by Jo Raven
Chapter Three
Tessa
It’s Saturday. The gala is today. And I don’t want to go.
Time just won’t stop on the happier moments. It tends to stall when you most want it to pass. I lie on my king-sized bed, staring up at the white ceiling. The clouds sailing in the sky outside the big window dapple the light, so that the room seems to ripple.
I close my eyes. I want to sleep clear through the weekend, until Monday. It’s not that I’m agoraphobic, or even shy. I like going out with my friends, but I hate these impersonal, stiff, huge gatherings, the fluffed-up women wearing all the jewelry they can carry and the men parading them around like trophies.
Weekend means spending time with my friends, hanging out, laughing and dancing. Only this reminds me of Dylan, and how he’s no longer part of my life. It hurts like a blade twisting in my chest.
Ugh. I burrow deeper under my warm covers, curl up and put my arms around my knees. I have to go to the gala, because Dad promised to listen to me afterward, maybe come to an agreement about college. We could smile at each other, reach an understanding.
I remember once… I was maybe nine, and I’d ridden my pony perfectly round the course. I won the gold medal, and he was so happy and proud. He smiled at me and stroked my face.
The next year I fell and broke my leg. I won no medal, and he was furious. Didn’t talk to me for weeks. Mom stayed locked up in her room. Mary, my sister, was away at a boarding school, and I was alone in the world, or so it felt like. And it was all my fault for failing my parents. For not pleasing them, not being good enough.
But Dylan was there for me. He’d come into my house through the window, sit and tell me jokes, make me laugh. No wonder I fell for him. He’s always been gorgeous, and so kind…
Crap. I scrub my hands over my dry eyes. Why am I thinking of this now? I am good enough. Audrey has been drilling this into my head for years now. Erin, too. I am worth something. Not being the best at everything doesn’t mean I’m a failure.
Throwing the covers off me, I march into the bathroom and jump into the shower. Stop overthinking, I tell myself. Audrey made me read long articles about low self-esteem depression and help. She keeps telling me I’m beautiful, clever, amazing.
A pity I can’t believe her. She’s only telling me all this to make me happy, to help me.
Am I beautiful? I wipe the steam off the full-length mirror covering one wall of the bathroom and stare at myself. I try to be objective, critical.
I’m tall and thin. My breasts are round and taut, large for my slender frame, though not as big as Audrey’s. My hips flare out from a narrow waist. My legs are long and strong. I go running three times a week and sometimes go to the gym. My skin is good. My blond hair is long and healthy.
Healthy. I look healthy. But am I pretty? Dylan dumped me. And although I kissed quite a few boys, I never let anyone else get close enough to do that. Never had a real boyfriend again, so I couldn’t be abandoned again.
So no help there.
As for being smart… What’s the use if I can’t discern who really loves me?
Clenching my teeth, I step back from the mirror. Well, I can’t see all these positive qualities Audrey talks about. In fact, it doesn’t matter what she says, what anyone says. I’m a failure. I see no proof that I’m pretty, and clever and amazing. That I’m wanted.
I want to find the evidence, prove to myself that I am all that. That I’m worth more than I get from my parents. From Dylan.
But that proof has yet to come.
***
Knowing my parents and what is expected of me, I spend the morning at the hairdresser’s and even have my nails done, before I return home to get dressed. A dress was sent for me from my parents, and I’m standing in my room, staring at it, trying not to freak out.
Now, if my parents want me to wear it and I want them—well, my dad—to be amenable to persuasion, then I should suck it up and wear what they sent me.
But… I finger the soft, shimmery red fabric, my pulse thumping in my ears. The dress is super short, its cleavage huge, and it looks more like lingerie, something meant for the bedroom rather than a dress for a gala.
Yet there’s no misunderstanding. I checked the note that came with it. Called to confirm. Yeah, this is the dress I’m supposed to wear. That, and the red high-heeled shoes that arrived with it, and the red coral necklace. It’s almost as if… as if they’re going to pimp me out, dangle me like a bright bait.
