by Lana Sky
Maybe one day I’ll make him atone for his role in our downfall. Then again, maybe this is merely sweet revenge; after all, I’m the one who ruined our lives first.
With that thought in my head, I shower and dress in a new gown, one of the Parisian creations meant to be worn at the rehearsal dinner for my wedding, of all things. Why I packed it, I’ll never know. It hangs loosely on me. Barely a week of destitution and my body is already starting to show it.
At least the hanging neckline reveals plenty of cleavage. Thin breasts rise from a visible rib cage. How appealing. Once dressed, I turn away from the mirror and leave a note for Hunter, explaining that I’ll be gone for a few days and not to worry.
Then I begin my descent to the lobby via the stairs, extending every second as though they’re truly my last. My lungs flood with the fresh air once I make it outside, and I consider taking Hunter’s car, the only vehicle yet to be repossessed, but wind up taking a cab instead.
I track my journey through the back seat window, riveted by the rolling hills and fields I’ve viewed a thousand times, but never like this. I’m no longer a fairy tale princess but a captive pauper. Hollings blood forms my chains, and my jailer is an evocative shadow of my past with motives yet to be revealed.
When Hollings Manor finally appears on the horizon, I barely recognize it. Draped in darkness, a few days’ absence have stripped it bare of twenty-four years’ worth of memories.
And Blake Lorenz taints every stone. I feel his presence during the solitary walk up the front path, the one lined with the flowerbeds Mama meticulously oversaw the planting of. I sense him lurking within the hallowed walls, though he isn’t the figure who opens the door for me. Unsurprisingly, he’s made short work of assuming control of the estate. Charles greets me as formally as though he’s controlled this entrance for years.
“He’s in the study,” he says after ushering me inside.
This time, he doesn’t lead the way there. I’m forced to travel down that hallway alone. The lamps flicker at their dimmest setting, and I find only one lit in Papa’s study.
Or what used to be Papa’s study.
All but two of the bookshelves have been removed, allowing more natural light inside. The desk has been moved closer to the window, angled for its seated occupant to best observe the view.
Which puts his back to me. From my position, I can’t make out what he’s working on. Documents? He shuffles them noisily before casting me a cold appraisal over his shoulder.
“What the fuck are you wearing?”
It’s wrong, but for a split second, my mind goes to Daniel. All of those fawning looks and searching glances. Never once did he…scowl.
“Change,” Blake growls, returning to his paperwork. Hunched shoulders close him off further from me—and, by extension, this very room. “There’s clothing in your room upstairs.”
Clothing? The prospect of an outfit chosen by him is too terrifying to question out loud. Numb with apprehension, I return to the foyer and mount the ornate staircase, feeling like a stranger.
For the first time, I see the house as I figure a newcomer might. So big. So empty. There are no family photographs hanging on the walls or personal baubles strewn about. Our name was our identity, but the irony is that Blake Lorenz didn’t have to remove much to strip our presence from the walls. Some of the paintings are missing. The lights in the upstairs hall were left dim. And my room…
It’s been desecrated. Gray walls have replaced my beloved navy. Utilitarian white sheets cover my bed instead of my dark silken ones. My wardrobe is gone. In its place stands a metal rack upon which only a few items hang. Thin, terrifying things.
The loss of my personal touches lands with unexpected damage. I wince, blinking rapidly against a sudden burn. Slowly, I suck in gulps of air and creep closer to observe the newer clothing.
I finger a white bit of lace material at random. The sewn-in tag proclaims it’s in my size, but when I strip my black dress and pull it on over my head, I must hold my breath to yank the hem over my waist. It clings to me, nearly see-through. The bubbles in a bathtub are more conservative.
“I told you to change, not linger.”
I turn and find Blake glowering in the doorway.
He narrows his gaze at my appearance, seemingly unimpressed. “You call this a body worth a fortune?”
My cheeks sting as though they’ve been slapped. His doubt now is a far cry from the man who gaped at me last night.
