1927. Young women are thriving with their newfound independence and having fun.
Except that isn't the case for free spirited Brooke Dashwood. Being an heiress to a wealthy company run by her overbearing and temperamental father, she must live by th...
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1918
I was going to start a new saying that good girls can go bad at times.
Although according to my family—especially my hard to please old man, there was simply no exception for that.
Standing onstage in the finest white tooled ball gown that itched like the devil and my long locks pinned back tight into a bun, I wanted to take it all off right here and now. It felt like my head was being squished by a bulldozer. I wanted even my gloves to come off this very second after keeping them on for what felt like ten hours.
At a glance, my life seemed rather swell for me as he loved to say a lot. Blonde hair, blue eyes, very wealthy, and full of opportunity and hope.
But deep within my spirit...that was undoubtedly another story.
"And the bell of the ball of this year's 1918 Southern Bell Cotillion of Jacksonville, Florida goes to ten year old Brooke-" The director of the event, Miss Carlene spoke out into the mic.
But standing by a dozen of other girls who looked happy and well put together to be here unlike me, I suddenly felt something stir up inside that I just couldn't shake away.
Though as the middle aged woman with a sash and tiara came my way, there was nothing else I could do to try to hold it in. So I loudly belched.
Covering my hands over my mouth, my eyes widened. Peering toward the stage, all the girls suddenly laughed at me teasingly and amused. Miss Carlene sternly stared me down.
Now normally, I wouldn't mind adding a little light to this absolute borefest—much like my best friend in the world would be the first to do. Yet as I looked out into the audience and saw the shocked expression from all of them, I concentrated my vision on the one man that really mattered.
The CEO of one of the biggest car companies today—otherwise known as my father. He was coldly glaring. Crossing his arms like it was a tragedy to be related to me.
"...Dashwood." Miss Carlene finished, bestowing the awards on my head and shoulders.
She probably wanted to snatch it right back if she didn't say my name already. But even though I was now a winner, I knew I would be a bigger loser when we left out of here.
🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀
Pow!
A bold strike across my face came in quick contact from my father's hand. We had barely entered into our black Hollier car he had created a couple of months ago, before he took immediate action of punishment. Our driver was acting like he didn't see or hear a thing though, like he did best.
I wasn't going to be in such a flap about it. I had a much worse bruise on my back from a teapot this morning.
My best friend was making me laugh secretly as I outwardly—and unintentionally spit out my porridge starter toward him at the breakfast table.
