6
626words
Thirty minutes later, Lydia Sterling stood in the recovery suite, staring at me incredulously. "Mother, I adore this baby too, but this joke isn't funny!"
"'Petrushka' is fiendishly difficult! I've taught countless students; only a handful could play it competently! You expect me to believe an infant—"
I didn't let her finish. My chubby fingers pressed the toy keys. Accuracy mattered less than recognizable melody at this age. Sure enough, after a few bars, Lydia's expression shifted. By the end of the snippet, she gazed at me like I was the Holy Grail of music.
"This isn't just genius..."
"If that's not genius, what—"
"This is Stravinsky reincarnated!"
I smoothly became Lydia Sterling's youngest student. My mother finally understood: banking on Sylvia Sterling for an introduction to high society paled compared to riding mycoattails into the Sterling inner circle. She became incredibly attentive, anticipating my needs before I voiced them. A raised hand meant piano practice. A stretched leg signaled exercise time. A glance at the wall clock meant the BBC News hour.
After the recovery period, my mother took me home and gradually resumed her influencer work.
"Thank you Chad for the virtual castle! You're the bomb, bro!"
"Thanks Vicky Baby for the rocket! Mwah!"
I sat in my playpen, silently facepalming. Being an influencer wasn't shameful, but my mother's lack of talent, relying solely on "Bro, you rock!" and "Mwah, baby!" wasn't exactly Sterling family material. I realized I couldn't carry this burden alone; my mother needed upgrading. Using her spare phone, I signed her up for several courses. Soon, her phone buzzed with calls and texts.
"'Socialite Finishing School'? 'Guaranteed Marriage into High Society'? Seriously? Well... maybe worth a shot?"
I wasn't sold on these finishing schools. They taught genuine skills, but my mother was... unpolished. Still, basic etiquette beat yelling "Mwah, baby!" all day. So, my mother reluctantly joined the grind. Mornings: exercising with me. Afternoons: shuttling me to Aunt Lydia's academy before rushing to her own classes. Evenings: streaming for cash while I studied chess, read, or solved puzzles.
This routine continued until my first birthday. Unexpectedly, Sylvia Sterling, silent for nearly a year, contacted my mother days before the milestone.
"Chloe, darling! Have you planned Jasmine's first birthday bash?"
"I've booked the entire top floor of the Seabreeze Grand for Luna. Paid in full. But some of my family can't make it now, leaving several tables free. If you haven't booked yet, why not combine our parties?"
After the poison incident, Sylvia remained on my mother's social media. She'd blamed a "clumsy maid" who supposedly broke a thermometer near the formula, even wiring $15k as "compensation." My mother, furious for once, returned the money and blocked her. Sylvia's sudden reappearance and joint party offer screamed "trap." I worried my mother, ever the bargain hunter, would bite. Sadly, my fears were justified. Despite my protests, my mother secretly accepted.
On the morning of the party, riding in the taxi to the Seabreeze Grand, I radiated displeasure.
"Chloe Summers. Did you forget the poisoned formulaincident?"
My mother avoided my gaze. "Sylvia explained it was an accident. A maid broke a thermometer..."
"Did your year of finishing school teach you nothing? Her excuse is like saying someone 'accidentally' dropped a roofie into a billionaire's drink!"
My mother suddenly froze, patting her pockets. "Oh no! I forgot my... thing!"
Me: "?"
I stared, a horrifying suspicion forming, then dismissed it. No, surely not. A year of grinding and finishing school couldn't have made her thatstupid... could I? Reality proved me wrong.
