I wish I were selfish enough—no, foolish enough—to play the victim. That would make this so much easier. I wouldn’t have to taste the bitter sting of my desperation. I wouldn’t crave my destruction.
Papa trained his missionaries well. We’ve all sold our souls to protect his name. Is either sacrifice worth it? No answer comes to me in the snatches of fitful sleep I find on a recliner in Ronan’s hospital room. He doesn’t stir the entire time I’m there. Despite the tubes snaking from his body, he’s never resembled Mama more…
I fight to forget the comparison and return to the hotel alone. After dressing in a pair of jeans and a sweater, I claim a secluded booth in a nearby café and savor my freedom by watching the day unfold around me. Life is such a different game outside of the upper echelons of Mayfield. Here, a smile isn’t a carefully honed weapon. Tokens of love or friendship are exchanged freely, and young women meet their lovers without any visible hints that one has bought and paid for the other.
Do I fear what awaits me should I take Blake Lorenz up on his offer? Five cups of coffee fail to give me the courage necessary to settle upon an answer.
In the end, it’s not like my feelings matter. I’m a Hollings. That fucking name trumps all.
But I refuse to let my brothers die for it.
As the sun sets, I finally leave the café and return to Hunter’s suite. I find him passed out on one of the loungers in the main room, clutching what looks like legal papers to his chest. Unsurprisingly, the scent of wine hangs over him like a cloud. My heart heavy, I press a kiss to his cheek rather than wake him.
Maybe one day I’ll make him atone for his role in our downfall. Then again, maybe this is merely sweet revenge; after all, I’m the one who ruined our lives first.
With that thought in my head, I shower and dress in a new gown, one of the Parisian creations meant to be worn at the rehearsal dinner for my wedding, of all things. Why I packed it, I’ll never know. It hangs loosely on me. Barely a week of destitution and my body is already starting to show it.
At least the hanging neckline reveals plenty of cleavage. Thin breasts rise from a visible rib cage. How appealing. Once dressed, I turn away from the mirror and leave a note for Hunter, explaining that I’ll be gone for a few days and not to worry.
Then I begin my descent to the lobby via the stairs, extending every second as though they’re truly my last. My lungs flood with the fresh air once I make it outside, and I consider taking Hunter’s car, the only vehicle yet to be repossessed, but wind up taking a cab instead.
I track my journey through the back seat window, riveted by the rolling hills and fields I’ve viewed a thousand times, but never like this. I’m no longer a fairy tale princess but a captive pauper. Hollings blood forms my chains, and my jailer is an evocative shadow of my past with motives yet to be revealed.
When Hollings Manor finally appears on the horizon, I barely recognize it. Draped in darkness, a few days’ absence have stripped it bare of twenty-four years’ worth of memories.
And Blake Lorenz taints every stone. I feel his presence during the solitary walk up the front path, the one lined with the flowerbeds Mama meticulously oversaw the planting of. I sense him lurking within the hallowed walls, though he isn’t the figure who opens the door for me. Unsurprisingly, he’s made short work of assuming control of the estate. Charles greets me as formally as though he’s controlled this entrance for years.
“He’s in the study,” he says after ushering me inside.
This time, he doesn’t lead the way there. I’m forced to travel down that hallway alone. The lamps flicker at their dimmest setting, and I find only one lit in Papa’s study.
Or what used to be Papa’s study.
All but two of the bookshelves have been removed, allowing more natural light inside. The desk has been moved closer to the window, angled for its seated occupant to best observe the view.
Which puts his back to me. From my position, I can’t make out what he’s working on. Documents? He shuffles them noisily before casting me a cold appraisal over his shoulder.
“What the fuck are you wearing?”
It’s wrong, but for a split second, my mind goes to Daniel. All of those fawning looks and searching glances. Never once did he…scowl.
“Change,” Blake growls, returning to his paperwork. Hunched shoulders close him off further from me—and, by extension, this very room. “There’s clothing in your room upstairs.”
Clothing? The prospect of an outfit chosen by him is too terrifying to question out loud. Numb with apprehension, I return to the foyer and mount the ornate staircase, feeling like a stranger.
