Page 12 of Xander

The tablet held my attention captive, hypnotized by the blue and gold combination. The waft scent of apples and vanilla coasted over as she neared. I still couldn’t look up or tear myself away from the screen.

A white gown caught my peripheral vision. The trademark color for purity gave away the woman’s identity. Only my control freak father would pick a white dress for an engagement party, demanding his blushing bride be a breathtaking vision to impress his sleazy business associates.

This was Jordan, my soon-to-be stepmother—the woman I despised.

My father had always pushed his business on me, but I refused to tangle my future with his agenda. Throughout our lives, this man had reprimanded Jasper and me for the most minor missteps. We were constantly admonished for speaking out of turn, not doing enough with our lives, and once for breathing too loudly at dinner. Even if we did everything he asked, Henry would find a flaw and hand out arbitrary punishments.

I only maintained a civil relationship by exercising a facade of composure. Any crack in this facade would invite his relentless taunts and manipulations. Henry reveled in provoking those around him, pushing them to their breaking points for his sadistic amusement.

While I could withstand Henry’s assaults with unwavering poise, Dad’s callous games continuously got the better of Jasper. He once left Jasper destitute by canceling his cell phone and credit card, then withholding his boarding school tuition, meal dues, and dorm fees. Did I mention Jasper was only thirteen?

Henry was a tyrant. His tendency to criticize our every move had driven Mom to the brink, and I vowed early on that I’d break us free from his grasp.

Through ruthless devotion to hockey, I found a ticket out. The NHL offered me a contract right out of high school, but Dad twisted my arm into turning down the offer. Jasper was a minor, and Mom financially depended on Henry, rendering me powerless to defy him.

The fallout from my decision sparked massive controversy. An eighteen-year-old receiving a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity was uncommon, but turning it down was astonishing. My face was plastered in sports magazines with various renditions of the truth. There were speculations of drug use, fame going to my head, arrogance, blah, blah, blah.

Unwilling to allow the rumors to damage the family name, Dad hired a publicist to fix my reputation—Jordan. She spun a story, painting me as the victim of fake injuries and mental health struggles.

An outpour of sympathy poured in for the fabricated issues, soaring me into celebrity status and generating buzz in my budding career. Suddenly, every ticket at my college hockey game was sold out, and people saw me as a hero overcoming obstacles.

Lies and bullshit.

I had hoped to be redrafted after Jasper graduated high school. Any professional team that recruited me would investigate the concocted injuries and mental health problems, and I couldn’t come clean without spurring Dad’s wrath. As if there weren’t enough reasons to hate my father’s newest gold digger, Jordan had turned my life into a lie.

At first, I didn’t even take their relationship seriously. My father was notorious for being a sugar daddy to younger women. Then, he broke the news of his engagement through a considerate email crafted by his assistant. Meeting her at last, his haste to lock her down made sense.

I watched Jordan draw closer, the crystal beads of her ethereal gown catching rays of the shimmering dusk. Scattered light reflected off the dress’s embellishments and fused with her golden hair, shining bright enough to make me wonder whether I had mistaken the sun for a human.

This app was a novelty item that granted people a superficial sense of self. A beauty-measuring algorithm was absurd, seeing as people weren’t attracted to the same features. Yet, I found myself agreeing with the results, beyond captivated by the image on the screen. I didn’t know how I managed it, but I finally lowered the device and, like a stupid man, stared directly into the sun.

The drink in my hand shook of its own volition as she stopped before me. Her lips moved, and from what I could gather, Jordan was introducing herself with a rehearsed spiel. None of it registered. I was too consumed by the details I had missed on the screen.

The silk material of her ivory dress cascaded down in flowing layers, showing off her curvy, model-like body. Impeccably shaped brows framed her almond eyes, and a symmetrical button nose with arched cheekbones complemented her features. Her lips had a defined Cupid’s bow, the bottom lip slightly poutier than the top. Even her nails were flawlessly shaped and painted.

Everything about her was groomed. Despite the polished appearance, there was a subtle scar above her lip. My gaze unwillingly loitered on the barely visible scar, appreciating the hint of imperfection only detectable in person.

Jordan spoke before I could dwell further on her enigma. “The staff told me you hadn’t eaten anything yet,” she remarked, genuine concern laced in her soft voice. She hovered next to my barstool, her nervous energy almost tangible. “I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

I tore my gaze away from her mouth and focused on the Manhattan cradled in my hand. “I didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on my diet,” I replied dryly, masking the intrigue within me.

A laugh escaped her lips, a delicate sound that had likely been refined throughout the years. “It’s hard not to notice someone attached to the bar, declining all the hors d’oeuvres,” she teased gently.

Frowning, I acknowledged internally that perhaps it had been a poor idea to stay glued to the bar on an empty stomach.

Jordan motioned for a server carrying a black tray. “We’ll take that,” she declared with a warmth that hinted at an unexpected depth beneath her poised exterior.

The waiter surrendered the tray without a fight. Who would deny the bride-to-be?

“Here we are.” Jordan set the tray of mini beef Wellingtons on the bar counter and settled onto the stool beside mine. “I heard these were your favorite.”

“You researched my favorite food and added it to the catering order?” I asked. My father didn’t know my likes and dislikes, and unearthing this information couldn’t have been easy.

“Jasper’s, too,” she replied softly.

Caught off guard by her thoughtful gesture, I took another sip of my drink. I’d been adamant this woman was the devil, and now, I didn’t know what to make of her. I admitted grudgingly that though everything about her was deliberately measured, she didn’t appear to be a calculative or manipulative person. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to her than what met the eye.

Her face lit up when I set down the Manhattan and picked up a beef Wellington. Despite my initial resolve to freeze her out, grabbing this olive branch might be for the best.