Prologue
Presley
Worthless. Stupid. Pathetic.
If ugly words are thrown at you often enough, they eventually become your truth. It’s a complicated, gradual process carved by years of cruelty. The shift is so diminutive in your everyday life; you don’t see the gulch forming until the damage has already been done. At the first fissure, you’re second-guessing your own thoughts. Then, as the gap widens, you start questioning your values, no matter how deeply rooted they may be. Over time, little pieces of your soul are chipped away day by day until your self-worth is so diminished, it’s living on the opposite end of the canyon. You hardly recognize the person staring back at you in the mirror. The only thing you know for sure is how ashamed you are of what you’ve become.
I know this because I speak from experience.
For almost twelve years, I’d been meticulously conditioned. Molded by a master manipulator. Barely a woman when Sebastian and I met, I was drawn to him. Curious because he was so sophisticated and drastically different from everything I had ever known. I was flattered by his obvious interest. Surely, a man that successful and attractive could’ve had any woman he desired. Yet, he chose me—a simple girl from a small southern town, eleven years his junior and hopelessly in over her head. This worldly man wore expensive suits with an impeccable smile as he made pretty promises to mend my broken heart. Alone in a new city and so very desperate to ease my sorrow, I was the perfect little lamb to a vicious wolf.
A freshman in college at the time, I was young and naïve enough to believe the fairy tale. To take his name as my own less than nine months after we met. If only I had the strength to admit the truth on our wedding day. That the man I was about to marry would never have my heart because someone else already owned it. Maybe things would be different. Maybe I would’ve walked away and never known what a monster Sebastian would become. Maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t be so battered and bruised.
Sebastian had broken me down throughout our marriage, time and time again until all I knew was what he wanted me to know. All I was, was a pretty face on the arm of a powerful man. Here in Manhattan, I’m surrounded by millions of people, but I wouldn’t consider any of them a friend. I’ve alienated every person that ever mattered to me because my husband convinced me I needed no one but him. And as the controlling, abusive side of him came to the surface, I maintained that distance because I didn’t want my loved ones to witness my humiliation.
In hindsight, I know that it was all part of his carefully orchestrated plan. Because of him, I have no confidant. Because of him, I have no Plan B. Because of him, I have no escape.
I am his prisoner in a Park Avenue penthouse.
The doctors say I’m lucky—this could’ve been much worse, but luck is the last word I’d use in this situation. As I glance at my reflection in the little mirror above the sink, I survey the evidence of Sebastian’s brutality. I’m a living Picasso, all lopsided features and controlled chaos. Half my face is badly disfigured, while the other half barely has a scratch. Reddish-purple marks mottle my skin, significantly darker around my jawline and the bump on my temple. My lips are split and puffy, with dried blood crusted at the corner. My left arm is resting in a sling, cradling my recently dislocated shoulder, and my right eye is nearly swollen shut from the forceful blow of my husband’s angry, drunken fists. I wince as I swallow, carefully prodding the ring of bruises around my neck.
I’m not such a great trophy wife at the moment, am I?
I would laugh at the irony of my condition if I didn’t think the movement would hurt so much. Sebastian’s typically more controlled, worried I couldn’t do my best impression of a Stepford wife during one of his many business functions. Usually, he prefers to work through his rage by slamming his dick inside of me instead of using his fists. I honestly can’t decide which is worse. I can’t remember the last time I desired sex, let alone enjoyed it during the act. It became a tool I used to pacify the monster because, according to him, a wife’s sworn duty is to please her husband whenever and whichever way he sees fit. Lord knows I’ve heard him say it enough times over the years.
I gingerly return to the bed, careful not to tug at the IV in my hand as I lower myself to the lumpy mattress. As I lie here listening to the buzz of the emergency room, I can’t help but think about who I was before moving to New York. A cheerleader with a perennially sunny disposition. The prom queen who stood proudly beside her adoring king. A young woman with her whole life ahead of her, a smile so bright, it could light up the darkest of nights. Someone who dreamed big, laughed freely, loved wholeheartedly, and believed in happily ever afters.
That was who Sebastian Winters married. That was who he destroyed. That girl, Presley James, died many years ago.
Chapter One
Presley
– Age 5
“Presley Anne, come on over here. I want you to meet someone.”
I drop my dolly and run at the sound of my daddy’s voice. When I make it across the dirt to our big red barn, I find him inside with a man and a boy ‘bout as old as me.
“Hi, Daddy!”
He motions me over and tucks me under his arm. “Presley, this is Mr. Armstrong. He’s going to be our new foreman. He and his son are moving into Papa’s old house. Say hello, honey.”
Mr. Armstrong is big like my daddy, ‘cept his hair is darker. My daddy has lots of white on his head. Mama says it’s from years of trying to run the horse ranch with just him and a couple’a other grown-ups. She says Daddy is stubborn as an old mule when it comes to askin’ for help. Mama made him hire a whole buncha new people after he hurt his back real bad.
“Hi, Mr. Armstrong.”
Mr. Armstrong goes low to the ground like Mama does sometimes when she’s talkin’ to me. “Well, hello there, Presley. Aren’t you a pretty little thing?”
“Thank you, sir.”
He laughs and scoots the boy closer. “Presley, this here is my son, Beckett. According to your daddy, you’re both starting kindergarten in the fall.”
I give the boy a big smile. Mama says my smile is infected, but that don’t make no sense to me. I had an owie get infected once, and it was really gross. Grown-ups are weird sometimes.
“Hi, Beckett. You wanna go see our fishin’ pond?”
Beckett looks up to his daddy. “Can I, Daddy?”
His daddy pats him on the shoulder. “Sure, son. You two go ahead. I’ll find you when I’m done with Mr. James here.”
I pull on Beckett’s hand and lead him out of the barn. “The fishin’ pond is my second favoritest place on the whole ranch! You can go fishin’ and swimmin’, but Mama says I’m not allowed to go in the water by myself ‘til I’m older.”
“What’s your first most favoritest place on the ranch?” Beckett asks.
“Oh, that’s easy. The horses are my most favoritest things in the whole wide world. One of ‘em just had a baby. Daddy let me name her after my favorite flower! He says when she’s a little bit older, she can be all mine, and I can ride her anytime I want! Do you like horses, Beckett?”