Even the happiest ending fairy tales are rooted in nightmares, twisted into more pleasant versions that entertained children and lured them into false pretenses. Fairy tales were stories designed only to plant invasive seeds of unrealistic expectations in little girls' imaginations. Notions that handsome princes existed and fought away the monsters, swept princesses off their feet, and lived happily ever after in reality were simply... lies.

I should know, I lived the life of one daily. On the surface my life looked like a fairy tale, but every day was a nightmare. And every day got worse, like a time bomb ticking down to explode.

"Mirror, mirror, on my... dresser." I sat down with a sigh and looked at the reflection I altered today. "Who the fuck am I?"

The face of a stereotypical princess, a beautiful, delicate shell masking an empty interior, stared back at me underneath layers of today's experimental makeup. My clear, light blue eyes were tinted with green striations. They clashed with the dark purple cateye makeup I attempted, poorly by the uneven smudges at the corners of my eyes. Based on my nose crinkling, this attempt belonged in the 'fail' category.

My eyes shifted in color. Most often they were a clear aquamarine color, but their reflection offered no insight into answering my question. If I looked close enough, the only blemishes on my face were a smattering of a few light freckles on my pale, nearly porcelain-like, cheeks.

Plum-colored lips puckered and pursed as I looked over the rest of my body. My skin was pale, waist small, hips and breasts meh, arms and legs stick-like, and my light blonde hair was long and straight. Had I been tall enough and my father permitted me to work, then I would've pursued modeling. But, like everything else in my life, he hadn't permitted such an indulgence.

Every day that I saw this princess' reflection, every day I pretended I altered my appearance to be anyone else, I cursed the day I was born. Every day I saw myself was a reminder that I lived and they died.

My mother. My brother.

I was told that my mother's story was in our family history books as an exceptional, enchanting, strong, and powerful warrior of a woman.

So I've heard.

I'd never known for myself. She died after I was born and lost my brother after.

She had one moment of weakness and lost too much blood during labor with us. Yes, twins. Both of us had our birth cords wrapped around our necks. I was born first but, due to complications, my brother's birth was delayed.

By the end of the day, I survived and he didn't. Not a day in my life passed that I didn't wish our circumstances had been reversed. My father shared the same sentiments based on his cold demeanor to me.

Perhaps my face is a daily reminder to him of what our family's lost.

The single piece of knowledge I had of my brother was his name, Soloman. It translated to King. My father always knew what he was doing, his sharp mind always planning ten steps ahead. On the surface, he was the CEO of the most prominent global pharmaceutical company. He technically retired from that business, stepped aside eight months ago after he ran the entire company's operations for thirty years and focused more on 'the family business.'

He never told me, no one had, but I suspected his secret.

We lived in two worlds. One pretend world was artificial, surface-level projections for the sake of appearances. The other, underlying world revealed the real, truthful world. It was the world my father controlled and thought he had hidden from me.

His world, not mine, was the world I wanted nothing to do with.

My father never shared any details with me, but any idiot could have spotted the signs. He moonlighted as a mafia king. His pharmaceutical company fronted for illegal drug production. And not street-level drugs like cocaine or heroin, his pharmaceutical company manufactured drugs on another level.

Based on our lifestyle and size of his security team, business was good. My father owned eighteen Ashton Martins, multiple homes, and we lived in a compounded mansion with heavily guarded security.

I earned my education through private tutors favoring science classes like chemistry, and my father insisted on daily self-defense training. I wasn't sure what my education level was, past high school but not yet through college.

All personnel here were held to a strict schedule, out of fear of my father. They weren't permitted to hold eye contact with either of us and all 'conversations' with him were 'yes, Sir' mumbled or muttered in submission.

Including mine.

Under normal circumstances, I appeared to live the perfect life of a princess. Our expansive mansion sat on perfectly manicured lawns and my closet was the size of a normal teenagers' bedroom filled with designer clothing. My canopy bed was lined with the finest linens, private artwork hung on my bedroom walls, and my assigned 'team' included a housekeeper, stylist, private tutors, chef, personal trainer, and twenty-four seven security guards.

Yet, for all of the people that revolved in and out of my day, I was alone. Other than my laptop, with limited access, I had a vanity mirror that stared back at me.

No glamor existed in this life.

I had no friends, rarely saw my father, and was never permitted to leave the mansion alone. I spent all my personal time alone, trapped within my own imagination. Left to my own devices and filled in the gaping holes my father poked into my life.

