Beauty and the Thorns

by Black, Stasia

  But he just laughs at me. “You think anyone gives a shit about lab logs? It’s all about the package.” He swipes up and down himself. “‘Golden-boy-genius saves company’ makes a far better story than ‘some street rat diddles himself in lab for years, not in time to save the boss’s wife but look, here’s some face cream out of it at least’—”

  I grab him by his shirt and slam him up against the nearest wall.

  He just smirks at me and speaks in a condescending tone. “Yes, violence is always the answer to you low-class types, isn’t it? Help me help you on your way out. Take a swing.”

  I drop him and take several stumbling steps back. This is all a game to him. A game where he thinks he’s pulling the strings. He thinks he’s always in control.

  “Too bad. That was your last chance. Shoulda taken it.”

  I glare up at him, but not in time. I don’t see him coming until he’s almost on top of me, fists swinging.

  “Fucker!” I shout, and try to get an arm up to block, but I’m too late. His blow lands square on my left cheek, and it knocks me to the floor. He’s wearing a class ring and it digs in and tears my flesh, so there’s blood running down my cheek when he’s done.

  He dances back to his feet and smooths down his suit coat and pants. Then he just shakes his head at me on the floor in disgust. “You’re done here. Pack your shit and leave.”

  I want to get up, roar in rage, and tear his fucking face off. Anyone who really knows the guy would understand and cheer me on.

  But that’s the thing. Nobody does know the real Adam Archer. He’s that plastic for a reason—so everyone believes the benign Ken-doll act. It’s his secret weapon.

  And what happens to Daphne if I suddenly go to jail for assault and battery. Because if I started in on Adam, I don’t know if I could stop. Where does that leave the girl who’s always left behind, last in everyone’s considerations?

  I can’t be one more person she counts on to just up and disappear from her life.

  Even thinking of her makes all the shit I’m feeling a little less oppressive. I pull my phone out of my lab coat and call her. I know it’s old school, an actual phone call, but I’d kill to hear her voice right now.

  She doesn’t answer, but I still close my eyes and sink back against the wall while I listen to her message: This is Daphne’s phone. I’m not here right now but leave a message and…yada yada, you know the rest. Bye!

  It would be creepy to call back just so I can listen to her chipper voice on the message, right? And I know it was recorded a long time ago, back before her mom died. She’s having a hard time with everything, not that you’d know it by the way she’s absolutely disappeared into her studies.

  Some kids would’ve abandoned working so hard after losing the parent all the work was intended to save, but not Daph. Never Daph. It was like there was a new fire under her butt now that Battleman’s had taken her mom, like she wanted to say F you to the disease even more, and was more determined than ever to figure out what made it tick and how to stop it.

  Like father, like daughter, except that I suspected if Daphne ever had children, she’s take all the time in the world to love and cherish them.

  For just a brief second, I let the fantasy take shape, Daphne and I coming home from the lab together, picking the kids up from school, then all going home to cook a rambunctious dinner…a family, a home, everything I never had but always dreamed of…or really only let myself dream of since meeting her.

  Everything seems possible when I’m with her. It’s her magic.

  But she’s still so young, and vulnerable after her mother’s death. I can’t go with all this to her—she’s still in college, already working too hard and the last one I want Adam pointing his sights on is her if he decides she’s a threat to his plan.

  And that means I need to fight for her company. Because she can’t yet.

  Which leaves only one person left to put a stop to Adam’s ambitions before he destroys us all.

  I need to go have a chat with Dr. Logan.

  * * *

  When I knock on the door to Daphne’s father’s office, at first I don’t hear anything.

  “I told you, he’s asked for no visitors,” his aged assistant chides.

  “Well, he needs to speak to me or he’s going to have his company stolen right out from under him.”

  She purses her lips but then sits back in her chair and picks up her yarn needles.

  “Dr. Laurel,” I pound on the door again, since her calling his office had no effect. “It’s Logan. I need to speak to you.”