I shake my head. No, that’s nonsense. Maybe this is the new fashion in their circles. Who knows? And even if they are pimping me out, at least it won’t be to Sean. That’s an improvement, right?
A relief.
So I put on the damn dress, the heels and the necklace, and stand in front of the mirror.
A wince twists my face. The dress sticks to me like cling wrap, and it’s so short I’ll be flashing anyone walking behind me on a staircase. Sitting down will be tricky. The fabric shimmers as I turn. I feel… exposed. Naked.
I feel like I’m about to sell my body to the highest bidder. It’s not exciting. It’s not good. It’s scary. Makes me feel sick.
Quickly, before I change my mind, I take out my make-up bag and get to work. I learned the tricks from my mother’s beautician—how to use foundation to cover any skin imperfections, how to use eyeliner to make my eyes look larger. How to cover up every flaw.
Being Rich 101.
I apply the make-up with practiced moves, then wait until my hand steadies before I apply the eyeliner, shadow and mascara. Keeping my mind blank—or trying to—I put on some red lipstick to match my dress, and slip on golden earrings and my golden Gucci watch.
Red and gold. Gift-wrapped, like a Christmas present. For whom?
I blink in the mirror, my eyes the only blue in the picture, the fear in them strident. A contradiction to the confidence the ensemble projects. Here I am, my hair held up, blond curls framing my face, my lips and nails red, all of me red, like passion and fire, like blood. A wannabe Marilyn, while inside I’m cold and terrified.
Why am I scared? I stomp back into my bedroom and stop, taking deep breaths. I’m a grown woman. Nobody can force me to do anything I don’t want.
Like go to the gala? Wear this dress? Heck—study what my dad wants and marry a man who will control my every move?
I hang my head. That’s not what this is about, I remind myself, or rather try to convince myself. There’s no reason to be afraid of going to this stupid gala. I’ve been to so many I’ve lost count. There’s nothing to it.
I’m good. I’m used to this. I know what to do, and nothing can hurt me.
Repeating the mantra in my head, I grab my coat and purse, and head out.
***
The gala is being held at the magnificent Monona Terrace, by the lake. I slow down, and a valet approaches to take the car. I step out, give him the key and receive my ticket. Then I walk the small distance to the entrance in my new, painful shoes. By the time I’m let inside, my feet are killing me. I’m used to high heels, but these are so tall I teeter on them, permanently off balance.
It’s really not helping. Hell, I already feel like I’m not in control. Swallowing the urge to kick off the shoes and run away, I enter the covered grand terrace with its gigantic mullioned windows, and move through the sparkling crowd, looking for my parents.
Here I am. I’ve kept my side of the bargain. I dressed up according to their wishes, and showed up. They need to see that, and keep their promise. Talk to me. Let me talk. Agree on something.
Focused on my parent-finding mission, I almost crash into a short, rotund man who yelps, and then laughs.
“My dear Miss Leon. So nice to see you,” he says and steadies me with a hand on my arm.
I look down at him from my vantage point, perched on my skyscraper heels, and try to place him. “Mr. Walker?”
“In the flesh. Call me Mason.” He grips my arm in his surprisingly big hand and pulls me toward a
colorful display. “So kind of you to come. Your mother did mention you’re interested in the topic.”
“Really?” I look up at the display—and gape. Distantly I knew this was a charity event. These galas organized by the Jensons usually are—a way to save on taxes and do business under the cover of goodwill. And yet this… This is exactly what I’d like to get involved in: donating to finance an archaeological dig in Guatemala, partly by paying locals to work there.
My heart pounds with excitement, and for a moment I forget the reason I’m here and the awful slutty dress I’m wearing. I forget about Mr. Walker and the people milling around us.
That’s what I’d rather be doing, what I can imagine myself doing. Digging into ancient history. Helping people in the present. Crafting a future.
“There will be a training program for the locals,” Mr. Walker—Mason—is saying. “We can’t train them to be archaeologists, but we can train them to be specialized workers and overseers, and explain to them how preserving their heritage can profit them. How they can create an eco-tourist complex around the archaeological site, which will respect both nature and history. How the long-term benefits are so much better than the immediate profits of looting and selling what they find.”
