Harley
Panic mode. Full-on, red alert, 911 emergency. How could I have packed all my clothes without setting aside something suitable to wear? Of all the times to realize this, why now? And Lord have mercy, when you see where my mother decided to have this dinner, you'd understand why I'm spiraling. Before we even move to our house—where I'm certain my father will demand some privacy with Cole for business matters and banish us to what we jokingly call the doghouse—I need to look presentable.
Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating about the doghouse, but that's what we call it. It's actually the second part of the mansion my father built as a gift to my mother. From the outside, it looks like a separate house, but in reality, it's connected to the main house through my room. Imagine having a private retreat just a door away—it was the best thing ever in high school. That was my sanctuary.
But now is not the time to reminisce. Focus, Harley. You cannot be daydreaming about that cozy, warm space and the creamy, mouthwatering mushroom risotto that makes me salivate just thinking about it. And the hot chocolate—God, I miss the hot chocolate. No, no, focus. I need an outfit.
And yet, instead of getting up and doing something about it, I'm just lying here on my hotel bed.
I shift slightly, careful not to roll off, already perched at the very edge. My hand dangles off the side, and I stare at the finely polished floor that mirrors my reflection back at me—blurry, but still there. Messy brown hair. Tired eyes. And oh, hello, light eye bags. I see you.
With a sigh, I ruffle my hair, staring at it like it holds the answers to my problems. Should I go to the mall? But I'm too lazy. Never mind that I'm also jet-lagged, and that stomach bug drained the life out of me. Dragging myself to the mall feels impossible. But I need to look presentable—my mother insists on it for dinners like these. And it has been years since I've attended one of my father's business dinners. He always enjoys putting on the "family man" act, proving to his business partners that he's the strong head of the household, with the unwavering support of the woman behind him. In our case, 'women'—plural.
Yep, going to the mall is a must.
Groaning, I force myself up and drag my feet to the bathroom. All that sleep did nothing except make me want to sleep more. I should have begged my mom to push the dinner back a day or two—this time zone change is literally going to be the death of me.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I assess the damage. A faint tinge of darkness under my eyes, but nothing a little makeup can't fix. Maybe just some light foundation. I splash water on my face, the coldness shocking me awake, and reach for a towel. Unlike when I go to work or out for fun, I don't have the energy for an extensive freshening-up routine. Plain water will have to do for now.
As I dry my face, something tugs at the back of my mind. Clad. What exactly would he do with the knowledge that my father is a family man? He isn't the type of traditional CEO who only values family in front of the media. Some CEOs are genuine about it, but Clad? I highly doubt it.
Speaking of Clad—my plan to go to the mall? It's doomed. He still has my purse.
Just great.
I consider my options. Should I call my mother and ask her for money? I mean, what do I have to lose? She's my mother—she won't let me show up to this dinner looking like I rolled out of bed.
Decision made, I grab my phone and dial. It rings three times before she answers, just as I'm about to give up.
"Hey, honey, I'm busy. I literally have three seconds to talk." Of course, she does.
"Hi, Mom. I don't have anything to wear for tonight," I say, trying to keep any frustration out of my voice.
"What's happening tonight?" Her voice is distracted. Is she back to working with Dad at the company?
"The dinner," I remind her.
There's a moment of silence, then a simple, "Oh, that."
"Yes, Mom. So, can you help?"
"Yes, Harley, I'm busy." Dismissed. I knew it. But I tried.
"Alright, I'll go home and find something then."
"No!" she shouts so suddenly that my heart nearly jumps out of my chest.
"What?" I ask, blinking.
"Do not go home. I'll handle it, okay? I'll get you an outfit. Meet me at the restaurant ten minutes before."
"Okay… but why can't I go home?"
"N-no, just don't for now. You'll know later, alright, honey? Love you."
Alright, I guess I shouldn't have asked. If she's being secretive, it's none of my business anyway. I have my own pressing issues to deal with.
"Oh, but Mom, ten minutes is cutting it shor—" The beep of a disconnected call is my only response.
Well, that's that. I kinda got a solution to my problem.
I sit back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I guess I'll just have to wait and hope she pulls through for me. But the curiosity lingers. Why doesn't she want me to go home?