Wild Hearts
by Julie Capulet
Chapter One
~ Vivi ~
“Give her more of that kohl eyeliner. Really lay it on. She needs a smokier eye. And for god’s sake, get rid of that insipid pink lip gloss. Are you serious with that bullshit? We want a siren, fuck-me red. For lips this naturally perfect, it would be a crime not to pimp them out to every hot bachelor with a heartbeat. Think sultry, people. Sexy. It’s time to get this girl some goddamn action.”
Okay, wow.
My head stylist, whose name is Lana Lee, is at it again. Micromanaging me to within an inch of my life, meanwhile endlessly pointing out how nonexistent my love life is. Which isn’t entirely my fault, but it’s true enough. She’s obsessed with shining a high-beam spotlight onto the obvious at every available opportunity.
I have limits. Sure, I’ve never acted on my limits but they’re there. I’m not sure exactly where my line is but I know I’m getting dangerously close to it.
They call me sweet. Shy. Quiet. I’m the good girl, the one who always does what she’s told. But simmering just under the surface of my obedience is a wild heart. Some little spark in me is biding its time, craving … something. Freedom. Rebellion. Danger. I can feel it coming. Which is both daunting and sort of thrilling, to be honest.
I know I’m going to do something reckless that no one sees coming. I just don’t know when.
I guess Lana has reason to be full of herself. Every A-list actor, model and influencer wants to work with her, from here to L.A., Aspen, the Hamptons, Manhattan, London, Paris, Milan, you name it. Even so, she spends most of her time here at Seven Mile Beach, my family’s compound in Waikiki.
This is because my sisters pay her astronomical amounts of money to dress us and basically manage our lives—or at least the part of our lives that involves fashion, which is most of it. She also lives in one of our guesthouses as part of her employment package. Which has a cute, Juliet-style balcony that overlooks its own secluded sugar-sand beach.
Lana is in such white-hot demand, she sometimes gets caught up in her own hype. Like now, for example. And I’m tired of her non-stop commentary about my so-called “innocence.” It’s her favorite topic.
For a brief moment I think about getting up and walking out. Just standing up without saying a word to anyone and walking through our huge, busy fashion studio—with its racks of garments, walls of mirrors, expansive windows that overlook the ocean, teams of stylists and tables strewn with designs and patterns and sewing machines, where ten or more dressmakers are finalizing tonight’s looks for us, along with all the outfits we’ll need for the rest of our weekend. Not to mention all the other upcoming photoshoots and events on our jam-packed schedules.
I picture myself silently making my way down the grand staircase of my family’s estate, under the giant crystal chandelier, right out the front door, down the driveway and out the gate. Just walking away into the big, wide-open world where no one knows me and I can do whatever I want.
I won’t, of course.
I’d probably be kidnapped within minutes. For … reasons.
We’re famous. We own the most expensive piece of real estate in Waikiki, along with many others.
I understand why I’m guarded. I know why it’s necessary and I’m used to it.
Mostly.
I’m watched like a hawk. My team of bodyguards protects my every move. My phone calls, posts and texts are monitored and filtered. My schedule is lorded over and controlled. Some days I don’t even feel like a real person. Like I’m more of a carefully-curated brand who lives in a gilded cage than an actual human being.
They mean well, of course they do.
But my cage’s bars feel extra thick today. More and more, it occurs to me that there’s a reason they keep me on such a tight rein.
I wonder what Ash is doing. It’s his day off. I told him I’d go see him before we leave for our weekend away.
My brothers and my cousins would kill me if they found out I’ve been sneaking down to the pool house to see him. Even more, they’d kill Ash.
They get to choose who I hang out with, in their own minds at least.
Usually I just go with the flow. Because that’s what’s expected of me and also because they enforce it.
But right now, I feel restless in a way that’s new. Some hidden corner of my psyche wants to break free of them all.
“Weave a few more of those jade beads into her hair,” Lana orders her underlings. “And make sure the emerald gemstones are at the front.” My hair is braided into an elaborate up-do with jewels woven into it that makes me look like an Egyptian princess, maybe. Or a beach bum who won the lottery. I like the effect, but I had no idea it would take so long to create. If I’d known, I could have worn my hair loose, and spent the last two hours with Ash.
Then why didn’t you?
Because I don’t have the freedom to make choices like that.
Which suddenly feels very wrong. Thinking about it now, I’m not sure I’ve ever made a single decision about my own life. It’s crazy. I’m so used to being told what to do, I hardly even notice. But something about the whole scenario is hitting differently today.
Stand up to them. You’re giving them too much.