“It sounds great,” I say in all honesty. I finally remember who Mason Walker is: owner of the exclusive Walker Suites Hotel chain, involved in many third-world country projects. “I’d love to help.”
“You will be donating, I assume?”
I shake my head. Donations are out of the question. My parents are the ones with the money, not me. Every cent I spend is controlled.
He frowns at me. “What did you have in mind?”
“Do you need volunteers? At your HQ here, I mean. I’d love to help.”
His small eyes widen. Then his face creases in a smile. “That’d be an honor, Miss Leon.” Smoothly he takes a business card from the breast pocket of his tailored suit and offers it to me. “Give me a call, and we will arrange it.”
I take the card and smile at him. “It’s a deal.”
I’m more excited than I’ve ever been since I started college. Before college, I’d held out hope—for many things. That Mary might come back. That my parents might change. That Dylan…
Ah crap, don’t, Tessa. Forget about him.
My smile slipping, I clutch the card and promise to call, then turn and lose myself in the crowd, walking blindly through colors and flashes of gems and glittering gowns.
Can anyone change? Can I change? Mary obviously doesn’t believe it. She didn’t think our parents could, so she decided to change everything and everyone around her, instead.
A coward, Dad had called Mary. A disappointment. A fiasco.
Mary says she’s happy.
“Tessa,” my dad’s voice booms, and I flinch as he steps in my path, tall and imposing in his expensive suit, his face impassive. His hand encircles my wrist and yanks me forward, a tiny jerk that jars my bones and makes me yelp. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.” I tug on my hand, and he lets go. My wrist throbs. “I was looking for you.”
His gaze is dark and disapproving. “Took you a long time,” he mutters. “It’s not that hard. Only you would take forever to locate me.”
“I ran into Mr. Walker,” I say and realize I’m trying to find excuses, when in fact I don’t have to excuse myself to him. “He said—”
“We’re late because of you,” he hisses, giving me no chance to say anything else, and starts walking.
I stare at his back, my breathing coming too fast. My feet start moving without any conscious thought.
“Wait!” I call as I totter after him. Why can’t I break his hold on me? I’m not a little kid anymore. “Just slow down. Who are we meeting?”
He doesn’t reply, maybe doesn’t even hear me, as he purposefully opens a path in the crowd. Where is my mom? Weren’t they supposed to come here together?
We’re heading toward one of the many bars set up around the roofed terrace. Dad finally slows down, scanning the people around us, and this gives me a chance to catch up. I stop by his side, panting.
“Who,” I begin, and have to stop and breathe in again, “are you looking for? The Jensons?”
“No, not them.” He straightens his silken tie. “They’re peanuts, not important in the grand scheme of things.”
I frown. “Not important? I thought you wanted to make a deal with them.”
“The Jensons are bankrupt.”
Confusion sweeps over me. “But this gala…?”
“Ah, there they are.” My father motions for me to follow and starts moving again.
The Jensons? By now I’m so confused, I just go with the flow. If the Jensons are bankrupt, how the heck did they finance such an event? Was bankruptcy the reason they canceled it at first? But then how did they get the money to set it up anyway? And what for?
My father stops, and I step sideways, not to crash into him. Suddenly his hand grips my wrist again, and I jerk it, trying to free it. What is he doing? In front of everyone…
“Well, well. Look who’s here,” a male voice drawls, and the fine hairs on my arms stand up like needles.
I lift my gaze, my head feeling heavy, my whole body sluggish as if moving through water.
My vision blurs. It can’t be. It can’t frigging be.
Can’t be Sean Anholt, leering at me, looking pleased with himself. His dark hair is cut short, his green eyes are bright, and he looks every bit the beautiful monster that he is.
“Here is Tessa, as I promised,” my father is saying.
As he promised? What the hell? “What are you doing, Dad? Let me go.”
I tug again on his hold to free my hand, but he’s holding on so tight it hurts.
