Hades

CHAPTER 1 STEPHANIE “Stop this.” I was beyond exasperated with the poor little rich girl sitting across from me. She was no longer crying, but her shoulders continued to tremble after her unexpected fit. Her formerly made-up face was now a mess of mascara and streaked foundation. And I could tell she was barely holding back another gush of self-pitying tears. I couldn’t let her go down to the birthday party like this. And I couldn’t stand that she was doing this to me, acting such a fool when I needed her to be perfect. “There is no reason—no reason at all—for you to be so sad. Or so ungrateful,” I reminded her through gritted teeth. “Your life is wonderful. Just go downstairs and let everybody appreciate you for living another year at the party your father paid a lot of money for. Do not do this depressed, existentialist thing tonight—” A knock sounded on the door before I could finish telling the girl what a terrible look emotions was on her. “Miss Stephanie, you coming?” Bertha, our housekeeper, asked on the other side of the door. Her thick Southern accent was even more polite than usual—most likely because of all the guests gathered downstairs in the grand foyer. “Your daddy’s wanting to know why you aren’t down there yet. Everybody can’t wait to see you in your dress!” See, I silently pointed out to the girl fighting back tears. Everybody’s waiting for you downstairs. You need to pull yourself together. The girl sniffled, and I called out to Bertha, “Just a few more minutes, please. I’ll be down soon.” “Alright, I’ll let him know,” Bertha agreed without hesitation. The familiar muffled pitter-patter of her feet let me know she was headed toward the servant’s stairs. Of course, she didn’t stand at the door asking me questions about what was taking so long, or if maybe I was going a little crazy in here. She trusted me to follow my father’s orders to the letter, just like I always did. Even with my mother gone. I turned back to my vanity mirror to glare at the girl who couldn’t get with the program. This convincing job would be a whole lot easier if the messy face staring back at me in the mirror wasn’t mine. For a moment or two, I indulged myself in the fantasy of sending Mirror Me down to the party while Real Me stayed upstairs. But guess what? This is my real life, not a fantasy. So, I pulled out my makeup caddy and started putting my face back together. “You are a Perreault. We exemplify excellence. And no matter our emotional state inside, we must always appear our very best on the outside.” Memories of my mother saying those words on more than one occasion flitted through my head as I dabbed away the tears from my magnetic lashes, then blotted concealer and foundation over all the red blotches on my pale brown face. A couple swipes of eyeliner underneath my eyes. They’re crescent shaped, thanks to a Black grandma I never met hooking up with a Chinese-Trinidadian grandfather who, according to my mother, “took himself right back home to his island as soon as he found out I was on the way.” My mother had hated her eyes growing up and had gotten rid of them with an eyelid surgery shortly after landing a Perreault and dropping out of college to marry him. She’d tossed around the idea of the same surgery for me before the attention I got from boys convinced her they made me appear, in her words, “more exotic” than the rest of my competition. I never managed to view every other pretty girl as rivals, like my mother did. But I knew she never would have allowed me to go downstairs looking anything less than sensational. So, I put in the time and makeup to cleanup my face. Then I stood up to perform a flawless check in the standing mirror that sat in the corner of my room. Hair? My stylist had come by the house a couple of hours ago. She’d pressed the new growth kinks out of my blond ombre weave and pulled it all back into a sleek ponytail. The result was a highly sculpted birthday style that made me look like a slightly darker member of the Kardashian family. Check. Body? My mother hadn’t been nearly as open-minded about my flat chest as my eyes. We’d flown out to L.A. the week after my graduation. Supposedly for a mother/daughter trip, but really so I could start at Tulane with a pair of tasteful 32-Cs. My Black ancestors and one hundred squats a day since the age of fourteen had taken care of my hips and backside. To add to that, I’d barely eaten in the week leading up to the party to get that curvy but thin-limbed look that had become the 21st century beauty standard. So, body, definite check. That only left my asymmetrical shimmering gold party dress to check off the list. I twisted from side to side, admiring it from all angles. The top clung to my perfect breasts and my left arm while putting my bare razor-thin right arm on display, and the draped bottom gave my naturally wide hips even more of an hourglass flare. The skirt also fell just short enough to show off my long, thin legs