Breaths

She looked around her. Everywhere there were pretty people.

Women were attired in stunning ball gowns and men in their requisite penguin suits. The air was rife with the smell of money. She took the first step down the long expansive staircase.

"Take a deep breath. You can do this. They've been prepping you for this since you were a child."

"Here goes." She said to herself.

Second step down, “WHAT am I doing HERE?!"

Step three. "Ok, just another 12 and you’re done."

Looking at the serene, exotic beauty of her physical presence, one would never believe she was in such inner turmoil. The almond shaped hazel eyes, a hallmark of her Iranian mother, the lustrous thick reddish brown hair, the nose that fanned out every so faintly hinting at a South Asian decent, the slight yellowish tint to an otherwise perpetually tanned tone, she was the hallmark of why children of mixed races were so sought after. And yet, internally there existed a quagmire of doubt, self-recrimination and constant struggle as to whether success was hers, deservedly or otherwise.

Deep breath number two. "I wonder if anyone can see my crazy beating pulse in vein my neck. Who am I kidding; no one will look that closely at me!"

What she didn't realize was that all eyes were gravitated towards her. Her nervousness was indeed valid as conversation had ended as she began her descent into the main hallway.

Nizar: "She's done it. All the years of hard work, she's going to be a success. Just look at her."

Zaynab: "Yes, she's the epitome of the daughter you so diligently tended to."

Nizar: "Don't compare her to one of your hothouse flowers. She's a pawn, to be used to further our empire. She receives more than enough in return to ensure she succeeds."

Zaynab: "Yes, that being said however, are you really sure you'll be able to handle the level of success she may end up amassing?"

Last step, "Let your breath out, breathe normally. You did it!"

Looking to her left, standing waiting to escort her down the last remaining steps into the ballroom proper was the embodiment of a successful South Asian aristocrat, her beloved father. She took his proffered hand, raised her cheek for his feather light peck, trained her eyes into the circus that awaited her and glided forward.