Every day of my life was scheduled and regimented. I woke at six am, met with my personal trainer, ate breakfast, attended morning lessons, ate lunch, afternoon lessons, self defense training, showered, ate dinner, enjoyed an hour of 'free time,' then completed shooting lessons before bedtime.

My time was never free in the sense that I left the mansion on my own accord. Within the twelve-foot high perimeter, I was allowed personal reading time in the library, controlled internet access, swimming in the pool, shooting in the range, and walking around the mansion.

Even my nights were identical. I suffered the same dream about a wolf. A female wolf whose fur was so white, the color was almost iridescent, stepped out of the shadows of my subconscious.

The dream started the same, the most beautiful, long, lithe wolf appeared, slowly at first with ears flattened and eyes flickering around, locked gaze at me, then sprinted at me. She stopped within six inches, the details of ever raised hair up close in definition. She tucked her tail, flattened her ears, and slunk back into the shadows. When I thought she was gone, my name flowed out of the darkness.

'Zara...'

Then I woke up, drenched in sweat, forehead pounding, breathless and panting worse than my hardest exercise regiment.

Every time.

My boring-ass life involved eating, sleeping through a wolf dream, homeschooling, exercising, and shooting lessons... because what seventeen year old girl didn't need to disassemble and reassemble a mag?

The house having a built-in shooting range and active shooter simulator only fed my belief that he was a mafia kingpin. All of this was preparation for me to join this mysterious, discreet, underground life.

Whether I like it or not.

I assumed most looked forward to turning eighteen, becoming 'legal aged,' released from their parents' care and capable of exercising responsibility for their lives.

Not me.

My eighteenth birthday was a death sentence. Although one had to live first in order to die. So mine was a metaphorical death.

'Everything will change,' were the only words my father shared with me. I dreaded how time slipped away and my eighteenth birthday approached and I took my rightful place in my father's mafia. His true family, the drug cartel.

Maybe they'd even give me a street name. Maybe my dream was telling me I should be White Wolf. My skin is pasty enough to pull that off.

"Good morning, Miss Zara." My nurse Anna's mouth pulled to one side at the sight of today's makeup experiment.

In translation, my name was 'princess.' My brother was supposed to be a king, take over the family business, and I serve a support role. In my mind's scenarios, my father arranged a marriage for me once I turned eighteen, pacifying relationships with a competing cartel.

I don't want a thug life. I'm not property to be used in a bartering relationship. I don't want to kill people, torture them, and reap millions while flooding people's bodies with drugs.

I knew what mafia life meant through YouTube videos and Wattpad stories, none of which seemed glamorous.

"Hi Anna." I averted my eyes to her pristine, tapping white shoe. "You don't like it?"

"Your father would never approve." As usual, she spoke in a monotone voice and extended a makeup wipe at my face.

With curled, pale fingers, I took the cloth, gave one last glance to my dark purple experimentation and deep contouring lines, then wiped away their existence.

"How are you feeling today?" In a series of clicks, she prepped a tray of three syringes, my daily blood draw and insulin injections. Extremely thin and forced on a healthy diet, I had type I diabetes.

Perhaps the medicine was necessary from my obsession with chocolate donuts.

I shouldn't eat them, but can't help how I feel. We're involved, as my secret affair.

"Fine," I replied in the same monotone voice expected in every response. My words didn't matter, since her subsequent questions were always the same.

"And your bracelets?" Her eyes shifted lower and inspected the two silver metal bands encircling my wrists. They were half an inch thick, two inches wide, and custom made to fit at the base of my wrists. Per my father's instructions, they were refitted every three months since I was thirteen.

"Fine." Tightness gripped my curt response, evidence that the question was a sore point in our limited conversations. The 'bracelets' were my father putting shackles on me.

As she approached, my eyes diverted to the syringes' Lykaios label. My father's manufacturing company name gleamed in dark blue over clear glass. Our last name. The family name.

What a freaking curse.

"Left or right?"

I extended my left arm, the inner part of my elbow exposed. Tiny bumps and scars dotted the area, wrought with scar tissue.

"Tight fist."

Upon command, my fingers curled into my palm and my nails sank into the soft flesh. She bound above my elbow with a tight rubber cord and knotted the band. The cord bit into my skin as she pulled my wrist closer, rapping the pads of her fingers into my veins. After one popped and throbbed under the scar tissue, she washed the area with an alcohol pad. My nose twitched in response to the smell, so familiar I recognized it in my sleep.

She smiled and gently pressed a syringe into my vein, withdrawing four vials of blood. In fluid movements, she released a few drops onto an insulin test sheet and set the tray aside.

"Let go, Zara." I released my fingers. "Tape or Band Aid?"

