TOAST À LA GELÉE [LA TRAGÉDIE D' UNE LESBIENNE CONFUSE]

"Keep your dirty hands off the leather."

The driver spat without bothering to look back.

Rosaline pulled her hands into her lap. She clutched the frayed sleeves of her oversized sweater and shrank against the passenger door.

"I am sorry," she whispered.

The luxury town car rolled along the private road. 

"You do not speak unless spoken to," the driver continued. "You do not look the family in the eye. You do not wander the halls at night."

He met her gaze in the rearview mirror. His eyes held sharp contempt.

"You are only here because Mr. Whitaker gave the order to collect you," the driver said. "Do not forget your place."

"I understand the rules," Rosaline replied with a tremble in her voice.

She turned her head to look out the tinted window. The iron gates of the Whitaker estate loomed ahead.

The gates swung open to reveal a sprawling stone mansion surrounded by acres of manicured gardens.

Rosaline widened her eyes and let out a soft gasp. She played the part of the overwhelmed and impoverished girl seeing genuine wealth for the first time.

Inside her mind she was cold and methodical.

She ignored the stone fountains and the pristine flower beds. Her eyes tracked the security cameras mounted on the stone pillars and hidden in the oak trees.

She counted the armed guards patrolling the perimeter. She memorized the layout of the front courtyard and the exact distance to the main road.

The excess of the estate was a grotesque display of unearned power. She hated every inch of it.

The car stopped in front of a sweeping marble staircase. The driver killed the engine but made no move to open her door.

Rosaline pushed the door open herself. She walked to the back of the car and hauled her suitcase out of the trunk.

The rusted wheels squeaked as they hit the cobblestones.

She looked up toward the grand foyer.

Two women stood at the top of the staircase looking down at her. 

"So this is the stray," Victoria said.

The stepsister leaned over the polished stone banister and sneered.

"It appears the rumors were true," Margaret replied.

The stepmother crossed her arms and glared down her nose.

Rosaline kept her head bowed. She gripped the plastic handle of her suitcase and took a hesitant step forward.

Victoria descended the first few steps and blocked the path. She wore a tailored designer dress that cost more than Rosaline had supposedly earned in a year.

"You smell like shit," Victoria said. "Did you actually think those rags were appropriate for our home?"

"I wore the best clothes I had," Rosaline said timidly.

"Your best makes me sick," Victoria shot back.

Victoria walked down to the bottom of the stairs and stopped inches from Rosaline. She reached out and flicked the cheap fabric of Rosaline's sweater.

"Look at this trash," Victoria laughed.

She stepped back and swung her foot 

Her sharp designer heel connected hard with the side of the suitcase. The rusted latch gave way under the impact.

The suitcase tumbled backward down the entrance steps. It hit the cobblestones and burst open.

Rosaline's meager belongings spilled across the driveway. Faded shirts, a single pair of scuffed sneakers, and a cracked hairbrush scattered in the dirt.

Two maids standing near the massive double doors flinched. They averted their eyes and stared at the floor.

Rosaline did not react with tears or anger. 

She dropped to her knees and began gathering her clothes with frantic and jerky movements. Margaret descended the stairs. Her heels clicked in a steady and menacing rhythm against the marble.

She stopped right beside her daughter and looked at the pathetic display on the ground.

"Leave that garbage where it is," Margaret commanded.

Rosaline paused with a dirty shirt in her hands. She looked up with wide and fearful eyes.

Margaret crouched down and got right in Rosaline's face. The cloying scent of an expensive floral perfume invaded Rosaline's lungs.

"Listen to me," Margaret hissed. "You are a filthy bastard."

Rosaline kept her expression blank and terrified.

"Your mother thought opening her legs could secure her a fortune," Margaret sneered. "She thought a pregnancy would trap Graham Whitaker. She failed. She died in a gutter because she was weak."

"Please," Rosaline whispered. "I just want to meet my father."

"You are not here because he wants you," Margaret said. "Do not flatter yourself for a single second. Do not think your dirty blood gives you any rights here."

Margaret stood up and brushed invisible dust off her pristine skirt.