without getting me called out by the wives of my father’s conservative friends for being indecent. Oh, yes, this dress with a pair of black Louboutin heels was a definite check. My mother would have loved it. She might have even threatened to steal it. And we’d both just laugh, knowing she wouldn’t ever actually be caught dead in a dress that I’d worn to one of my birthday galas. But she was dead now. My chest tightened with the memory of cremating her nearly a year ago in the Prada she’d worn to the first birthday gala for my Sweet 16. That year she’d successfully starved herself to fit into a cocktail dress that was the same size as the one she’d ordered for me. And after that, she’d fretted about ever getting back down to her Sweet 16 party weight—all the way up until she was diagnosed with a cancer that took off that unwanted weight better than any diet she’d ever tried. Right before it killed her. Sometimes, I had to remind myself that really happened shortly after my twentieth birthday gala. I mean, here I was in the same house, about to attend the same over-the-top party, wearing a dress my mother might have picked out for me herself. It was like she never left. I looked exactly like the flawless daughter she groomed me to be. Check. Check. Check. Save for that crying fit, I was still playing the role perfectly. So why were panic and dread clawing up my insides like a wildcat trying to get out? Doesn’t matter, I reminded the girl in the mirror. Because it didn’t matter if I was on edge and scared to death for reasons I could not name. I looked flawless. I looked perfect. That was all that mattered. I gave the soon-to-be-woman in the mirror a reassuring smile before going down to my party. My birth was big news from the start. And not just because my father was Antoine Perreault, a member of one of Louisiana’s oldest Black land-owning families and a successful lawyer, just like his father, and his father before him, who’d been one of the first Black men after Michael Stark was admitted to Tulane Law School (after Louisiana finally lifted their segregation laws in the ’60s and all the lawyers in his family stopped having to go north to get their degrees). That was quite some legacy to be born into, for sure. But that wasn’t what sent a photographer rushing into my mother’s hospital room less than fifteen minutes following my birth. I was born just a few moments after midnight on January 1, so a picture of me graced the front page of the next morning’s Baton Rouge Sentinel underneath the headline “First Baby of the Year!” For fifteen years of my life, that was the first hit that came up when you googled my name. But then my mother signed us up for SuperRich Sixteen, that VMH show that always comes on before whatever iteration of Rap Star Wives they have going that season. The episode was a huge ratings success. And the over-the-top party where I’d changed three times and was gifted a new car to match with each new dress was the talk of Baton Rouge for so many months afterward that by the time summer rolled around, Mom declared we just had to put on another one—minus the cars. That touch had been too showy for her carefully refined Southern sensibilities. I think receiving way too many calls and requests for money from her estranged Ohio-based family had turned her off showy displays of wealth forever. But other than that, it was game on. She began spending most of summer and all of fall planning my New Year’s Eve birthday galas. Even her cancer diagnosis hadn’t stopped her. Nearly every last moment of our time together had been dedicated to her planning and explaining to me exactly what I would have to do for the fifth and most lavish of all my birthday galas. “You’re a Perreault, but this is my legacy,” she’d warned me from her deathbed. Then she’d intoned with a severe look that would have put RuPaul to shame, “Don’t mess it up.” Most Tulane kids let loose when they returned home for winter break from college. Not me. I’d spent almost all of my waking moments since I came back to Baton Rouge making sure everything was in place for this party. Why? Because this was what my mom wanted. I reminded myself of that as I descended the stairs of our antebellum mansion to a grand foyer stuffed with all of my mother’s closest friends, and even more of my father's business associates. No, it didn’t matter that my mother had passed. This New Year’s Eve went the same as the four that came before it. Everyone clapped like a royal princess was gracing them with her presence. My New Year’s Eve birthday galas had become so famous, my father’s associates clambered for an invitation every year. He often said these parties were the only reason he had friends. He was joking. My father was a more-than-capable lawyer whose friends needed him more than he needed them. But in my darkest moments, I suspected getting invited to my gala was the sole reason so many of my high school friends stayed in touch, even after