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me shows me standing in front of luxury shoe stores or high-end clothing brands. Those are the pictures that sell. The ones the public likes to see. Regular people enjoy feeling like the upper class is far beyond their reach. As though weā€™re another species entirely. Alien. Remote. Untouchable. No one wants to see a senatorā€™s daughter walking past Clip ā€™N Trim Haircutters on her way to a comic book store.

But thatā€™s what Iā€™m doing, and thereā€™s no one around to document it. And surprisingly, no security, either. They often give me a wide berth when Iā€™m in less occupied areas of town, but not being able to see them lurking behind me like muscular shadows is unusual, although Iā€™m not complaining. I like feeling like a normal person. A person who hasnā€™t been on the cover of magazines and newspapers since she was a small girl, standing next to her smiling, suited father, an American flag pinned to his lapel. Without the hulks with headsets lingering around me, I could be anyone. Just a normal twenty-five-year-old girl.

Too bad thatā€™s never going to happen.

But no matter how bad I wish I was normal, old habits die hard. I look over my shoulder for security and see a man walking behind me. Heā€™s still a long way off, but even from a distance, I can tell heā€™s handsome. Devastatingly so. Toned body visible even under a hoodie, wide shoulders, well-groomed stubble covering a strong jaw. Iā€™m considering slowing my pace to let him catch up, seeing how long I can keep up this ā€œregular girlā€ routine before my security steps in to intervene, when my phone goes off.

My eyes bulge as intense rap music with lyrics about pounding women and licking private parts blares out of my purse. I scramble to grab my phone.

ā€œIvy.ā€ I sound like a frustrated mother scolding her child.

She only laughs. ā€œYou like my new ringer? I set it last night. Family-friendly, donā€™t you think?ā€

ā€œYou are so lucky Iā€™m alone,ā€ I say, managing to hold in my laugh. I donā€™t want to encourage this behavior. The last time she called I was with my grandma, and she didnā€™t find my heavy metal ringtone to be ā€œsuitable for a woman of my ilk.ā€

ā€œOh good, youā€™re alone. Come over.ā€

ā€œOver where?ā€

ā€œThe club,ā€ she says, as though itā€™s obvious. Ivy is always at the club. She spent her early and late teen years despising every second she had to spend there with the wealthy and privileged, but as a young single woman, I wouldnā€™t be surprised to hear she sleeps on the golf course. ā€œLots of eligible men here today. Thereā€™s a charity golf tournament going on. Do you realize how short golf shorts are? Muscular man thighs, everywhere you look. Yum.ā€

ā€œā€˜Man thighs,ā€™ā€ I grimace, shaking my head. ā€œNo, thank you. I prefer my men covered. Preferably in jeans and leather.ā€

She sighs. ā€œWhen are you going to let go of that particular preference, Bella? Nice boys donā€™t wear leather.ā€

ā€œWho says I want a nice boy?ā€ I ask. ā€œAlso, you sound like my grandma.ā€

ā€œThen be a good girl and listen to your granny. Come to the club. The men are all out on the course, and I need someone to drink with me until they get back. Day drinking alone makes me look sad.ā€

ā€œAs much as I wish I could help you get day drunk, Iā€™m busy right now,ā€ I say, stepping to the edge of the sidewalk and leaning against a concrete planter box. As a well-groomed female in a dress and heels, Iā€™ll get enough weird looks inside the comic book store without also being on my phone and disrupting everyone inside.

ā€œYou said you were alone,ā€ she argues.

ā€œAnd busy,ā€ I add. ā€œI have plans, but Iā€™ll let you know if my schedule clears up.ā€

I look back down the sidewalk and donā€™t see the handsome man from before. Surely he didnā€™t go into the Clip ā€™N Trim. From what little I saw of him, there was no way he was only paying ten dollars for his haircuts. Either way, heā€™s gone, and Iā€™m more than a little disappointed.

Being a senatorā€™s daughter means I have a very full social calendar and very few dating prospects. Every man who comes into my life has to be thoroughly vetted by my father, my grandmother, and our security. Their pasts are combed over to ensure they have no seedy connections, nothing lurking in their closets that could become a problem for my fatherā€™s reelection. In high school, I couldnā€™t go to prom with Isaac Daines because he helped use grass killer to burn a giant penis in the schoolā€™s front lawn. It was visible from every single classroom in the science wing, and even though I laughed until I cried, the school officials didnā€™t like it much. Neither did my father.

I have a bit more freedom as an adult, especially if I keep the relationships privateā€”ordering dinner to eat at my apartment, late night hookups, drinks in shadowy corners, and leaving in separate cars. But as soon as things are out in the open, the press picks up the story and the fledgling relationship is subjected to intense speculation from both the public and my family, which is usually enough to kill whatever spark may have been there.

My father has always done his best to protect me and love me, so I try not to blame him. But itā€™s hard when Ivy can serial-date every member of the club beneath the age of forty with no repercussions, while I canā€™t even get coffee with a cute guy from my coding class without a tabloid running a background check on him and speculating that my food baby from the burrito I had for lunch might in fact be a baby bump.

ā€œYou know, I would drop everything to join you at the club,ā€ she says.

ā€œI know you would, but thatā€™s because youā€™d probably already be at the club anyway,ā€ I retort.

She grumbles but doesnā€™t respond, which means

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