by Lana Sky
My mouth aches—a clue that I’m still smiling and have been all along. Like a sleepwalker, I must have gone through the motions. Keeping the grin in place, I peel the paper off, revealing a custom silver frame.
“It’s beautiful,” I coo, holding it up for everyone to ooh and aah over.
This gift came from the Sebastiáns, I presume given its ornate design. Sloane doesn’t seem eager to claim it, however.
She is standing beside a cluster of bleached blondes I vaguely remember from prep school. Daniel must have invited them. A thin blonde with a hooked nose sticks out: Patsy Abernathy. Unease ignites in my skin, licking away at my confident exterior. I haven’t seen her in years. In fact, our last meeting had to be around senior year when she insinuated I looked like a pig in my ceremony gown.
Brandt called her shallow once. He hated that I held her and her posse of bimbos in such high esteem. “You don’t want to be like them,” he always said. “They have nothing to live for but their looks.”
Patsy’s have held up so far. Her black, form-fitting gown is from the exclusive collection of a Parisian designer. She smiles once she notices me staring and waves as though we’re the best of old friends. What difference ten years and thirty pounds lost makes.
“Oh, look at this one, darling.” Daniel tilts an open box toward me: another gift from some obscure social climber or relative.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur before I even look down. When I do, confusion distorts my rehearsed smile.
Someone sent a book, leather-bound with gold filigree forming the title. I read it twice as my eyes widen; it’s a children’s book showcasing a single fable.
“Snowy?”
I barely hear Daniel.
Impatient, he curls his fingers beneath my chin, tilting my face toward him. “What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing.” I stagger away from him, but not without first snatching the book from its nest of tissue paper.
It’s heavy, a limited-edition collector’s volume. The pages are worn, betraying its prior use. I knew someone who had a book like this. They scribbled in the margins, leaving notes and meaningless phrases. Including one at the very end in sloppy script: Brandt Lloyd was here.
“Snowy?”
Footsteps chase me from the ballroom. With my free hand, I claw at the train of my gown and outrun them. This wing of the house is darkened and emptied, and I take the route past Papa’s old study and out into the garden.
Warm air replaces the chill of the air-conditioned interior of the manor. Heedless of the uneven stones underfoot, I stagger toward the bubbling fountain in the center of the courtyard and attempt to slow my breathing. Think.
I’m hallucinating. Obviously. That five-second fantasy was a mistake. Brandt’s chased me into the real world again. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply and exhale two words. “He’s dead.”
My morbid lullaby. My cruel slap of reality. My one anchor in the sea of monotony my life has become.
Brandt Lloyd is dead. My beautiful boy. The only one in the world who could turn a vicious taunt into something magical. Our secret saying.
Slowly, I let my eyes open and focus them on the book cover in my hands.
Humpty Dumpty.
With trembling fingers, I flip through the pages. They’re crisp and unmolested, the hallmark of a brand-new copy. At the back, all I find is a gleaming sticker from the manufacturer. No notes. No scribbled greetings. Just painful memories that pinch at my psyche like jagged glass.
“Here,” he said, tossing a book onto my lap. “Stop pouting and start learning.”
I eyed the book with tears streaming down my cheeks and my hair a frizzy mess around my shoulders. We were in Papa’s study. Brandt had entered without permission—like always, he had known where to find me. Once I saw the gilded title, I glared at him. “Nice one. You’re mocking me too—”
“Read,” he snapped while settling himself behind Papa’s desk. Barely seventeen and as lanky as a bullwhip, Brandt resembled a sliver of ivory in my father’s hulking leather chair. Somehow, he managed to dominate the space, radiating authority and wisdom. With his long fingers steepled beneath his chin, he fixed me with a stern jab of his brilliant, blue gaze. “Out loud. Go on.”
So I did only to wind up exasperated by the end. “So, not only am I fat, but I’m irreparable?” I made it a question because I instinctively knew his aim wasn’t to insult.