"Tape please." The Band Aids never stayed in place during my morning workouts. She folded over a piece of gauze, pressed down firmly, then taped over the puncture spot. We weren't finished though.

She skimmed a glance over the test strip reading and ghosted a smile. "Left or right?"

"Left," I mumbled. 

Daily injections were painful, so I alternated sides. I stood up and rolled down the top of my pants, one embarrassing flash of skin at a time.

So embarrassing.

The skin two inches from my navel cooled with dampness as she ran an alcohol pad over the left side of my belly. I frowned at the light brown and green bruises from previous injections that spotted the sensitive area.

Anna picked up the smaller syringe, pressed gently to remove the air, pinched an inch of my belly, then administered the medication subcutaneously. My nose wrinkled at the bee sting chaser and nails sunk deep into the soft tissue on my right palm.

"Last one. Left or right?"

I'd think she'd know by now.

"Left." I turned around, faced away from her, and slid my pants further down. At this point I stood in my underwear, my cheek exposed to her.

Why can't I be trusted to do this myself? Ugh.

Anna rubbed a third alcohol pad on the upper quadrant of my left buttcheek, gripping my skin tight in her hand. Expensing a few liquid drops from the larger syringe, she administered the shot with a quick plunge of the two-inch needle into my gluteal muscle.

My lips parted and a soft gasp escaped between them as the initial pain darted into my skin. Despite repeating this daily process for the past three years, I never got used to this routine. After Anna withdrew the needle, she massaged the area with her fingers, then gave my outer leg a gentle tap.

Again, so embarrassing.

My cheeks burned as I pulled up my pants, taking care over the throbbing areas.

Sadly, other than developing more rambling princess mafia conspiracy theories, this medical exchange with Anna was all I had during the day. Anna was my sole daily interaction, other than my tutors or personal trainer.

Ordinarily, this was the end of our riveting conversations. However, not today.

"Excellent news, Miss Zara." Her grey eyes twinkled as she tapped a fingernail against the empty syringe. "Today is the last day of these."

"What?" I blinked at her as one palm rubbed the soreness on my left buttcheek

I'm no doctor, but Type I diabetes doesn't... go away... does it?

I made a mental note to fact-check this information on WebMD later, even if searching most likely told me that I had cancer.

"I'm not supposed to say anything, but your father will explain at dinner tonight." She winked. "So keep it our secret."

My wide eyes studied her stoic reaction, as I wondered who she expected I shared this news with.

"Ahem, Miss Zara." A heavy knock at the door preceded one of my father's security escorts. "Your trainer is waiting."

"Five minutes," I called back. My 'conversation,' which yielded no tangible information, with Miss Anna left me behind schedule.

As a few choice curse words escaped my lips at my tardiness, I slipped on my workout clothes. Seven days a week, I rotated through cardio and strength training. Today was strength, which I remembered how much I hated as my feet hurried down to the gym.

"You're late, princess." My trainer Cole frowned at me upon sight, two meaty arms already crossed over his broad chest.

If he wasn't the most attractive guy I'd ever seen, then I would've been indifferent. His chiseled body didn't have an ounce of fat on him. His medium brown hair looked effortlessly tousled and his hazel-brown eyes stayed narrowed at me as I hurried to the weight racks.

My father's personal gym was quite impressive. Spanning the length of multiple rooms, one wall of mirrors reflected the various stations - free weights, a large padded training mat, a punching bag, and several pieces of cardio equipment.

Every surface possible sported a mirror, which reflected multiple angles of my shortcomings and failures.

Cole was a few years older than me and the only person here close to my age. Despite my previous attempts for his attention, he wanted nothing to do with me personally. He walled up against my personal engagement efforts and retaliated with pushups and burpees.

He also had an annoying habit in that he called me princess.

"Sorry." I swept my hair back in a ponytail, slid a headband over, and tucked the band behind my ears. Despite my long hair, a few shorter, annoying wisps always stuck to my forehead during workouts.

Cole's physical appearance, with rippled muscles upon muscles that clenched with his movements, made any teenage girl swoon. Personality-wise, he had two levels, indifference and irritation. As my eyes scanned over him, his legs and spine drew rigid, jaw clenched with a tick, and a storm of some unspoken emotion swirled in his eyes.

Today's definitely irritated Cole.

"Legs first." With a frown and nod of his head, he motioned to a set of weights machines.

"Jeez, Cole," I groaned as my fingers clasped around the cool, textured metal handlebars of a set of weights. "Was the kitchen out of protein bars this morning?"

"Dead lifts, then squats and lunges. You're already late so stop wasting my time," was his version of a motivational speech.

