Page 4 of Dating the Dealing Demon

I aced chemistry in college with the help of tutors and medication for my ADHD, but whenever I try to help in the labs of Bonetti Beauty, stuff goes sideways. We’re talking hives and boils levels of messed up.

My grandmother joins my mother in corralling me to the back of the room, far away from the action. “How many times do we have to tell you?” Nonna mutters. “You’re our cursed child.”

Glancing around to make sure no cameras and, more importantly, no mics hover nearby, I whisper, “Nonna, this isn’t a Halloween spooky special for the show. Magic doesn’t exist. You don’t have to sell thefamily of witches who bargained with a demonfairy tale here.”

“It’s no fairy tale,” she insists, poking me in the ribs with her sharp pointer finger until I flinch. “It’s the origin story of the charmed Bonetti family. Our ancestors knew every seventh daughter would be cursed with bad magic.”

“I’m a second daughter, not the seventh,” I argue, hoping this hasn’t suddenly become a surprise “unknown siblingreveal” kind of show instead of simply being an overhyped beauty launch.

“Seventh over generations of daughters. The curse is why your potions don’t work.” She launches into her bigger-than-life theater voice as if we’re standing in a crowded Broadway show, and she wants the back row to hear. “Everyone knows one cursed child was burned at the stake. Another went down with the Titanic.” She shakes her fist at me, throwing a horned hand as if to ward off evil.

“Nonna!” My voice comes out too shrill, tooswing those mics this wayattention grabbing. I snap my mouth shut and lower my voice. This kind of drama would be clickbait for our reality show. But seriously? I don’t deserve my own grandma warding me off like a freakin’ monster from a slasher flick. Not even if it’s for ratings.

“That’s enough.” My mother, ever the peacemaker when the cameras are around, turns on Nonna. “Did someone forget her Metamucil cocktail this morning?” she asks in the sweetest teasing tone—a manipulation she wields expertly. “I mean, your energy’s so blocked.”

Nonna curls her lip in disgust. “The truth will come out.” She takes her evil eye glare and vintage Chanel toward the tables of catered appetizers.

Mom rounds on me. “Sweetheart, come on. Be a beautiful wallflower for a few short hours. You do it so well. We all have our parts to play today. Bree’s handling the products and formal promotion.”

“Of course she is.” Bree’s my perfect older sister, the heir apparent to take over Bonetti Beauty if Mom ever steps down. With her tailored designer suit, spiked heels, and smooth blowout, she’s Corporate Executive Barbie ready to work billion-dollar deals and take over small countries before breakfast. According to Bree’s press person, the show lies whendepicting my big sister as insensitive and career obsessed. Nope. No scripts or sly edits needed. She has bossed me around my entire life, and she elevates sibling rivalry to a stratospheric level.

Mom gestures toward the camera crew stationed at a backdrop plastered with our company logo. “The twins are willing to pose for a million photos before the day’s done.”

“Not much of a hardship for the world’s most famous beauty influencers,” I counter. My younger siblings rule every social media platform with a bajillion followers. The twins live for the camera. Unless they’re preening for the show or selfies, I don’t see more than the tops of their heads since they’re always scrolling their phones.

Our entire hair and makeup team hovers around them, dabbing and spritzing. The overpowering smells of hairspray, perfume, and air freshener stagnates in the unventilated space. Wiping product off my fingers, I wish my hand sanitizer would work against the dizzying dose of pretentiousness that follows my family like a disease.

“Please try to act like you’re enjoying yourself,” Mom says. “Our brand includes the whole family. I’m sure there are fans out there who came to see you instead of the rest of us.” She doesn’t sound sure. “Besides, you have your little trip with your friends tomorrow. Why don’t I send a camera crew with you to capture your adventures?”

“No, Mom. You already had them film my entire graduation ceremony.”

“That was forever ago.”

“Uh, it was two weeks ago, and you stopped the dean from speaking and blocked three whole rows from seeing the stage to make sure the cameras could get the best angles of me accepting my degree.”

“But this trip’s different. It won’t be nearly as stuffy as that silly ceremony.”

Stuffy. Silly. That’s how she views the culmination of me working my ass off for four years to earn a degree. “We’ve taped sixteen hours every day since graduation.”

“Which would be easier if you would just move home with the rest of us.”

Return to the house that could be the star of a hoarders show? Nope.

Give up what little privacy I have when I retreat to my apartment that she deems too shabby for the style our show’s serving up? Absolutely not.

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” I say. “We could dial back the production schedule, maybe cut this season to the normal thirteen episodes instead of twenty-one.”

“The extra exposure is essential,” she whispers. “The corporation’s sales are down, and the board will flip out at the profit loss from the last quarter. We need the publicity.”

“Ineeda break.”

She stares at me as if she can change my mind. She won’t. For weeks, I’ve looked forward to this trip up the coast to a haunted house with just me, my roommate Ava, and our two best friends from college.

Ava managed to score a private tour months before the official launch of this crazy expensive horror attraction that’ll be marketed as an over-the-top, one-of-a-kind experience for rich thrill seekers. I can’t wait to see what spine-tingling trouble we can get into.

“Are you ready?” the announcer outside booms. “Start the countdown. Ten, nine?—”

The crowd joins in, their shouts rattling the locked glass doors.

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