As I pull up to my driveway, I find it impossible to get up to the front gate thanks to the swarm of paparazzi outside. They all leap in excitement when they see me pulling in. I groan, unsure of what scandalous gossip they are going to attack me with now. I roll my window halfway down and slide my sunglasses to the top of my head.

"Like oh my gosh, what juicy gossip are we excited about today?" I squeal in mock interest, then remove all emotion from my face. Maybe if I look bored they'll realize I am useless to them and get out of my way.

"Clarissa Morgenstern, how well are you taking the news about your father's engagement?" one woman ignores me and asks, as multiple microphones are shoved in my face. I try so hard to stay calm and maintain the bored persona, but my anger begins to take over. Engaged? My father goes away for two weeks and comes back engaged? I didn't know he was even dating someone! Not that we talk frequently about our love lives. We don't really talk much at all. He is hardly home and when he is, he stays in his office. But still I feel betrayed. He could at least tell me he was doing something that important!

I can feel the blood rushing to my face so I slide my glasses back on, turn my face to the gate, and loudly growl, "If you do not get out of my way, I will force you to move." No one reacts, so I rev my engine and hit the button for the gate. Photographers dodge out of the way and curse when I slam my foot down down on the gas. Tires squeal as I take off and fly down the driveway. I speed around the curve of the circular driveway and park quickly in the garage, careful not to hit any of Father's overpriced cars.

When I burst through the door, Father is nowhere to be seen. I turn to one of the maids and grumble slowly, "Where is he?" I must have been pretty scary because the woman drops the feather duster she is holding and points to his office down the hall. Of course he's in his office. Stupid question.

I pause outside his door for a few seconds to gain my composure before I angrily knock three times. When I get no response I barge in, no longer caring about his privacy. Not when I was just jumped by a bunch of crazy people looking for another story to make them money. I hate being followed by the media. I never pursued that life, yet my father's money and power threw us into it. He, of course, embraced it. He lives for the power he has over people. I, on the other hand, do not care for attention and prefer to remain unknown. I have done a pretty decent job so far, as I have generally been referred to as "Valentine's daughter" and therefore mostly ignored. But I have a feeling all interest in our family will only be multiplied with a wedding on the way. I think about how I will probably get mauled by paparazzi until the wedding and for months after and let that anger fuel me as I march into his office.

He sits in his chair behind the desk, though it is turned around and he is on the phone. I stand in front of his desk with my arms crossed, hip jutted, and eyes furrowed, sporting the best angry look I can muster while I wait for him to finish. When he finally turns around, his eyes widen a bit when he takes in my furious look, but his suave demeanor takes over and he asks the worst question he could possibly ask at that moment: "Is something wrong, child?"

"Is something wrong? Is something WRONG?! When were you going to tell me you were seeing someone seriously, much less getting freaking married?! I just got mauled by the paparazzi and had to find out from them of all people!"

"Oh yes, I meant to talk to you about that. It was all very sudden and the media seemed to get wind of it before I could get home and tell you."

There it that calm facade of false kindness and compassion that gets him anything he wants. He just turns on the charm and he manipulates everyone into believing he is sincere and trustworthy. I can see through it most of the time. Sometimes I want to believe, and occasionally I sadly do, that he really does care. That he really does want to know that I'm okay. But the fierce sting from his recent negligence reminds me he doesn't care about anything but himself.

"As for the fact that you were out without a bodyguard, please don't forget I can assign you a permanent shadow if you continue rebelling against my orders."

I grimace at the thought and quickly change the subject. "Who the hell is she?"

"Celine Herondale. She's a lawyer at a law firm I used to work for. It's a long story that I don't want to bore you with, but we decided to take a vacation together this last week. While there I realized it was time to take the next step. I really think you will like her. She's kind, intelligent, and hardworking. She is so great that I could not wait long to be married to her, so next Saturday we will be getting married. And we will be getting married in a castle, is that not exciting?"

The entire time he talks, I don't really recognize the man in front of me. His normal straight, emotionless face now wears a slight smile. He seems to actually care for this woman. Like he might somehow care about someone other than himself. And if that is the case maybe he cares about me too. I mentally slap myself and think, Come on Clary, you know better than to think like that.

"Whatever. I assume you would like me to be there?" I am not in the mood to fight with him about it. I never win with him anyways. Instead I roll my eyes, trying to at least emphasize my discontent.

He looks at me hopefully. "Well you are family. Celine and I were also hoping you would be one of the bridesmaids."

"Yeah, you're going to have to buy me a shitload of alcohol to convince me to consider that," I scoff.

His face deadpans for a moment before quickly morphing to one of pleading. "Please, it's very important to both of us, since you are a big part of my life and she will soon be a big part of yours." I stare him down, looking deep in his eyes to see if I can tell if he is being sincere or just wearing a mask to get what he wants. Apparently my silence means I need more convincing because he sighs and says, "Fine, what if I bought you one bottle of wine and a brand new computer and you promise to drink reasonably. I don't want any embarrassing drunk scenes ruining the night or giving the media a reason to talk shit about us."

I usually don't let him buy me like this, yet I find myself contemplating his offer. I could use a new computer, but I refuse to ask for one. There's no way I'm going to happily attend his wedding as a bridesmaid without some sort of payment of gratitude, so I decide to write this one off as him owing me. Plus I really want to see this castle he's talking about. "Two bottles and it's a deal," I grumble. "But Simon gets to come too." Then I storm out and head to my room to call Simon so I can vent.