I moved to New Orleans to attend Tulane. Fake hair. Fake breasts. Fake friends. Sometimes it felt like my whole life was a game of pretend, and I was just playing along. The tears I’d dashed away with Southern resolution and makeup threatened to overwhelm me again. But then I saw Luk standing at the bottom of the stairs, and the band around my heart loosened with relief. Luk was my college boyfriend—everything my mother had groomed me to attract and more. Tall, polite, and as rich as he was handsome. Good family? Oh, no, chile, his family wasn’t just good. They were the Brandts. Yes, that German-American family behind Weiss Fox Brewing Company. Luk’s many-greats-grandfather had been smart enough to immigrate to America around the turn of the 20th century—just in time to avoid both World Wars and ironically establish his family’s Bavarian hops recipe as Weiss Fox, America’s most well-known beer. Luk and I had been too new last year for me to invite him to my twentieth birthday party. But my mother had given me a rare smile of approval when I visited the bedroom where she was gracefully dying to let her know he had not only asked me out but also agreed to sign Dad’s super-cringy virginity contract. “You hold on to that one, just like I taught you, Stephanie. Use every weapon you’ve got,” she’d ordered, sounding much like a general, despite her severely weakened state. “Times are different now. He might be able to get away with marrying you—especially if you show him how you can be just as perfect a wife to him as one of those blonds with a German last name.” I hadn’t been so sure. I knew I was beautiful—aggressively so. Just like my mother, I had at least one standing appointment to attend to some facet of my appearance every single week of the year. It was a secret job that I never talked about out loud. But I attended to it just as diligently as poor students who had to put in work-study hours to keep their scholarships. Lukas Brandt had dozens of beautiful girls chasing after him, though. Many of whom would fit right in with his lily-white family. And while a lot of Southern girls are raised not to have s*x before marriage, I didn’t know a single girl whose father required all guys who dated his daughter to sign a contract agreeing they wouldn’t have s*x until after a marriage ceremony. But Luk had dutifully driven the hour it took to get from Tulane in New Orleans to my father’s law offices in Baton Rouge. And two hours after that, I found him on the front porch of my Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority house, triumphantly holding up his copy of my father’s dating contract. When I tried to apologize profusely for the weird obstacle my father had put in the path of any boy who tried to date me, he just smiled and said, “Don't you go apologizing, now. Dating you is worth signing on the dotted line.” Apparently, he’d meant that. Here he was, after a year of sexless dating, waiting to fete me along with everybody who was anybody in Baton Rouge. “Steph…” His eyes filled with sweet awe when I reached him at the bottom of the stairs. “You look amazing. You are truly the most beautiful girl in the world.” When he said that loudly enough to be heard by everyone packed into the foyer, then pressed a kiss onto the back of my hand, I could almost hear the jealous hisses and sighs from the other girls at the party. Most of them would kill to net a boyfriend like Lukas Brandt. Happily. I could just about feel my mother’s beam of approval from beyond the grave as I gave him a perfect curtsy and replied, “Thank you for cutting your holiday short to join us this year.” “Anything for you,” he said, his warm green gaze steady on mine. “I truly mean that, Steph.” “Stephanie, good, you’re finally here.” My father suddenly invaded our conversation, sliding in between us before I could give Luk the gracious reply he deserved. “Let’s thank everyone for coming out.” He glanced distastefully over his shoulder at Luk, as if he were a plate of rotten food. It didn’t matter that Luk was the heir to a considerable fortune, Dad always treated him like an unwanted pest. I really did need to talk to Dad about that one of these days. But as I’d explained to a government major my first year at Tulane, who didn’t understand why I wouldn’t just keep dating him a secret from my dad and forget about the contract, “Southern parents have a way of raising their girls to be dutiful, no matter how crazy they get.” After casting Luk an apologetic look, I returned halfway up the foyer steps to thank everyone for attending—and even more importantly than that, thank my father publicly for throwing me this party. This was the way of the birthday gala. My mother or, in the case of this year, I did all the work while Dad got all the public credit, as if he’d actually lifted a finger toward the actual execution of this party. Even worse than having to play along with that piece of Kabuki theater, Dad all but pushed Luk out