“All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t fix Humpty Dumpty,” Brandt said, looking down on me from Papa’s desk, as shrewd as any businessman I knew. “Only he could do that, someone brave enough to climb on a wall despite the danger.”
I swallowed hard and fidgeted in my school uniform, still sniffling and wiping away tears. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He smiled. One of those rare, fleeting expressions only he could give. My breath caught, my heart swelling in my chest.
“It means that you stop fucking pouting and pick yourself up. What is that chant your father always makes you say?”
I rolled my eyes. “My name is Snowy Gale Hollings. That means something. Only,” I added haughtily, “all it means is that we’re so rich it doesn’t matter if I’m fat and ugly. Any day now, he’ll give me a voucher for liposuction. The only thing my name means is money.”
“No.” Brandt stood, unfurling his limbs with enviable grace. No one would ever dare mock him for his appearance. Except, perhaps, to imply he was too beautiful. Too handsome. The dark hair set against his indigo eyes made him far too formidable an opponent. My anger was no match, diffusing from me like smoke. “You’re Fiery Princess Snow,” he said, eyeing my frizzy wild hair. “That means something. It means that I’ll always be there to remind you to pick your ass up the next time some jealous, spoiled bitch calls you Humpty Dumpty.”
“Snowy?”
I flinch, suddenly aware of my surroundings. Cold air floods my lungs—not the familiar scent of old books and worn leather permeating Papa’s study. My vision blurs, smearing the scenery into a blob of golden tones and dark emerald green. That’s right: I’m in the gardens, and someone’s approaching from the shadows.
“Snowy, are you all right?”
Like always, Daniel conforms to my side, pressing a chaste kiss on my cheek and wrapping his thick arms around my waist. He’s more muscular than Brandt Lloyd could’ve ever hoped to be. His voice isn’t as naturally soothing, however. It takes effort on his part to sound more caring than impatient.
Upon clearing his throat, he tries. “Darling, everyone’s waiting. Was it the gift? I will admit it’s a rather unusual present—”
“It’s nothing.” My fingers tighten over the spine of the book. Suddenly, its true intent becomes clear: Someone wanted to remind me of my past. No matter who I may marry or how my appearance may change, I’ll always be Humpty Dumpty.
Only one guest would be so bold.
“You go in,” I tell Daniel, forcing a smile. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
“Are you sure?” His thumb traces my cheek, catching me off guard by how tender the gesture feels. Sometimes, he fools even me.
“I’m fine,” I reply. Banishing the tears, I swipe my hand across my face and wince. The edge of my ring caught the tender ridge of my forehead, leaving a bitter sting. “I…I just needed some fresh air.”
“All right.”
He leaves, and I turn to the fountain, running through the pages once again. Humpty Dumpty—my hated nickname. Old Snowy’s, anyway. The chubby girl with frizzy, red hair and only one friend in the whole world to cry to. The twist? He merely tolerated her, the daughter of his father’s business partner. He just never had the cruelty to send her away.
I swallow hard, fighting the memories back. Then I toss the book into the fountain and watch it float over the rippling surface. Unfortunately for the bitch who sent me this gift, I’m not that little girl anymore.
With my chin held high, I return to the ballroom. Rather than head straight t
o Daniel’s side, I approach the gaggle of women clustered at the back of my family’s ballroom. Sloane spots me first, her lips contorting into a faux-friendly smile.
“Snowy,” she says, her accent giving my name a musical thrill. “You look beautiful. Is everything all right?”
Ignoring her, I turn my attention to the beautiful blonde standing beside her. “Hello, Patsy,” I say.
She blinks beneath the scrutiny and giggles nervously. “You look amazing tonight, Snowy. Congratulations—”
“Was that your gift?”
“Huh?” She cuts her gaze to the table overflowing with presents. A splash of color paints her pale cheeks. “I don’t think—”
“You know, I was just reminiscing the other day,” I tell her, smiling wide, my tone cordial. “About how much fun we had in school. All those games we used to play. And my old nickname…” I tilt my head thoughtfully and run my thumb along my chin. “What was it?”