"Northgate Industries is acquiring Dominion Infrastructure next month," Margaret explained. "The board of directors is looking for any excuse to vote my husband out of his position."

"The media caught wind of an illegitimate heir living in the slums," Victoria interjected. "A scandal of that magnitude would tank the company stock prices right before the merger."

"So you brought me here to hide me?" Rosaline asked.

"We brought you here to control the narrative," Victoria said. "You are a PR problem we are fixing."

"You will smile for the cameras when we tell you to," Margaret said. "You will pretend we took you in out of the goodness of our hearts. You will speak well of us to the press."

Rosaline lowered her head again and stared at her scuffed shoes.

"I understand," Rosaline said.

"You understand nothing," a deep voice boomed from the open doorway.

Rosaline looked past Margaret and Victoria. Graham Whitaker stepped out of the shadows and into the sunlight of the grand foyer.

Her biological father wore a dark tailored suit and an expression of cold disdain.

Rosaline let a flicker of desperate hope cross her face. She was like a lonely daughter yearning for paternal affection.

"Father?" she asked.

Graham's eyes were dead and indifferent. 

He did not welcome her to his home. He did not ask if she was hungry or tired from the trip. He did not even offer her a glass of water.

"I reviewed the background check my security team compiled on you," Graham said. "You have no formal education. You hold a minimum wage job at a diner. You possess zero assets."

"I am a hard worker," Rosaline said.

"Hard work is for peasants," Graham countered. "Value is created through leverage and capital. You have neither."

"My study," Graham ordered. "Now."

He turned his back and walked down the long hallway without waiting to see if she followed.

Rosaline stood up and left her belongings scattered on the pavement. She walked past the glaring women and followed the patriarch into the house.

The inside of the mansion was vast and intimidating. Priceless artwork hung on the walls. Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceilings.

Rosaline kept her eyes downcast as she followed her father into his study.

Bookshelves lined the walls from the floor to the ceiling. A mahogany desk dominated the center of the room.

Graham sat behind the desk and steepled his fingers. He did not offer her a seat.

Rosaline stood in the center of the Persian rug and waited in silence.

"There is no room for leeches in my house," Graham stated. His voice was flat and devoid of any warmth.

"Then why did you bring me here?" Rosaline asked. "Why not just pay the media to go away?"

"The media is greedy," Graham said. "Paying them only invites more extortion. Bringing you here solves the scandal. But your presence here creates a new burden."

"I consume very little," Rosaline said.

"Everyone under this roof must bring value to the family name," Graham said. "You are going to pay for your keep starting today."

He picked up a thick leather folder from his desk. He tossed it forward and let it slide across the polished wood.

The folder stopped just inches from falling off the edge.

"To secure a new business alliance and stabilize our shares I have arranged your marriage," Graham announced.

Rosaline let her jaw drop. This was a genuine surprise. It was a variable she had not accounted for in her calculations.

"Marriage?" she repeated. "I just got here."

"You are going to marry Victor Hargrove," Graham said.

Rosaline recognized that name. Everyone in the global financial sector knew that name.

Victor Hargrove was the notoriously ruthless CEO of Ironcrest Holdings. He destroyed legacy companies for sport and fired senior executives on whims..

"He gutted Crestmark Corporation last month," Rosaline said. She let a hint of her true intelligence slip. "He left thousands of workers without pensions."

Graham narrowed his eyes at her. "You read the financial papers?"

"I find them in the trash," Rosaline lied. "People talk."

"Then you know he has the capital I need," Graham said. "The Ironcrest board of directors is conservative. They view Victor as a volatile liability. They demanded he establish a stable domestic image before they approve his next expansion phase."

"And you are selling me to him to provide that image," Rosaline said. The fake tremble in her voice vanished for a brief second.

"A marriage to a Whitaker legitimizes him," Graham said. "Victor gets a respectable bride to improve his public image. I get a massive injection of capital into my shipping division."

Rosaline stared into her father's dead eyes. She saw the stark lack of humanity in his gaze.

She realized he would sell her to a monster for a slight bump in the stock market.

"What if I refuse?" Rosaline asked.

"You will find yourself back on the streets with nothing," Graham threatened. "The media will be told you stole from us and ran away. Your life will be over."