My Best Friend's Brother: Moth To A Flame

Dahlia Vance POV "And the winner of the National Youth Laureate goes to Andrea—” I failed. My heart is hammering hard against my ribs, forcing me to draw uneven and shallow breaths. Mum sighs beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder, while Dad curses under his breath. The TV's announcers voice echo in my ear endlessly, and as she celebrates the winner, Dad stomps out with a final curse directed at me. “Turn the TV off, darling,” Mum murmurs, squeezing my shoulder before following him out to the patio. Tears sting my eyes as I stare at the headline flashing across the screen. I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but it should be Dahlia Vance up there, not anyone else. When will it be me? Will it ever be me? Dad and Mum re-enter the living room, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. Dad grabs the remote and turns the TV off. I turn slowly to meet his gaze, sweat dripping from my head despite the cold of the air conditioning system. My father always looks stern, but tonight is different. The last time he wore this expression was when I got a B on a test, and it was the first and last time I dared mess up a test. I lower my eyes to the black and white mosaic floor, watching the patterns blur under my teary gaze. “I’m sorry.” “Apologies won’t get you a Laureate award,” he replies coldly. Mum hovers beside me, perching on the arm of the chesterfield couch. Her fingers twist in her lap as her eyes dart between us, yet she says nothing as usual. “I’ll do better next year,” I whisper. “Next year?” Dad huffs and then gestures toward the floating shelves around us holding his bazillion trophies. “Do you know how old I was when I won my first Laureate?” I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to look at him. “Thirteen,” I mutter. “And how old are you?” he snaps. I’m eighteen. Nineteen in three months, and this is my seventh attempt at the National award. I open my lips but no words come out. “I’m increasing your daily lessons from four hours to eight. And you’ll spend weekends at my gallery. There, you'll watch and learn how this family does things.” I nod, even though a thousand protests are on my tongue. He'll never admit it but i know he wishes he had a son, someone just like him to take over the Vance family legacy. My phone buzzes in my lap as a message pops in. It's Mia Luther, my bestfriend. A fresh wave of guilt hits me as I remember tonight's Mia's birthday party. I've been so consumed by the Laureate announcement that I forgot. MIA: The party’s on fire. Everyone’s here. Where are you???? I begin typing. ME: I’m sorry. I didn’t win. Dad’s mad and he won’t let me— Dad clears his throat. “It’s that goddamn phone,” he mutters to Mum. “She’s always on that thing.” Mum touches my hand, and i look up to see her pleading eyes. Silence settles over the room and the only sound is the steady tick of the antique clock engraved with the Vance family crest. With a quiet groan, I delete the message and drop my phone back on my lap. Mum exhales, and pats my shoulder. “No phones during practice,” Dad says firmly. I clench my jaw and purse my lips, fighting back the urge to flare up. “Also, no parties.” “But Mia’s birthday is tonight!” I spring to my feet. “I don’t care.” He says as he sinks into the leather couch, pulling out my audition canvas from the side. My breath hitches and a familiar dread washes over me. I know what’s coming, he does this every year. "Please don't." I whisper audibly as i watch him study my painting with cold brown eyes which, sadly, look just like mine. “Another waste of paint.” He shakes his head and then he tears it. I shut my eyes as the canvas shreds in his hands. Three hundred and sixty-five days of work, missed parties, missed laughter, missed life. Everything gone with one motion of Dad's hands. “Honey.” Mum says softly, stepping towards me. I step away before she touches me. “I hate you both,” I cry out, my voice breaking as I rush toward the staircase. The maids lingering near the curve of the stairs straighten instantly, pretending they hadn’t been listening. As I slam my bedroom door shut, my knees give out and I crash onto the vinyl floor. Warm tears trickle down my face and i bit down on my bottom lip so no one outside would hear. I should be used to this by now, but it never gets easier. If anything, it gets worse with age. The older I get, the heavier the pressure of filling my father’s shoes becomes. Some days I wish I could go back to being a littlegirl playing on Mia’s lawn, sharing popsicles, dancing under the sun without a care in the world. Or better yet, back to the summer of sixth when Mia’s half-brother came home from boarding school. A smile tugs at my lips as the embarrassing memories rush back. He was my first crush, and i used to dream about running away with him to a place where I wasn't Dahlia Vance, but a normal free girl. I can’t even remember his name but I remember his eyes. They were bright blue like beach water under sunlight. Sadly enough, my dream boat out of Brookwood only stayed in town for a week before disappearing and never returning. My phone buzzes again. This time it’s from the party group chat's live video. Mia is already drunk, tossing back shots while everyone cheers around her. “I wish Dahlia was here!” she slurs, pouring out more shots. The room erupts in laughter and then someone says, “Well, at least we have our Laureate winner here.” My heart flips as the camera rotates, revealing Andrea Santos sitting in a corner. She's sitting at my favorite spot, wearing my infamous cherry lipgloss and packing her hair in ponytail like I do. I bet she's wearing my favorite scent as well. “She deserves it,” I whisper to myself, tracing the purple bruises around my fingers, which are ugly evidence from endless hours of painting. I keep scrolling through the comments until one catches my eye. UNKNOWN: Queen Dahlia is crying in her daddy’s castle rn (laughing emoji) ANOTHER UNKNOWN: ICE QUEEN is missing haha ANOTHER: The rich also cry. Poor Dahlia. More comments follow and they're all bad. As if to add gasoline to the fire brewing inside me, the camera swings back to Mia. She’s singing karaoke loudly with her arm slung around Andrea. Something inside me snaps. I jump to my feet and rush into my walk-in closet. Thirty minutes later, I’m done. My hair falls loose down my back in dark waves. I look at my tired eyes in the mirror and tears well up again. "No, not again." I say wiping it away and then covering this sad face with concealers, pepper red lipstick and sparkles over my body, giving me that party girl glow. I slide into a mini gown and force my feet into a six inch red bottom stiletto. My eyes return to the mirror and i look like ICE QUEEN Dahlia not Dahlia Vance, the crybaby with Daddy issues. It's all a facade but I'd rather live this lie than let anyone see me as a sorry, pitiful rich kid. I slide open my window and climb out carefully, lowering myself onto the one-storey balcony below before jumping to the ground. My phone buzzes. HOME SECURITY SYSTEM: Unauthorized movement detected. Alerting primary user. "Hell no," I scramble to my feet, grab my purse, and start running as the alarm begins to blare through the house.