Patsy giggles again while glancing nervously at Sloane. But, if she expects a rescue, she’s sorely mistaken. The Spanish beauty, and anyone else in the nearest vicinity, is suddenly two steps back from her. Patsy’s on an island unto herself.
Once upon a time, I’d have cherished this moment.
Now? I can’t stop focusing on her mouth. Rumor had it that Brandt kissed her once, on those thin, pursed lips that spewed such torment against me. Rumor also claimed he rejected her afterward. He could be like that sometimes. Hot and then brutally cold.
A newer memory springs forward, unwarranted.
“Stop it, Snow!” he shouted, shoving me back while wiping at his mouth. The look on his face stole my breath away—I’d never seen him that furious. “Don’t you ever do that again.”
Blinking, I refocus my attention on Patsy. “My nickname,” I repeat when she hasn’t replied. “Do you remember what it was?”
Patsy’s throat jerks beneath a nervous gulp. “I-I—”
“What a shame that you can’t make it to the wedding, Patsy.” I frown and shake my head. Then I gather my train in a fist and turn my back to her. “Have a wonderful night.”
I cross the room, desperate to ignore the pinch in my chest. Guilt. How long has it been since I felt it—or anything at all? Too damn long. Perhaps I need my medication adjusted again. After all, as Papa repeatedly drilled into my skull: I’m Snowy Fucking Gale Hollings. That means something.
It means I lie all the time.
It means I feel nothing.
It means that money trumps all. Even the life of the boy I loved.
“Darling?” Daniel reaches out the moment I’m close enough, grasping my hand. “Are you all right?” He’s still smiling, of course. The expression must hurt—he holds it for so long. Anything to keep up appearances—mustn’t let them see any flaws in the façade.
“I’m tired,” I tell him before placing a kiss on his cheek. “I think I need to lie down for a moment.”
“Now, darling? There’s something I thought we could discuss.”
Only I can hear the crack in his voice. Displeasure. If I leave now, I’ll embarrass him.
If I stay, I’ll embarrass him. My chest feels too tight. That damn piece of toast Hunter forced me to eat weighs heavily on my stomach.
He’s watching me from across the room, his eyes narrowed in warning. Play along. After tonight, with our engagement immortalized in every society page in the country, my marriage to Daniel Wentworth-Ellingston III is all but guaranteed. The influx of new money will help Hunter secure his precious investments, and the house of cards that is the Hollings Estate will remain balanced for a few more generations.
All I have to do is smile.
“I just need to lie down.” I escape before Daniel can reply, knowing he can’t chase me across the room a second time without losing face. I hear him murmur something charming before he forges onward to open gifts without me.
If only I could have him continue the rest of the engagement in the same way. I’d smile and simper and let him do all the talking.
Left to my own devices, I run. I hide. I let him save face alone.
When I reach the staircase without being attacked by Hunter, I’m reminded once again of how the hierarchy works in this secluded, gilded world.
I’m only worth as much as my ring finger.
I eye the digit in question as I mount the stairs and enter my suite. My steps draw me straight toward the bathroom. No, I tell myself, faltering over the threshold of gleaming white tile. The toilet looms in the far corner, watching me. Taunting me.
I should have never eaten that bread.
Hunter always nags me at the worst possible times. To protect his investment, of course. Daniel couldn’t know about the damaged goods he would receive until it was too late—though he was fucking Sloane, and she’s stuck her finger in her throat more than I ever did.
Did. That’s the keyword. I’m healed now. I’m healthy and well-adjusted, no longer that girl driven to extremes in a desperate attempt to feel in control. I am in control. I won’t go into the bathroom…
I won’t go any closer…
I won’t approach the toilet…
I won’t lift the lid…
Staring down into the rippling water, I let myself toy with the idea. Just one little purge. I’ll feel better. I can’t sleep on a full stomach, and I need to be well rested—how else can I put on the best performance? My teeth skewer my bottom lip as my fingers trace the rim of the porcelain seat. Slowly, I lower the lid. Then I turn away and reenter my bedroom.
