Deviant Prince [Romano Brotherhood, #2]

12 | Vivienne

Valentine's Day dinner at the Lee household is everything I knew it would be. A reminder I didn't need about why I don't come home for every minor fucking holiday.

Utensils clink against porcelain plates. Silence reigns—mostly. We've already covered all the hot topics—Chloe's huge new brand deal, the multi-million-dollar home Joseph is thinking of buying, my vapid career, how unfulfilling life must be in Rhinebeck, and all my other problems.

The only sound now is the news chattering faintly in the background, thanks to my father. Since I can remember, he's always had something playing, as if he can't ever completely let his mind stray from work. 

My brother politely dabs his mouth with a napkin and my sister subtly answers emails under the table. I chew robotically on my Mahshi as my father glances at his watch, clearly calculating when he'll be able to slip away for work without my mother berating him.

My parents have a relatively healthy, working marriage. When two workaholics get married, the best case scenario is them not being around each other enough to argue—and my siblings and I won the lottery in that regard. Growing up, I never saw my parents fight. I never really saw them do anything, though. The affection and love many would expect to see between a couple who've been married for almost three decades is replaced by a somewhat cold, formal business relationship.

It's a working partnership, at least. I've never considered myself unlucky for the family I have. My siblings and I were never caught in the middle of two emotional, argumentative parents. My parents worked hard to provide stability for us—both financial and emotional. If there's one thing they taught me, it's how not to rely on others for my success. My happiness. 

When I look at what I have, I can't complain. Even despite the stilted awkwardness. The fact that we're all here only because my mother has guilted every single one of us into acting like we're one of those families who typically eat dinner together.

The woman of the hour sits at the head of the table, her face set into a forced pleasant expression. My mother is undeniably beautiful. Smooth, youthful skin and thick, dark hair. She exudes perfection. Her posture is ramrod straight; her lipstick still intact thirty minutes into dinner.

I reach for the bread basket. Just like that, her pleasant expression drops.

"When you do your grocery shopping, do you buy too many carbs, Vivi? With the price of everything going up lately, I'm sure it's hard to eat healthy anymore."

I load my plate with more bread and reach for the wine. My brother gives a soft cough as I fill my glass to the brim.

It's the most Zahra Lee comment in the world. A critique masked by innocent observation. Sharp enough to get her point across but subtle enough that if I were to bite back, I'd look like the bad guy.

"Why eat healthy when you can just fix me right up? Family discount," I wink.

Joseph clears his throat uncomfortably. He'd go into cardiac arrest if I were to take this too far. My brother has never been able to handle conflict with my parents.

"That's not how that works, Vivi," my mother sighs, preparing to launch into an explanation. As if I need it. Having a plastic surgeon for a mother has always put mine and my sister's appearances directly under the spotlight since we were very little. Her eye is trained to notice all the little things that can be tucked or tweaked.

For my eighteenth birthday, my father got me a brand-new Jeep Wrangler and my mother got me two syringes of lip injections.

"May I be excused?" Chloe asks distractedly, not even trying to hide her phone under the table anymore.