A snort pushes past my lips, but no one seems to hear.
Or maybe they just ignore it. As usual.
Still, I don’t remember the last time Daddy threw me a party, and I hardly count my escape to my aunt’s as “sowing oats,” when most of what I did there was work at getting rid of nightmares and learn self-defense.
But whatever it takes to keep the Primrose image intact.
“That is unbelievable.” The dark-eyed man chuckles, taking a sip of the drink in his hand. “How was Vermont, Lenny?”
My throat tightens, a strange feeling wedging between my ribs at the way his gaze seems laser-focused on me, as if waiting for a slipup.
I can’t help but wonder what he knows.
If my father told them everything and is only pretending now.
The answer I give is vague, but it seems to satisfy him nonetheless; after peppering me with a few more questions, they lose interest, and I’m shuffled from one room to the next, greeting everyone we come into contact with.
Daddy keeps his hand tight around my shoulder, or my waist, like he’s afraid the crowd might swallow me whole. Frankly, the way they congregate around us like hyenas desperate for scraps makes me think he’s onto something.
Deep down, I wish I didn’t know why my parents decided to throw the party. It’d be so much easier to enjoy if I wasn’t concerned with overanalyzing every eligible bachelor we meet, aware that my father’s lifelong threat of pairing me off with someone is coming to fruition before my eyes.
He introduces me to politicians, CEOs, and foreign leaders. Men that any woman would probably feel lucky to have the attention of, and yet after each conversation all I feel is grimy.
These men run in the same circles as my ex, Preston, and no doubt are aware of the scandal that sent me to Vermont months ago. They don’t necessarily understand the nature of everything that happened, but I don’t think they’d care, anyway.
They’re just interested in getting Lenny Primrose in the sack. Testing her to see how far she bends before she breaks.
Eventually, Daddy goes off to mingle with some of the Primrose Realty board members, and the weight of everyone’s judgment in my own home bears down on me. I’m not a stranger to having the attention of the public, but for some reason right now it feels a thousand times more intimate.
And a million times more terrifying.
A sharp, sudden pang rips through my chest and settles in my gut as the crowd watches me. Their eyes are peeled, as if waiting for me to crumble.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek until the taste of copper floods my mouth.
Two breaths in, three breaths out.
Silently, I curse my older brothers for not bothering to attend the party tonight. Mass surveillance would be easier to navigate if they were here, but the boys get off scot-free when it comes to family duties.
Straightening my spine, I stalk from the room, feigning nonchalance as I make my way through the house.
When I was younger, the blue-gray walls and stuffy white furniture felt like a maze, and I spent a lot of my free time tracing my steps from one hall to the next, trying to memorize the massive square footage.
Like other houses in the area, ours always seemed far too big for just five people. Even the forced coziness brought on by nautical themes, bright hardwood floors, and balconies off every bedroom couldn’t erase the overwhelming emptiness.
Then again, maybe that was why my parents bought the mansion in the first place. It’s much easier to ignore your demons when you’re not running into them on your way to the bathroom.
Passing quickly through the chef kitchen off the corner of the west wing, I push through the door into a hidden stairwell. It winds up four stories, and I come out onto one of the two towers decorating the house.
Salty sea air smacks my face as I step out onto the balcony. Leaning up against the wooden railing, I scan the length of our property slowly, letting my eyes rove over every inch of the landscaped acreage.
Pockets of light from solar lamps illuminate the grounds, and I watch people mingle below, blissfully unaware of the immense unhappiness that exists within the halls of the mansion. Like ghosts, bound to haunt the living for all of eternity.
I’m not sure how long I stand up there before a shuffling sound draws my attention, and by the time I whirl around, a shadowy figure is lunging at me, hands seizing my throat.
Panic swells in my chest, stealing the air from my lungs as the attacker squeezes, leaning so I’m bending backward over the balcony railing. Harsh gasps tear from my mouth as I try to suck in oxygen, but the person increases the pressure until my vision darkens.
“You think you can run from us?” the attacker growls, shoving his pelvis against me. I feel something hard against my hip, and the presence of it sends my heart into a frenzy. “Darling little Lenny has debts to pay, and I’m gonna make sure you stay fucking put this time.”
It takes me a moment to recognize the voice as the man from my father’s earlier circle—and a second longer to remember him from the night my entire life flipped over on its axis. Fear invades my bloodstream like a virus, and I renew my struggle against him, kicking and scratching at his hands on my neck.
One drops to the zipper of my dress and yanks hard, baring my breasts to him. He cups the right one with a meaty paw, squeezing my nipple so hard I cry out from the pain.
His free hand slaps over my mouth, and I bite down on whatever part of his palm I can fit between my teeth; swearing under his breath, the man jerks back, releasing me just enough to shove me onto the ground.
I land on my hands and knees, the force of my fall knocking the wind from my chest. The paintbrush slips out from between my breasts, clattering to the floor, and I only have a second to consider my impulse before it turns into action.
“I’m gonna enjoy fucking you up again,” the man says, chuckling darkly behind me.
Fisting the paintbrush, I break off the end on the concrete floor, leaving the handle jagged.
Hands grab my shoulders, and then he’s tugging roughly, turning me over to face him. I roll with the movement, letting him think I’ve lost the will to fight.
When I’m on my back, I grip the brush tight, lift my arm, and drive it into his neck with every ounce of strength I can muster.
Blood spurts immediately from the side where the brush protrudes, and the man’s eyes go wide, his hands coming up to touch the site. My chest heaves, and I stare up at him while he gapes, trying to place him in my memory.
I can’t, and it infuriates me even more.
A choking sound comes from the back of his throat, and I use his shock to shove him away, squirming out from under his weight.
The man collapses onto his side and yanks the brush out, placing his hand over the wound as if that might help. If anything, it just seems to make the blood pump out faster.
Chest heaving, I reach down and pull my zipper back up, adrenaline racing through my veins. I’m covered in crimson like some sort of psychotic murderer, and all I can do is stare at the man and wonder what the fuck I’ve done.
“Oh god oh god oh god,” I chant softly, blinking over and over, as if that might change the reality before me.
“Seems a bit counterproductive to be praying now, love. Don’t you think?”
My head snaps up as a tall man in an all-black suit steps onto the balcony, hands in his pockets and curly, dark-brown hair blowing slightly with the wind.