  Finally, finally, there’s movement from within and the doorknob creaks open. He doesn’t stay at the door to greet me, He just pulls it open and then disappears back into the dark room.

  There are no lights on. The blinds aren’t open. Maybe my eyes will adjust but after the bright fluorescents of the waiting room, it first appears pitch black in here. I can only barely make out the shape of a man sitting behind his desk, and it’s only when he moves, to take a drink of something, that I’m sure.

  I clear my throat. I’ll just pretend like nothing’s wrong. Probably the best way to play this. “Look, Sir, I don’t know what the best way to tell you this is, but Adam Archer is trying to steal your company out from underneath you and turn it into something completely different than you ever envisioned.”

  I wait for him to say something, to sound aggrieved or apologetic or appalled by the situation, but I’m only met with silence.

  “That is to say, sir, as you can see here,” I pull the papers recounting the minutes of the board meeting and thrust them on the desk in front of his face, “Here Archer clearly states that the lab discoveries of the new molecule were made by him, with no mention of you or me. And he further proposed that a full 95% of Belladonna’s resources be poured into cosmetics research and production instead of our core mission to cure pernicious diseases—”

  Dr. Laurel suddenly stands up, so violently his chair shoves backward into the wall behind him. “What does any of it matter? She’s gone, so who the fuck cares now?”

  “But—” I sputter. “But you were the one who told me how much the world needed our research, how it was never just about one patient, it was—”

  “Fuck the world!” He swipes a furious forearm and clears his desk of everything on it in one crashing swoop. “Without her there’s nothing! Nothing.”

  And then the paragon of strength and brilliance I’d looked up to for years dissolved into a puddle right in front of me, sobbing into his own armpit.

  I want to turn away. Daphne deserves better than him. She always has. For him to just give up like this, in a room that smells sour with sweat and booze, while she’s out there busting her tail, I know in part to prove herself to this man…

  But I start to approach him anyway. He’s an old, sad man, and he at least deserves some compassion.

  “What have you done to the poor man?” Adam’s voice grates, always when it’s least possibly needed.

  But Dr. Logan looks towards the door like his salvation’s come.

  Because suddenly somehow I’ve become the bad guy in this scenario? For telling the truth? For trying to ostensibly get the company back on track to what Dr. Laurel always said he wanted for it?

  But watching as Adam enters the room and takes Dr. Laurel under his broad, football arm and guides him out of the room, no doubt to his own car to drive him home and tuck him into bed—I can see the entire façade of charity driven by a cold-blooded desire to play to win.

  The two of them fucking deserve each other.

  But they think they can get rid of me that easy? They’re dead fucking wrong. I’m not going to lie down and play dead. I’ll be back bright and early tomorrow morning, a pin in their sides, a splinter underneath their finger…

  But tonight?

  I look down at my phone. No missed calls or new messages.

  As much as I want to pretend all this doesn’t affect me, it’s a lie. I kno
w myself. The pressure is building.

  I need a release valve and I need it bad.

  I haven’t visited the dungeon in months. Long, long months.

  But if I don’t unwind some of this tension, it really will be ugly when I lash out. I stretch my neck this way and that, the first wave of calm settling over me as I begin to adopt the persona of him.

  The Master.

  But then all I can see is her face. Daphne.

  What if I go by her place instead?

  And do what? She might be 19, but she’s still just a child. She’s not ready for all I want to unleash. And with everything happening with her dad’s company, is it really fair to put her in the middle of it?

  Still, before I’ve even completely thought it through, I’m dialing her number and holding the phone to my ear. Lately it feels like she’s the only person I can really talk to.

  She doesn’t pick up, though, and I hang up before I can hear her silken voice on the message again.

  I lean back against the wall and drop the phone to my side. Probably for the best. I look around the darkened offices and a chill goes up my spine. I can’t leave well enough alone. I need to have some sort of contact with her. She’s my touchstone right now, though it might freak her out to know that.