“So this is little Tessa,” another male voice says, so similar to Sean’s, and I turn to see a rail-thin, middle-aged man. He’s standing so close to Sean, the similarities are obvious.
For a moment, the shock takes my mind off Sean. This is his father, tycoon David Anholt. What is he doing in little Madison? Why isn’t he in Chicago? What’s going on?
He smirks at my stunned expression. “Sean has told me all about you. Feisty, aren’t you? I want the best for my boy, and I expect you to treat him right.”
My gaze snaps to Sean, whose eyes are hooded. His grin makes my stomach turn.
“I’m not his girlfriend,” I say, my voice shaking. “Never was.”
“Really? Sean told me that misunderstanding was cleared up,” David Anholt says, and my dad nods gravely.
Misunderstanding?
My knees feel weak. “No.”
“Tessa.” My dad pulls me forward, grinding the bones in my wrist. “Go talk with Sean and have fun. His father and I have some things we need to discuss.”
Holy crap. He’s handing me over, just like that, to my worst nightmare.
I dig my heels in, but it’s hard with nine-inch stilettos. I glance at Dad, and he smiles easily, the expression warm and encouraging.
My dad is encouraging me to do this, and something in me wants to obey and please him, to see the approval in his gaze.
“Come, Tessa,” Sean says then, breaking the spell.
No. The fear returns. “No.”
But Sean clamps a hand around my arm and drags me away anyway. Trapped in my narrow dress and stupid shoes, I can barely keep from falling as he hauls me across the terrace, never stopping to let me catch my breath. The people part to let us pass, and for the second time tonight I’m following a man I don’t want to follow through the crowded hall, toward a fate I seem to be unable to avoid.
***
Sean drags me out, into the cold night, and I’m glad I’m still wearing my coat. Ice knives through my exposed legs, but the reason I shiver has nothing to do with the temperature.
A manicured garden, lamps shedding yellow light on us, and the shiny expanse of the lake below. On this strange scene plays out one of my worst nightmares—a repe
tition of a memory that will always haunt me.
“Let go of me.” I jerk my arm, and finally he releases me. Pain radiates up to my elbow, and tears crowd the back of my eyes, burning like fire. I refuse to let them fall. “Bastard.”
“Now, now, Tessa.” He looks mildly amused, and fear mingles with anger in a nauseating mix. “Mind your manners.”
“My manners?” My tongue is finally loosened. “You dragged me out here against my will.”
“Really? Why didn’t you say anything?” He taps his ear. “I didn’t hear any protests.”
Jesus. He’s right. I said nothing all the way. “You caught me by surprise, is all.” I did try to pull away, though, as we moved across the room. Before I open my mouth to tell him so, he laughs.
He’s standing on the lawn, with the whiff of the lake on the air, the stars twinkling in the clear skies overhead, laughing. Laughing at me.
My face heats up with humiliation.
“Goodbye, Sean.” I turn to go, not sure where I am, and not caring.
“Stop right there.” He’s right behind me, and a sob catches in my throat. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“You can’t stop me.” I start moving again, and he grabs my waist, halting my progress. Fea turns my limbs to ice. “Let me go, Sean, dammit.”
“You little slut,” he whispers, and I feel dizzy and disconnected from my body. “You thought you could get away? Your daddy gave you to me.”
“He can’t give me away.” My teeth are chattering. “This isn’t the Middle Ages.”
“Where big money is involved, baby, the laws you know don’t apply. Didn’t your daddy explain this to you?”
“You’re sick,” I mutter and try to pry his hands off me. “Get off of me!”
He’s breathing down my back, and there’s nothing I can do. I glance around, but there’s no one to help me.
“You’ll do as I say, and be nice and sweet,” he whispers in my ear. “Otherwise the deal I convinced my dad to make with yours is off, and your daddy won’t be happy.”
“I don’t care!”
“You don’t say. What will you do if daddy dearest withdraws his financial help? What then, little bitch?” He shakes me until my teeth rattle, then turns me around so fast my foot twists, and I start going down.