“What do you mean?” Self-conscious pain creeps into my voice. I can’t stop my hands from smoothing over my waist, noting the uncomfortably tight fit.
“Daniel Ellingston has low standards, apparently. Take it off.”
I swallow hard, grasping at the taut fabric. “W-what?”
“Take the fucking dress off,” he commands in a tone far softer than his words allude to. It’s dangerous. “Now, before you fucking tear it.”
Woodenly, I strip the slip. I have it halfway over my head when an ominous rip comes from the seams.
“Jesus Christ, take it off!”
I shimmy out of it fully and leave the ruined garment slung over the side of my bed. “I’m sorry.”
He says nothing.
“I-I… It must be a different size.”
Again nothing.
I gather up the nerve to look at him directly. Eyes like fire rake freely over my hip and up to my exposed breasts. My first instinct is to shield myself with my hands, but he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s done it.
His throat contorts around a hard swallow. “It’s the correct damn size,” he says as his stare claims mine. “But you aren’t.”
“W-what?”
He shrugs, turning his attention to my room. “Until you can wear the clothing I provide, you wear nothing.”
God, despite everything, a laugh trickles out of me, high-pitched and breathless. “You’re not serious.”
“I’m not?” He faces me again, but this time, his eyes never leave my face. With barely disguised disgust, his upper lip curls back from his teeth. “Oh, I fucking am. Allow me to let you in on a little secret…” He even leans in close, basting my cheek with his breath. “Unlike the rest of the goddamn world, I’m not enamored with Snowy Hollings. In fact, you’re not the first person on this side of the country I want to fuck. You’re not even the second or the third. I don’t give a fuck what other men may have tolerated when it comes to your appearance”—he gives a pointed glance to the body in question—“but make no mistake. Do you want your shares? You earn them. I won’t tailor my tastes for anyone. If you stay, you must meet them. Understood?”
“If I stay?”
He shrugs. “I’m not desperate enough to force you. Hell, your virginity isn’t worth a goddamn penny to me, though if you stay, you keep it intact unless I decide to rectify it. The moment you find you can’t adhere to my expectations, you leave.”
And any promise of money is withdrawn. He doesn’t say as much, but it’s all in the unspoken rules of the game. Money is the prize and my body is the game board—only he controls every piece in play.
“Ruin another dress and you’ll know the consequences.” He snatches up the damaged dress. Another tear comes from the fabric as he cinches it tight, his knuckles whitening. “I’ll give you a week to fit into the clothes.”
With that, he leaves, slamming the door behind him. But he can’t be serious.
He can’t be…
A glance around the room reveals no other clothing. All of my fancy dresses and designer ensembles. Did he burn them? The prospect of such a malicious act blows my mind.
Numb, I sink onto my bed, drawing the edges of my sheets around my naked frame. I don’t cry, refusing to allow a single tear to fall. I remember instead. What it’s like to sacrifice everything for the sake of Hollings blood.
This isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever done. Not even close.
Eleven
I don’t sleep. Des
pite how heavy my eyelids have become, I can’t get comfortable in this strange open cell where I once spent ten years of my life. My brain refuses to accept what my body is forced to realize: my home, my world, all of it is gone overnight.
Blake Lorenz holds the keys to this new reality.
And he wants to make sure I know it. His scent lingers in the air, heavy and fragrant. Stifling and potent. I find myself inhaling deeply, trying to decipher every nuance.
God, he’s harsh even in incorporeal form. My nostrils itch with the burning sting of his presence. There’s none of the softness I seek. Nothing like…
Stop. I clamp down on the thought before it can unfurl. There’s no point in dreaming. My only goal from now on is surviving. Though, funnily enough, I didn’t stop to consider just how I’d do so. Blake Lorenz demanded an entire year, and I sold my soul without stopping to consider the logistics.