Leg day... boring and painful. Like spending time with Cole.

My lips pulled to one side as I assumed a hip width positioning of my feet and stacked a back on my shoulders. The injection site throbbed as I grounded my heels and gritted my teeth.

Cole grunted. "Just do it, princess."

"Miss Zara, change of plans."

One of my father's security guards interrupted my training session with Cole with a bang open of the door. The glass ratted as I looked up, single beads of sweat trickling down either side of my forehead.

"Your father is here early, shower, and meet him in the dining room in ten minutes."

"Now?" The weights my hands grip trembled against the sides of my legs, bumping the tensed muscles. My cheeks flushed warm and I threw a glance at Cole. He shrugged, then cocked his head in the direction of the glass-doored exit.

I couldn't remember the last time my schedule changed, not once in the last four years. The guard nodded, so I racked my weights and hurried back to my room.

Wisps of hair clung to my face and neck, which itched my skin as I hurried down the long, dark hallways back to my room. Passing an occasional security guard at each corner, my aching legs burned, moving as fast as possible until reaching my bedroom. My cheeks flushed hotted at the glances I received since my workout attire clung to my body.

After a quick shower, I rolled my eyes at the clothes hanging up for me on the back of the bathroom door. My nose scrunched up at the flowered pinafore dress, tights, and dress shoes. Only my father assumed that I still dressed like a five year old for a tea party, but I obliged and dressed while my skin was still damp.

Running a brush through my stringy hair, I glanced in the mirror. Regardless of how I felt about my hair, my father insisted I wore it long and straight, pinned back with clips behind my ears. When I was a child, my hair was white-blonde, the color of corn silk and. As I got older, it faded into a darker shade.

He insisted that my makeup complimented my clear aquamarine eyes and pale skin, why I spent so much time experimenting with different looks before they were wiped out of existence. My skin wouldn't be so pale if I went outside more, but any poolside tanning attempts by the pool in my free hour resulted in me falling asleep.

Oddly, even in my limited capacity, I had never come across someone who shared similar physical features of pale skin and light blonde hair. Even my eyebrows and lashes were light blonde. My father and all of his staff had brown hair and eyes, rugged with age.

"This way, Miss Zara."

I followed the security guard to the dining room, the pinnacle joke of the entire mansion. A giant crystal chandelier hung over the middle of the table in a configuration that resembled an upside-down glacier. Twinkling ice-like crystals cast angles of light and shadow down the walls and ceiling. The expansive dining table was for looks-only, for the two of us here.

The room dripped with opulence and the table seated sixteen chairs. My eyes widened when I saw my father seated at one end with one person flanking each side. For the first time in years, someone else sat at the dining table other than him and me. And we weren't even eating, since it was mid-morning.

I recognized Nurse Anna on his right, but not the girl on his left. She looked roughly my age, maybe a year or two older. She had a small frame, curly brown hair, and rounded, ruddy cheeks. Thin, round, wiry glasses balanced on her nose and shaded her brown eyes. By her stiff posture and darting eyes, my father made her nervous.

He tends to have that effect.

A man of few words, my father still possessed an authoritative, commanding presence. He gestured and pointed with his eyes and people dropped everything and interpreted what he'd requested. His tall, muscular build thinned with age, or maybe lack of use, threads of gray ran through his dark brown hair, and his shoulders wore a slight, forward slump. His dark, brooding brown eyes remained hooded as he spoke with a man in a suit who stood behind him.

My eyes narrowed at my father's executive assistant, Baron. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man with visible scars on his chin and neck. My father was the brains of the operation, and Baron was the brawn. Another assistant, Erik, was a shorter, stockier built man with hair so short, he should have shaved his head bald.

Neither were pleasant to me. Baron in particular had scared me when I was younger at how his brooding, angry presence lingered behind my father's shoulder.

At the other end of the table, I stood with my palms cupped around my elbows. The silent air thickened and my pulse buzzed in my ears. The weight of the room's eyes pricked goosebumps on the back of my arm, an uncomfortable sensation like I'd been plunged in ice water.

My eyes shifted from Baron's sneering expression to my father. As my eyes bore down at him, I was reminded how I had no idea how we were related. We looked nothing alike and hopefully I didn't share his cold, distanced personality.

I'd never seen a single picture of my mother but assumed through lack of any resemblance to my father that I inherited her traits. His dark brown hair thinned with experience, and he wore it swept back, looking like he was in a permanent wind tunnel. His olive complexion competed with his dark, always brooding brown eyes. Eyes that took in every detail that surrounded him, including silent intentions, but hid every secret from me. They never wavered, never faltered, never revealed his true emotions or intentions.

