I blink at her, my brain scrambling. It’s exactly what Sylvie said to me only minutes ago. The servants. They’re talking. They see everything. How do I excuse my behavior to this woman? She’s right. We’ve been all over this house, fucking. Kissing in dark corners. Touching each other. Laughing. It’s been wonderful.
Knowing Whit’s mother is aware of every single thing we’ve done is…devastating.
Their knowledge of our times together taints everything.
“The manipulation of my son ends now.” Sylvia leans forward, opening a desk drawer and reaches inside for something. “I found this.”
My journal lands with a loud slap in the middle of her desk. I stare at it, horrified, before my gaze jerks to hers. “Wh-where did you get that?”
“It was in Whit’s bag. It’s your journal. Don’t bother denying it.” She cracks it open, riffling through the pages, going straight to the back. The section where my darkest secrets lie. “It’s rather interesting, all the details you shared. Care to hear it?”
“No,” I say, but she ignores me and starts reading it instead.
It’s my fault they’re dead. I tipped over the candle when I left Yates’ room. I did it on purpose, after what he did to me. He was especially brutal tonight. Saying horrible things. Holding me down as he fucked me. I hated every minute of it, but I took it. The anger rising inside of me with his every thrust. Crying in frustration when my body betrayed me and I came. Oh, how he loved that. God, I hate him.
Once he was finished with me, I said I would tell his father what he’s been doing to me, and he laughed.
Laughed.
So I lay there quietly, knowing he would soon fall asleep. And he did. He’s so predictable. The moment I heard him begin to snore, I slipped out of bed. I slipped on my underwear, grateful I still had my shirt on. He doesn’t bother with any sort of foreplay or undressing me anymore, he just goes straight to fucking. Once I was dressed, and collected anything that belonged to me, I left the room.
And purposely knocked over the candle on the dresser.
I figured he would wake up when he smelled the smoke. It would’ve taken nothing to put the fire out. He had a giant water bottle sitting on his bedside table. He could’ve doused it out with that.
He never woke up. The fire grew while we all slept. Even I fell asleep, my anger leaving me exhausted. Spent. I was awoken by my mother frantically shaking me. She grabbed my hand and practically dragged me outside. Yates and Jonas were still in the house. We left them in there. They both died in their beds. Smoke inhalation, the police told us later. They most likely never woke up, never knew what happened.
But I knew.
I killed them.
Sylvia slaps the journal shut with one hand, her smile menacing as she studies me. “I was fully prepared to pay you off, you know. I even wrote you a check for a most generous sum.”
“I would’ve never taken it,” I tell her with conviction.
“It doesn’t matter anymore, because I no longer need to give it to you. This is enough.” She holds the journal up. “You leave this house right now, and you will never talk to my son again. Understood?”
My heart races and I struggle to breathe. “And if I don’t do what you want?”
“Then I will turn this journal over to the police department. Or better yet, the arson investigator who was originally assigned to the case. I’m sure he’d love to read this.”
“You wouldn’t.” I’m testing her, but I already know her answer.
“I would,” she says firmly, opening the drawer once more and dropping my journal inside. “Your mother would lose everything. The house, the money she inherited, her friends, her social status, whatever’s left of it. Everything. She’d be broke, just like before. And so would you. I can destroy your entire life with one phone call. Do you really want to risk it?”
I say nothing. There’s nothing I can say. Everything is true, what I wrote in that journal. How did she get it? And worse, why did Whit bring it with him here? Why would he do that? Was he in on this all along? Did he do this to ruin me too?
“It was never going to last,” she practically croons, her voice soft, her gaze hard. “Just because you fucked my son doesn’t mean you get a piece of the Lancaster fortune. It didn’t work for your mother. It won’t work for you either.”
A tear streaks down my cheek and I dash it away with trembling fingers, angry at myself for showing emotion.
“You have thirty minutes. I’ll have a car waiting for you. I want you gone before the guests arrive. Go pack your pitiful little bag. Now.”
I jump to my feet and hurry for the open double doors.
“Don’t bother looking for Whit either. He already knows you’re leaving,” she calls after me.
Her words make me flinch but I don’t turn around. I don’t say anything at all. I enter the corridor to find Sylvie there, spying on our conversation.
“I’m sure you’re happy,” I tell her as I turn on my heel and head for the guest wing.
“I didn’t know she had anything on you. I swear,” she says, trailing after me.
I turn on her, making her stop short. “Don’t lie. You’re all in this together. Are you all so twisted that you love nothing more than destroying someone completely? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Sylvie parts her lips, but says nothing. I think I stunned her silent.
“Never been called out for your shit before, have you? Little miss, ‘oh, I’m dying’. Looking for attention. The middle child. The forgotten child. You’re pitiful,” I say, all the anger I’d been holding on to while her mother spoke to me spilling out. “I hope you’re happy with your mom dragging you around to every doctor for the rest of your short, miserable life.”
I stride away from her, noting the unmistakable sight of tears streaming down her face. Seeing them makes me feel bad, but I also don’t care. I’m hurting too much. I feel used. Beat up.
By all of them.
It doesn’t take me long to pack up all of my belongings. I didn’t bring much. And anything Sylvie bought me when we went shopping—and there were a few items—I leave them all on the unmade bed in a pile. I don’t want any of her so-called gifts. I sling my duffel bag strap over my shoulder and march out of that stupid, ridiculously huge house with my head held high.
The same driver who brought us here waits for me, standing by the town car. He opens the back passenger side door for me and I slip inside, keeping my duffel with me even though he offers to put it in the trunk.
I trust no one handling my things. I’m sure he ratted me out to Sylvia Lancaster. About my interludes with Whit in the back seat of this very car. Why didn’t we ever take Whit’s car? We were so stupid.
Careless.
We drive along the winding driveway, and I study the landscape as we pass by. It’s beautiful. Perfect. Cold. Lifeless.
That’s how I feel. Dead inside.
We approach the gates, and they automatically open, revealing a car waiting on the other side. A sleek Rolls with a handsome man driving. A beautiful woman seated beside him. As we pass by, I spot the blonde head in the back seat, our gazes connecting for the briefest moment.
Leticia. Her family is coming to Thanksgiving dinner.