Dread grips my heart even as a tired laugh trickles from my lips and onto the sheets. I didn’t even ask him just what he’d expect from me. Sex? Last night, I would have suspected as much, but now? I run a trembling hand down my front, pinching flesh over my stomach. There’s enough to form a cushion between my fingertips…
Years ago I’d do the same thing to measure how much bigger I was than the other girls. A giant, ungainly Humpty Dumpty. Memory plays a dangerous game. Brandt was the one who caught me first, exposing my dirty secret. I still remember how he looked, observing me hunched over a toilet with a magazine clutch in my fist.
There was no judgment in his gaze—that was the worst part. He just shook his head, his voice breaking like I’d never heard. “Snow, you’re perfect already. You’re perfect…”
A cold sensation washes over me, and I lurch upright while pinching myself on the wrist. Stop. God, I haven’t thought like this in so long. Not since…well, ten years ago.
I scramble from the bed, surprised to find a faint streak of pink stretching across the sky beyond my windows. I use the illumination as a guide to return to that rack of clothing. I select a different dress and attempt to slip it on. Way too tight. I don’t even dare risk pulling the fabric over my hips for fear of tearing it. Another dress fits no better.
Size two. Size three. Four.
Shit. My heart pounds as I enter my bathroom, wary of what I’ll find in the mirror. Still the same Snowy, it seems. Thin. The lines of my rib cage press insistently against my skin. Perhaps that’s where the newfound gain comes from? My heart aches, swollen a million times its normal size. If I were a decent woman, the discomfort would be out of concern for my brothers.
I turn away from my reflection in disgust. Nervous energy drives me into the hallway. One step beyond my room and I remember my current state of dress as cool air assaults my skin. I glance back at my bed and consider grabbing the sheets.
Until you can wear the clothing I provide, you wear nothing.
Grinding my teeth together, I forsake any covering as I creep through a seemingly deserted wing and down the servant’s staircase. Even the back halls are deserted. Did he fire everyone? Guilt racks my spine. Some of our staff had worked with my family for years—yet another casualty to our downfall. In a year, would they be willing to return? I make a promise to myself here and now to ensure they do. Everything will be just as it was. Everything…
Except for this house. Within a day, Blake Lorenz has altered it irreparably. My father’s study is a far cry from my old refuge. I linger in the doorway, unsure if it’s even the same room. But yes, it’s the final door in this section of the house, right off the main entrance.
Papa’s presence has haunted this room for so long, but overnight, he’s vanished. I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing. Honestly, the shiver racking my spine feels the same. But it’s not Papa I picture as I creep toward my old hiding place—the mahogany desk—and run my fingers along its surface.
Despite the cold, I leave streaks of sweat over the wood. My fingers shake. Clenching them by my sides, I turn to the bookshelves. Oddly enough, Blake Lorenz seemed to have left the chilling selection intact. Books on war and revenge.
But years ago, I snuck a sliver of peace into this refuge. After all this time, I’m not sure if the book is still even there, hidden beneath the desk, tucked in the tiny gap left by the drawer. But there it is. I slowly pull it out and curl up on the floor of the cramped space. It’s hard to read in the shadow, so I rely mainly on memory, but my mind soon drifts to the person who gave me this gift.
It was a joke, I think. A mocking play on his nickname: Princess Snow. A book of fairy tales spanning numerous continents and ages. I settle on one without thought and wind up running my fingers over an in-depth illustration of a round egg-like figure perched on a stone wall. Humpty Dumpty.
I think I read that excerpt at least ten times before I finally notice the footsteps approaching the room. Charles? Or another servant?
No. Those slow, heavy steps trigger the eerie sensation of falling in my stomach. Only one man affects me this way.
“I know you’re in here,” he says from the doorway, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s speaking more to himself than to me. Animosity wafts on the air, clashing with the memory playing in my very soul.
I’ve found you, Snow. I know you’re in here…
“Get out.”