of the way once we got back down the stairs so he could parade me around the room like a prize show pony. I spent the next hour pretending to remember people I didn’t recognize, air-kissing wives of business associates I knew my father did not like, and demurely batting away compliments as if I hadn’t planned and replanned my outfit and near-starved myself for two weeks straight to look flawless for this party. I’d never been a fan of our current Mayor-President. He was what my mother had labeled “a bit handsy with young girls” before warning me never to get caught alone with him. And from what I could tell, his decades hold on his office was based more on cronyism than being of actual service to his constituents. But I let out a breath of relief when he dragged my father away to meet some new judge. As soon as they disappeared into the crowd, Luk appeared with a glass of water and a plate full of hors d’oeuvres, as if he’d been waiting to attend to me. “Oh, my goodness, thank you!” I said in a grateful rush before practically shoving all the real food into my mouth. “Why are you the most perfect boyfriend ever?” Lukas waved me off with a grin. “Thank my mother. Making sure she ate was my main job at the parties she threw. My brother August had to take over the duty when I left for Tulane.” “Well, if and when we meet, I am going to thank her mightily for raising such a good guy,” I said. And I totally meant it. Lukas had told me his father was a withholding alcoholic who was currently running their business into the ground between a string of mistresses he practically shoved in his wife’s face. But instead of going the same way, Luk had decided to become everything his father wasn’t. Honorable, noble, more concerned about others than himself, and above everything else, a good businessman. He’d been a senior when we met last year. But he’d stayed on at Tulane to pursue a business degree. He was a man with a plan for his life. Honestly, my mother couldn’t have designed a better boyfriend if she had tried. “I am a very good guy,” Luk agreed. But the look on his face was anything but angelic when he added, low and husky, “However, seeing you in that dress is making me majorly regret agreeing to sign your dad’s contract.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me in so I could feel his hard length against my stomach. “Not sure how much longer I’m going to be able to abide by that contract.” I almost laughed. Almost. I wanted to hold on to Luk. Of course, I did. My mom would rise from her grave and haunt me forever if I failed to seal the deal. But, my father was serious about me not having s*x before marriage. Like crazy virginity-contract serious. Also, I wasn’t exactly as frustrated with the no-s*x situation as Luk. Don’t get me wrong. Luk was great. Everything my mother ever wanted. Plus, he was a really good kisser and made all of my sorority sisters jealous. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t make my heart flutter. Didn’t fill me with a weird, tugging ache. Not like Swamp Boy. The first and last time I met our former housekeeper’s son slithered into my memory. The way his silver gaze had held mine. Like a gator snapping its powerful jaw down on a bird. The way I’d shivered for reasons that had nothing to do with me being dressed only in a bikini and having just climbed out of our pool in December. “Swamp Boy?” I said, recognizing him from the start, even though we’d never met. I’d stared at him so long and helplessly, I didn’t see my mother coming. Not until she pulled me away from Swamp Boy, who’d come to get the pool in order before the filming of my SuperRich Sixteen Chapter. When we got back to the house, she’d slapped me like there was a devil on my cheek. “Stay away from him,” she’d advised with a voice full of icicles. “Boys like him can ruin a good girl with just a few slick words.” Less than a week after that, Mom had fired our beloved housekeeper and wouldn’t change her mind about it, no matter how much I cried and begged. And a couple of months after that, my father made me sign the first virginity contract. My own. But maybe the swamps of Louisiana truly were filled with magic, like everyone from local tour guides to Disney films claimed. It was just one look. Just one meeting. But sometimes it felt like Swamp Boy had cursed me. Cursed me to want him forever. Want him and wonder why that mysterious, tugging ache never reappeared, even for boys as perfect as Lukas Brandt. “I don't think that contract is enforceable,” Luk said, abruptly pulling me out of the memory. His eyes were full of teasing innuendo. No, it probably wasn’t. But… Luk’s expression suddenly fell before I could finish that thought. All the color drained out of of his face as he looked at someone standing behind me. And somehow, I guessed who it was, even without turning around. Crap… “My father,” I guessed off Lukas’s stricken expression. “My father’s standing right behind me, isn’t he.”