  But if Adam and her father have anything to do with it, she and I will never have the future I dream about together. If Dr. Laurel fires me and I don’t get a chance to say goodbye to her, if Adam tries to poison them against me with his lies—

  My fingers are on the phone, tapping out a text on the glowing screen in the otherwise darkened hallway. If anything ever happens, please know you’re my best friend. Give me a chance to explain. Meet me at Thornhill, beside your mom’s grave. Don’t mean to freak you out. Just in case anything ever happens.

  It’s an ominous message and part of me feels regret at ever hitting send. But then again, it’s been six months since her mother died. I’ll give her all the time she needs and maybe she’s not ready for everything I’m into, but…

  I can’t deny it anymore. My thoughts are full of her, night and day. Whenever she’s ready, I want to try. I can go slow. As slow as she needs.

  And in spite of everything, the terrible day, finding out what a snake in the grass Adam is and Dr. Laurel turning out to be such a disappointment—I smile.

  Because for the first time, I let myself dream of a future with her.

  I fall asleep happy and I wake up happy.

  In fact, I’m still smiling when I head into work and pull on my lab goggles the next morning.

  I’m smiling until my skin starts burning.

  Until I’m screaming and clawing at my face and begging for them to tear it off me. And what I mean by it is my own skin.

  Twenty-Five

  Present Day

  Daphne

  My courage lasts for exactly six strides into the lushly appointed ballroom. There’s so many people. All of New Olympus’s high society, all in one room. Maybe if I just back out quietly, no one would even notice that I’ve—

  But some wanker with a mic catches sight of me before I can make up my mind about retreating and announces, “Here she is! Adam Archer’s fiancée and belle of the ball, Daphne Laurel!”

  “Doctor Daphne Laurel,” Rachel growls under her breath. “Just because a woman gets engaged doesn’t mean she’s stripped of all her titles.”

  I squeeze her hand, partly in gratitude, partly for support, and partly so she doesn’t head off to strangle the stupid MC. The band strikes up a jazzed up version of Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus” that devolves after several bars into some sort of disco riff.

  Hordes of glittering guests turn to greet me. Like a tennis match, all heads swing in my direction. There must be over a hundred people in the ballroom. I’ve never felt so exposed. I swallow my grimace at the music choices. At my side Rachel mutters, “Oh gods, disco? Why?” and pretends to gag.

  “Rachel,” I murmur through a gritted smile. “Will you be a dear and find my godsdamned fiancé?”

  “Gladly, Doctor Laurel,” she murmurs back and glides away. Once she’s gone, I relax. I thought I’d want to put off meeting with Adam, but the sooner I drag him to a private meeting, the sooner I can end this farce. And then Rachel and I can take turns whipping him across the face with our opera gloves.

  I fantasize about this for about three seconds before the first guest steps into my personal space. Fortunately, it’s one of my favorite people. Cora Ubeli.

  “Dr. Laurel,” she hugs me like I’m a long lost friend from summer camp. When she steps back, huge diamonds at her ears and around her neck blind me. Her beauty is more striking than any bling she could wear, though.

  She’s the epitome of beauty, strength, and power. Dangerous power at that, if all the stories about her are to be believed, even though she’s been nothing but kindness itself to me. But, for some reason I notice the wedding band on her ring finger has a dark red rock. The color of passion and blood, and anything but traditional, just like Cora and her intimidating husband themselves.

  “Congratulations on everything,” Cora gushes. She’s stunning in a silvery blue sheath that complements her eyes. Her beauty is goddess-like, bright and stunning.

  “Congratulations,” her husband, Marcus Ubeli, echoes. He’s the yin to Cora’s yang, dark and handsome. A touch of grey at his temples only adds to his aura of prestige and power. Most of the people hovering around us probably want to talk to him instead of me.

  “And where’s your charming fiancé?” Cora asks, pretending to look behind me as if Adam is hiding there.