I unfurl my limbs and crawl from beneath the desk. He’s wearing black: a plain shirt unbuttoned to reveal a sliver of muscled flesh underneath. His feet are bare, his hair tousled. Going off his frown, I suspect he forgot his own declaration? His eyes narrow as I stand, dropping the book.
My hands fly to my breasts, but not quickly enough. He eyes me shamelessly, from my exposed nipples downward. With every inch traveled, black pupils dilate in that terrible way mothers warn their daughters about in hushed tones.
“I’m leaving.” I grab the book and circle the desk only to falter when he doesn’t move from the doorway.
He jerks his chin instead, down to the object clenched in my fist. Something flits across his face too quickly to name. Recognition? I hold my breath as he scans the cover.
“Leave it.”
My fingers tighten over the leather spine. So many memories have already been forfeited. Can I bare to give up this one as well? A lump forms in my throat.
“It’s just a children’s book,” I say. “It’s not—”
“I said leave it.”
I lower the book to the desk’s surface, but I can’t take my eyes off it. My feet refuse to move, rooted to the Persian carpet.
“Someone gave it to me.” Why I tell him as much, I don’t know. Brandt Lloyd was a presence I thought I had exorcized from my life a long time ago. Lately, it feels like his memory is stronger than ever, thanks in no small part to the man tormenting me while wearing his face. “Please—”
“Enough.”
I jump as he advances on me. Alarm jolts through my skin when snatches the book from my reach. He opens it at random and rips a page right from the middle. Another. Then another. As I watch, he crumbles them one by one and tosses them to the floor at my feet. When he turns to another page, my heart lurches to my throat and I can’t silence a cry.
“W-wait!”
“What?” He scowls down at the page, devoid of recognition. Though, if I’m not mistaken, the line of his jaw tightens further.
“Not that one,” I say. I’m begging.
He captures the title page between his thumb and his forefinger. Then he releases it and shoves the book against my chest. “Get out.”
I race for the door.
“Wait.”
Clutching the book to my chest, I linger on the threshold.
“Come here.”
I turn to face him, biting a refusal back. Already, he’s seated behind the desk. In the dim light of dawn, he almost resembles Papa, scowling in disapproval of my mere presence.
“Sit.”
When I approach one of the leather chairs positioned near the door, he shakes his head.
&
nbsp; “No. There.”
The desk itself? When I reach it, he says nothing. Instead, he turns his attention to one of the drawers and fishes a stack of paperwork from within. Slowly, I turn and brace one hand against the wood. A sharp intake of air cuts the silence, but I’m too breathless to make the sound.
I look back and find blue eyes watching me, centered over my lower back. Self-consciousness washes over me, and my toes twitch toward the floor. “I can go—”
“Sit.” His tone leaves no room for argument, clipped and cold.
I lower myself without facing him, forced to rely on my hearing to guess his motives. He’s breathing harshly but still shuffling his papers. Every now and again, I hear the scratch like that of a pen over parchment.
“Read,” he tells me after what feels like an eternity.
My book? I warily eye the pages, annoyed beyond reason when tears blur my vision. He can ask me to strip and I do it without hesitation, but this? This book contains a soul, one too sacred to desecrate. So I attempt to flip to another story.
“Don’t,” he snaps before I can completely turn the page. “Read it out loud.”
I fight to swallow down the lump in my throat. “H-Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall—”
“Louder.” For a world-renowned businessman, he doesn’t seem eager to question why a grown woman is clinging to a children’s book. There’s nothing in his tone I can interpret. No inflection. No hint of emotion. He might as well be talking to the wall about the weather. A wall he despises. “Keep reading.”
So I do, straining my voice to carry. Miracle of miracles, the tears welling in my eyes never fall. They merely obscure the pages until memory is all I rely on. “And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men failed to put him back together again.”
My voice rasps as my words echo back to me. It’s been so long since I’ve read this book. So long since I’ve smelled the scents locked within the pages. I swear I can feel him. Hear him promising to be by my side always. Where kings and men failed, Brandt Lloyd never would.
