“Why do you look like you’re about to cry?” She dots concealer under my eyes but lowers her hands to wait for my response.
“Thank you,” I say, because I know anything more will scare her away. The rest sits on the tip of my tongue.
Lydia freezes as my words hit her. Perhaps I should have told her I have something in my eye or that the perfume agitated my allergies, but how could I go on without at least voicing my appreciation?
It would be easy to pretend I haven’t said anything at all, and I’d accept it. But Lydia is gradually changing. This is the same woman who adopted a stray dog from the street, adopted a stray girl in the same manner, and then adopted an entire empire. She fell in love and fell in step. And she may not want to admit it, but Lydia Montgomery is human after all.
She pauses for one, two, three seconds before saying, “You’re welcome.”
An hour later, she pulls my hair from the rollers and shapes it into gorgeous waves to frame my perfect face of makeup. Lydia digs through the bags on her bed and comes back with a thin diamond tiara, setting it on my head like a crown. It feels excessive for a dinner reservation, but what does the girl who’s never celebrated her day of birth know about birthdays?
To keep my hair and makeup in place, Lydia helps me out of my shirt when she gasps. “Didn’t you shave?”
“I had my legs waxed last week,” I answer defensively, if not embarrassingly.
She rolls her eyes and lifts my arm, pointing at my armpit. “And what about this?”
No amount of makeup can hide the blush that reddens my cheeks. The hair there isn’t out of control or overgrown, but I didn’t shave because I don’t have another appointment until after the weekend. How was I supposed to know Lydia was going to dress me up for dinner? Who’s going to look at my armpits anyway? I’ll wear a long-sleeved top.
Retrieving a new razor blade from under the sink, Lydia then lathers soap in her hand and orders me to lift my right arm. Her hand is warm, but the water is cold, and I laugh at how ridiculous this scene is. Once my skin is nice and soapy, she runs the razor over it. Down and up, down and up.
“This is so embarrassing.” Cool water trickles down my skin, soaking into the plain white bra I put on after my shower.
“Next arm.” Lydia rinses the blade under a stream of water at the sink, and not even she can keep an entire smile from breaking her face in half. Once she deems me presentable, she sends me off with two of the shopping bags and warns me not to mess up my hair and makeup while she gets herself ready. “And stay the fuck away from those cinnamon rolls.”
I light the candles in my room and change into the sheer strapless bra and panty set she bought for me. In the next bag is a strappy pair of nude heels with red bottoms like the ones Lydia wears. When Lydia comes to find me sometime later, I’m dancing around my room in my underwear and new thousand-dollar high heels.
How is this my life?
“I’m wearing this to dinner,” I announce.
Lydia leans against the doorframe, dressed in a high-neck, long-sleeved mini dress, complete with the exact same heels as me but in black. She’s left her hair up but smoothed it back into a sleek ponytail. Her thick winged liner is sharp, and her lips are bloody red. And slung over her arm is my birthday dress.
“Where the heck are we having dinner?” I ask after Yael has picked us up from the apartment. When she said she’d made dinner reservations for my birthday, I assumed it was at one of the normal places we frequent on the weekends.
She doesn’t answer, and I’m left with more questions when we pull up to the Ridge & Sons building downtown. Again, I assume we’re here to pick up Wilder and Talent on our way to the restaurant, but Lydia thanks Yael and exits the vehicle.
“Happy Birthday, Miss Camilla,” Yael offers me in farewell.
Our heels tap on the concrete sidewalk outside the main doors, and then on the marble floors inside the building’s lobby. A security guard behind a small desk in the corner nods as we make our way across the large space. Otherwise, the building is closed for the evening. The lights are dim, the elevators are unmoving on the bottom floor, and I can hear the sound of my own breathing in the large, empty space.
Lydia takes my hand when we approach a large set of double doors at the far corner of the lobby, lacing our fingers together. A sign above the doors readsGreat Hall.It leads to a short hallway with a couple of office doors on each side and another set of massive double doors at the end.
“What are we doing here?” I ask as we approach the last set of doors.
“This room is reserved for conferences, charity events, and office parties.” Lydia stops with her hand on the long door pulls. She gives mine a squeeze in her other. “Typically, the host isn’t supposed to ruin the surprise before a surprise party, and I ordered them to keep the lights on, but I don’t want you to be scared.”
The tension in my jaw eases as realization pours over me like warm candle wax. And for the third time today, my eyes fill with tears.
“You threw me a surprise party?” I ask in a small voice.
“You deserve to be celebrated, Camilla,” she says and opens the door.
The look of astonishment on my face is genuine, and the tears streaming down my cheeks are as warm as the gratitude blossoming inside my chest.
What I know of surprise parties is only from what I’ve seen on television and in movies. It’s a group of friends and family who get together and hide behind furniture and walls in the dark, doing their best to keep their snickering to a minimum. When the person they’re celebrating shows up, they jump free from their hiding spots in unison and shout, “Surprise!”
But I don’t have many friends.