  I wince. By not facing up to Adam sooner, I’m lying to these people. I hide my dismay but the way Cora’s blue eyes rove over my face, I’m fooling no one. “Uh, we arrived separately. I’ve been holed up for a while, working on...a project.” Because that’s what I’m calling sex games with Logan. A project.

  “Of course,” Cora’s gaze softens. She’s going to let me off the hook. “You look so young, I forget you’re a brilliant researcher.” She catches my hand and squeezes it. I want to curl up in the warmth of her smile and purr like a cat. “The world needs you. But I hope you’ll take some time off for yourself.”

  “Yes,” Marcus hands his wife a flute of champagne. “Time off is important.” He and Cora share a private look. “This building, for example. Did you know there’s a floor dedicated to an art gallery?”

  “Um, no. Adam chose it. I didn’t get to explore it that much,” I say.

  “You should.” His dark eyes twinkle. “There’s a staircase and a fountain that’s...quite fascinating.”

  Cora chokes on her champagne. Marcus puts a hand on her back and excuses them both. There’s a lull while guests wait for the power couple to leave before rushing to greet me.

  I staple a smile to my face and murmur thanks over and over. The guests fall into a few categories. There are older men with thinning hair and bespoke suits cut to hide their paunch who represent ninety-nine percent of New Olympus’ net worth. A bevy of plastic looking celebrities whose smiles don’t crease their Botoxed foreheads. Reporters in off-the-rack dress clothes who circle me slowly. I keep my comments vague about where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing. Any dropped hint would be blood in the water.

  My throat is dry from fake-laughing and my face is sore from fake-smiling. Why did I ever dream about fitting in with these people? But I did. I saw this script for my life and I wanted to play the part written for me. Not that of the socialite. I was never going to be that.

  But a respected CEO and researcher who hobnobs with the rich and influential? It was what my dad did and I assumed it was my path too. A respectable husband along the way was a given, just part of the picture that needed filling out so that my life was screen-ready.

  But the truth is, all that takes is a robot. I could’ve stayed asleep my whole life and done exactly what they told me.

  Without Logan, I might have let this all happen to me and only twenty years or
more down the road had regrets about my hollow life and empty marriage.

  A commotion behind me makes me turn.

  It’s Adam. My fiancé is surrounded by admirers. His hair is frosted like a singer in a boy band, and his smile is toothpaste-model white.

  Did I ever think he was handsome? Or even cute? He’s a plastic Ken doll compared to Logan’s rugged good looks.

  “There she is,” Adam bursts out. As if he’s surprised to see me at my own engagement ball. “My beautiful Daphne.”

  Inwardly I bristle. Not yours. But I take his hand and let the photographers swarm us. Behind them, I spot a fourth type of guest—flocks of stunning women, camera-ready with poreless skin and skin hugging dresses that leave them more naked than if they were actually naked. They alternate between gazing adoringly at Adam and shooting death glares at me. I barely stop myself from laughing.

  Ladies, you can have him.

  Adam pulls me too close—I’ve been careful of my nipple piercings so far, but the slightest brush against them is murder—and I suck in a breath and jerk back. “Careful.”

  “She’s mad that I’ve been across the ballroom all night,” Adam announces. His voice is louder than the MCs, and he doesn’t even have a mic. Obnoxious much? “It’s all right, sweetheart, I wasn’t ignoring you. Give us a kiss.”

  Shit. Slapping him in the face would probably be a little too Real New Olympus Housewives and I didn’t come here to make a scene. I don’t want drama, I just want to end this and part ways cleanly. So I go up on tiptoe and peck him on his spray-tanned cheek. He’s wearing too much cologne and I want to swipe at my face as soon as I pull away to get rid of the overwhelming scent.

  “Oooh, playing hard to get,” Adam makes the crowd chuckle. If I barf on him, I could claim food poisoning, right?

  Adam has an arm around me, turning me this way and that. Smile for the camera, Daphne. Show us your trophy.