With one hand, I undo the back of my gown and crawl beneath my duvet, wearing only a bra. Then I reach behind my pillow and find a plastic bottle hidden away beneath the silk. It rattles as I drag it closer and fish two Xanax out. They go down roughly without water. But I’m running out.
With my eyes closed, I inhale deeply and try to forget. Everything. All the old memories and the less vibrant new ones. I sink into the monotony my life has become and let it pull me away.
Deep down I know the truth: without him, I’ll always awaken to a nightmare.
Two
Savory scents lure me from a dreamless sleep. Eggs? And bacon, I think. Along with…
Damn. The hint of cologne betrays that this isn’t an ordinary meal, and I groan into my pillow. Barring his daily deliveries of bread slices, Hunter has only brought me breakfast in bed three times in my life. Once on the morning Mama died. The second occurence was the morning after I split my winter formal gown in tenth year and ran sobbing from the ballroom. And, of course, the day of Brandt’s trial.
“I’m not hungry,” I grumble without lifting my head from my pillow.
Nonetheless, his footsteps persist, creeping over my Persian rug toward my bed. There’s a thud, like that of Mama’s antique silver tray being set down on my dresser, followed by the hiss of Hunter’s heavy sigh.
“Snowy…”
Oh dear. He certainly sounds grumpy. My absence from the party must have caused more of a scene than I’d anticipated. What a scandal.
“I know, I know.” I stick one hand out from beneath my duvet and gesture dismissively. “I’ve brought shame upon the Hollings name. I’ll organize a brunch with Daniel to make up for it.”
A few simpering looks over tea should cool any remaining embarrassment. Right as rain, we’ll send out our glossy, official announcements and plan our four-page spread in the society pages. Publicity is the cure to any relationship strife. At least in my world.
“I’m not talking about the damn gala,” Hunter replies.
“Oh?” I stiffen at his tone. “Then what?”
“We… Fuck, I’ll just come out and say it: Daniel won’t be available for brunch any time soon, Snowy.”
“What do you mean?” My mouth wrinkles, and I find myself twisting a wad of sheets around my fingers. Has Sloane’s seduction finally won her the coveted prize? “Why?”
“Because he’s going to be in prison, most likely. Federally indicted on charges of money l
aundering and fraud.”
I laugh. “Very funny—”
“Would I honestly joke about something like this?”
Alarm draws me from my den of blankets. Hunter rarely sounds like this. Hard. Clipped. So much like our father.
I peel the corner of my duvet back and roll over to face him. He’s frowning, and more unease unfurls in my chest. I start to stand, dislodging a small object that rolls to the edge of my bed. Hunter catches it, giving it a shake. The pill bottle.
My shoulders tense with dread. Normally he’d spout off some speech about the perils of overdosing. Today, he tosses me the bottle. “Take two of those and join me in Mama’s study,” he says gruffly. “I’ll get your robe.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m seated in the upstairs drawing room while Hunter spreads butter on a piece of toast. He lavishes concentration on the act as if his sole motive for dragging me out of bed was to show off his skills with a butter knife.
Not unload a torrent of information that throws our lives into chaos.
“James only found out last night,” he explains, naming one of the men on the Hollings Enterprises board of directors. “The official indictment isn’t until Thursday, but apparently, some whistleblower snuck the Feds enough intel to open an investigation that’s been ongoing for months. The building’s been forfeited, with the newest shareholder already installed. The board called an emergency meeting two nights ago and kept it all a fucking secret.”
I swallow hard. He sounds so damn calm. Hunter, with moods so volatile Mama compared him to a thunderstorm, rarely showed this kind of restraint. In fact, I’ve only seen him like this twice before. Once when Papa cornered him about white residue the maids found on his bathroom sink, and the time a rumor spread that he’d gotten Penelope Granger pregnant.
Burgeoning drug use and scandal seem preferable now. My head spins with everything he told me. I keep replaying the sordid details, pairing them with the gilded elegance of last night.
Did Daniel know then the legal trouble facing him?
Did Hunter?
I ask him.
