Baggage

{Chapter One}

Chapter One

Shannon Weaver’s favorite childhood toy was Barbie.

She absolutely loved Barbie growing up. Barbie was perfect. Her skin was flawless, her face was symmetrical, and her blonde hair was pin straight; she had the muscular boyfriend, Ken, she had the prettiest friends, and she had successes in anything she did.

As she grew up, Shannon not only idolized Barbie—she wanted to become Barbie. So, during high school, Shannon attempted to become perfect. She took as many AP classes as possible, participated in a myriad of sports, associated with multiple friend groups, and spent her free time either in the salon or at the mall. 

And her hard work paid off.

Shannon graduated from Yale University with the highest honors, and afterwards, she nabbed a job as a fashion editor at Nylon Magazine. As the years went on, her success not only shot up but so did her paycheck. 

Currently, Shannon stood in front of the mirror, inspecting her makeup for any noticeable mistakes. After applying a few more coats of Maybelline mascara to her lashes, she nodded in approval before checking her gold Rolex watch for the time.

Fantastic, she thought, I have another hour until the engagement dinner. Another hour to worry. 

As those thoughts flashed into her mind, she placed her quivering hand up to her heart. Shannon was never one to be nervous—why would she be nervous if everything was perfect—but today was a special occasion. She was introducing her fiancée to the rest of her family, and she wasn’t sure whether they would approve of her partner or not. 

“They’ll love him,” she reassured herself while bending over to slip her nude Louboutins onto her feet. “Why wouldn’t they?”

She exhaled deeply, her eyes closing as she attempted to regain her composure. Constant worrying meant worry lines on her face, and that was something Shannon couldn’t have. After all, her parents nearly kissed the ground that her beloved fiancée walked on, and they had been harsh critics of her past boyfriends. Her parents’ approval meant that her fiancée was someone special.

Someone perfect. 

Placing a loose strand of her blonde locks behind her left ear, she shot the mirror one last dazzling smile before grabbing her clutch off of the wardrobe tabletop.

This night would go perfect, and she knew it.

Hell.

Violet Weaver was visiting her own personal hell, and she would have rather stuck a thousand, scorching hot pins into her eyes. 

As glasses of unnamed liquids were being passed around the room, Violet could feel the scrutinizing glares from the help on her. When she had lived at her parents’ mansion, the maids never were fond of her; they purposely forgot to pack her lunches and to launder her clothes almost every single day. Of course, her parents never fired them; they figured that the help were just forgetful and that Violet was old enough at the age of five to make her own lunches. Lowering her eyes from the stares, she grabbed the nearest glass of wine and took a large chug. 

“Violet, darling, I didn’t see you arrive!” 

Violet’s eyes widened as she heard her mother’s high-pitched, memorable voice behind her. Cringing, she closed her eyes and took another huge sip from her glass. Crossing her arms below her chest, she pivoted around and mumbled, “Hi, Mother.”

Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Weaver was approximately five-foot-nine with silky blonde hair and blue eyes. Her nose was on the large size, but it fit her face quite well. Her lips, filled with collagen, were a dark red today, and a pair of diamond hoops hung off of her ears.