticing that Dr. Harper is weaving through the tables toward us, I manage to keep my smile sweet even as my insides flare in embarrassment. Ever since Daddy enlisted Barrington’s help with his business negotiations, Barrington has used my family’s slipping financial security to boss me around and treat me like a piece of trash instead of an equal. It’s not surprising; Barrington thinks he’s above everyone anyway. Still, his callousness stings and as I bite my tongue, I feel ashamed for not putting him back in his place. I hate that he got the last word. For now, at least.

It seems like hours pass before we take our seats for dinner. I spot my friend, Isabella, at another table. I wave at her and she waves back, her eyes scanning my dress before she sinks into her seat.

Barrington introduces himself proudly to our table, and the rest of the guests follow suit. When it's my turn, I open my mouth to say hello when Barrington cuts in, "This is my date, Taylor Clarke. You probably know her father, Joseph, of Clarke Enterprises."

A few knowing looks and nods take place, and I feel my cheeks redden at Barrington's obvious dismissal of me. I'm only of use to him because of my father and his company. If Barrington wasn’t angling to acquire the controlling shares in Clarke Enterprises, I wouldn’t be here tonight. Clearly that would be a relief for me, but it would devastate Daddy.

It’s an old, repetitive storyline and it depresses me that the ending has been the same with all of the guys I’ve dated since college. They chase after me, swearing their good intentions up and down until I’m cross-eyed but after a handful of dates, it becomes obvious that I'm only of use to them because of the attention that showers our relationship from my last name, Daddy's business connections, and my own modeling background. Since I recently landed the lead modeling gig for designer Adriana Rose's Fall and Winter lines, the phony male attention has increased.

"You look so familiar, darling," an older man to my right comments, peering at me.

"Oh, I volunteer a lot with the Big Brothers and Big Sisters of Georgia. Perhaps you've come to one of our fundraisers?" I ask, using every opportunity I can to plug the organization responsible for my sanity. I can’t wait until tomorrow and my standing Saturday dinner date—pizza and Coke and fries—with Ria, my little sister through the program.

The group titters, and Barrington laughs boisterously, his large hand coming down to squeeze my thigh underneath the table.

"She recently graced the cover of Vanity Fair. She's the exclusive model for Adriana Rose's new campaign," Barrington explains, pride coloring his eyes as he watches the group for their reactions.

"Ohh, I love Adriana Rose! Do you get to keep the gowns?" the wife of the man to my right asks.

"No, but that would be amazing," I say, turning toward her to explain more of Adriana's new line when the comments cut me off.

"No wonder you're so thin."

"That's it! I knew I knew you from somewhere."

"How exciting! The life of a model."

"Oh, Barrington, you must be so proud."

"Do you have a strict diet and personal trainer?"

"How'd you land that job?"

The questions surge forth like an uncontrollable wave and my heart sinks. Digging my fingers into the satiny material of my gown, I keep my face smooth, glancing at each guest at our table as I answer their questions one by one. I remind myself that I’m doing this for Daddy, for our family. Slowly, Barrington's hand releases me. We eat dinner. And I remember that no matter my passions or interests or skills, nothing will ever outshine my looks or the perception that accompanies them. At least in this social circle.

Most of the time, being deemed a “socialite” isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Not at all. But tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll see Ria. I know she'll make me laugh until I snort soda from my nose and talk me into ice cream sundaes afterwards. She'll make me feel normal and grounded and like me once more.