"Zara Accalia Lykaios," he spoke in his typical stern, condescending, angry tone. He never used any other tone with me and yet, like every time, it grated on my ears like auditory sandpaper.

"You. Are. Late." His voice snapped like a bear trap clamped down onto its snared target. His elbows rested on the table and he peered at me with unwavering eyes, demanding an explanation.

Dryness choked my voice into a strained whisper, "I'm sorry, Sir. You're early -"

"You need to pay more attention. Seconds matter in life, Zara." The girl next to my father flinched at the harshness that echoed across the large, empty room.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. He did this often, speaking without context.

The expectation lacing his voice cut into my ears, "I trust your training is going well."

I nodded silently, although again I had no idea what context on whether he asked about my lessons or training.

"Good." His curt tone sliced through the air, chilling my skin. "Sit."

I took the seat on the end of the table farthest away and looked down at them. My eyes drifted over to the girl on his left, who stayed slumped forward with her eyes averted down.

"Anna." His eyes shifted to his right. "Has she bled?"

Did he -

My jaw slacked and my lips stayed closed by how tight I rolled them inward.

Is he talking about my period?

My eyes stretched wide and warmth flooded into my cheeks as Anna shook her head. Brown-haired girl rounded her spine and shoulders, curling inward. Not the conversation I expected, I sat upright in my chair, my hips squirming against the hard wooden seat.

I was quite aware that I was a late bloomer, almost eighteen and so far, no menstrual cycles.

Maybe I'm infertile.

The thought was oddly comforting, since I had no desire to have kids. The list of what needed to happen before that I considered that further in-depth was staggering. Surrounded by men my entire life, all were off limits since I was off limits.

Eighteen... never been kissed, touched, hugged, heck even looked at with any intention.

I'm pathetic.

"Leuprorelin has a fourteen day half-life. She won't be eighteen for eleven more weeks." Anna replied, her gray eyes fixated on me. "But she should begin to bleed within two to four weeks."

Why are they referring to my period like it's a television to be flipped on?

I squirmed again in my hard, wooden seat as their casualness rose the hairs on the back of my neck. With one palm pressed into my cheek, I knew my entire face and neck had reached 'red blotchy stage,' a swollen, pink rash that broke out on my face and chest whenever I was embarrassed.

Can't get worse than this.

Brown-haired girl dropped her eyes and I swear a slight flush of pink tinted her cheeks.

"Once she does, put her on the pill. We must stay on schedule." My eyes traveled between the three of them and my lips parted until dryness coated my tongue.

Did I hear that correctly?

My mouth gaped as the words 'the pill' sunk in. The arranged marriage conspiracy swirled my thoughts like one of my blonde hairballs clogging my shower drain.

Finally, my father acknowledged my presence again. "Zara, starting tomorrow your schedule will change. Your physical activities will involve more advanced training, while your academics will shift. You're quite ignorant in the areas that matter most, though I assume the blame for that."

Guess that's as close to kind as he gets.

He paused, his narrow eyes observing me as if he waited for a reaction. I didn't have one, all thoughts in my mind were frozen in shock. My father's cold insults usually rendered me speechless, but this topic took the reproductive system cake.

"Elena here." He pointed at the unknown girl. "Will be your mentor."

The loud slam as his fist pounded onto the table shook my shoulders, and the subsequent echoes radiated like the room shuddered. After a second of silence, I swear eight or nine security guys in suits emerged out of the shadows like a scene in a horrible action-suspense movie.

"After my daughter starts bleeding -" I wanted to crawl under the table. "- then her transformation confirmation ceremony will be held."

Transformation? Confirmation? For what?

My father raised a dismissive palm. "Zara, you are dismissed."

Inaudible squeaks wrapped around my words, "But I have so many -"

"Dismissed."

A guard's fingers tapped me on the shoulder, pulled my chair out from the table, and escorted me back to my bedroom. My eyes caught the curious glance from the girl's brown eyes right before I turned and left the dining room.

The clicks of my heels down the hardwood floors deafened my ears. My brain, incapable of processing the most confusing, one-sided conversation my father pitched at me to date repeated over and over in my mind. Each iteration offered no further answers than the one before.

Once back inside my room, I sat down on the edge of my bed. My stupid flowered skirt puffed out on either side of me like a fluffy pillow, and I placed my hands in my lap.

"... questions."

Irritation crept into my mind, which burned with similar and additional unanswered questions.

What the hell happened?

Transformation? Birth control? Confirmation?

What should my street cred name be?