For the first time, I see the house as I figure a newcomer might. So big. So empty. There are no family photographs hanging on the walls or personal baubles strewn about. Our name was our identity, but the irony is that Blake Lorenz didn’t have to remove much to strip our presence from the walls. Some of the paintings are missing. The lights in the upstairs hall were left dim. And my room…
It’s been desecrated. Gray walls have replaced my beloved navy. Utilitarian white sheets cover my bed instead of my dark silken ones. My wardrobe is gone. In its place stands a metal rack upon which only a few items hang. Thin, terrifying things.
The loss of my personal touches lands with unexpected damage. I wince, blinking rapidly against a sudden burn. Slowly, I suck in gulps of air and creep closer to observe the newer clothing.
I finger a white bit of lace material at random. The sewn-in tag proclaims it’s in my size, but when I strip my black dress and pull it on over my head, I must hold my breath to yank the hem over my waist. It clings to me, nearly see-through. The bubbles in a bathtub are more conservative.
“I told you to change, not linger.”
I turn and find Blake glowering in the doorway.
He narrows his gaze at my appearance, seemingly unimpressed. “You call this a body worth a fortune?”
My cheeks sting as though they’ve been slapped. His doubt now is a far cry from the man who gaped at me last night.
“What do you mean?” Self-conscious pain creeps into my voice. I can’t stop my hands from smoothing over my waist, noting the uncomfortably tight fit.
“Daniel Ellingston has low standards, apparently. Take it off.”
I swallow hard, grasping at the taut fabric. “W-what?”
“Take the fucking dress off,” he commands in a tone far softer than his words allude to. It’s dangerous. “Now, before you fucking tear it.”
Woodenly, I strip the slip. I have it halfway over my head when an ominous rip comes from the seams.
“Jesus Christ, take it off!”
I shimmy out of it fully and leave the ruined garment slung over the side of my bed. “I’m sorry.”
He says nothing.
“I-I… It must be a different size.”
Again nothing.
I gather up the nerve to look at him directly. Eyes like fire rake freely over my hip and up to my exposed breasts. My first instinct is to shield myself with my hands, but he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s done it.
His throat contorts around a hard swallow. “It’s the correct damn size,” he says as his stare claims mine. “But you aren’t.”
“W-what?”
He shrugs, turning his attention to my room. “Until you can wear the clothing I provide, you wear nothing.”
God, despite everything, a laugh trickles out of me, high-pitched and breathless. “You’re not serious.”
“I’m not?” He faces me again, but this time, his eyes never leave my face. With barely disguised disgust, his upper lip curls back from his teeth. “Oh, I fucking am. Allow me to let you in on a little secret…” He even leans in close, basting my cheek with his breath. “Unlike the rest of the goddamn world, I’m not enamored with Snowy Hollings. In fact, you’re not the first person on this side of the country I want to fuck. You’re not even the second or the third. I don’t give a fuck what other men may have tolerated when it comes to your appearance”—he gives a pointed glance to the body in question—“but make no mistake. Do you want your shares? You earn them. I won’t tailor my tastes for anyone. If you stay, you must meet them. Understood?”
“If I stay?”
He shrugs. “I’m not desperate enough to force you. Hell, your virginity isn’t worth a goddamn penny to me, though if you stay, you keep it intact unless I decide to rectify it. The moment you find you can’t adhere to my expectations, you leave.”
And any promise of money is withdrawn. He doesn’t say as much, but it’s all in the unspoken rules of the game. Money is the prize and my body is the game board—only he controls every piece in play.
“Ruin another dress and you’ll know the consequences.” He snatches up the damaged dress. Another tear comes from the fabric as he cinches it tight, his knuckles whitening. “I’ll give you a week to fit into the clothes.”
With that, he leaves, slamming the door behind him. But he can’t be serious.
He can’t be…
A glance around the room reveals no other clothing. All of my fancy dresses and designer ensembles. Did he burn them? The prospect of such a malicious act blows my mind.
Numb, I sink onto my bed, drawing the edges of my sheets around my naked frame. I don’t cry, refusing to allow a single tear to fall. I remember instead. What it’s like to sacrifice everything for the sake of Hollings blood.
This isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever done. Not even close.