I’m wearing a gold floor-length, strapless dress with a corseted waist and a sweetheart neckline, which is doing wonders for my figure but nothing for my comfort. I try to adjust discreetly, but my father rolls his eyes as he sits opposite me in a white tuxedo with a white half-mask, while my mother wears a blood red gown with a thigh-high split and a black venetian-themed mask with feathers. They both look like the embodiment of wealth, as they sit, not touching or talking to one another.
“If you had followed the eating plan my secretary sent you, the dress would fit perfectly,” he says with a grimace, looking away as if he’s disgusted by me.
I murmur under my breath as I try once again to adjust, “You mean the one that had me eating air three times a day with a side of anorexia as a snack?”
My mother chuckles softly while my father turns to me, eyes narrowed as he hisses, “What was that? Were you being insolent?”
I shake my head, mortified that he heard. I hadn’t meant to be that loud. There’s that feeling again, that anger just slowly churning away inside me as the bones of my corset bite into my skin. Why did I need to lose weight? Wasn’t I pushing my body hard enough as it was? Why did he choose this dress? Couldn’t I have picked my own? The corner of my mother’s mouth pulls up into a half-smile, and I know she’s waiting to see what I’ll do. She wants me to give in, to do whatever I want, but it's a trap. I need to behave. I need to be a good girl. I inhale slowly and count to ten.
“I’m sorry, Father,” I whisper as the door is opened by the driver.
“Get out. And both of you had better mind your manners tonight. Do I make myself clear?” His voice is cold, but his public persona begins to slip into place as he plasters on a huge fake smile before climbing out of the car.
“Yes, Randolph,” my mother sighs before winking at me. I don’t need to know what she had planned, but there was no way she was going to be a docile wife this evening. Not behind the scenes anyway.
We walk up the grand stairs and pose for photos with the local press before entering the hall. Together we look like the perfect family, accomplished father, beautiful wife, and gifted daughter, all smiling and posing for the public. If only they knew what was happening beneath the surface.
“Miss, your violin is just in the room to your left. We’re ready for you to come on stage as planned in about forty-five minutes,” a member of staff informs me as we stand near the entrance of the ballroom. Why didn’t I put my foot down about this? Why didn’t I tell my father no?
“Are you ready to perform?” he asks, and I feel like my throat is closing up. I want to scream no, but it doesn’t come out. I nod because that’s all I can do.
He leans in, and to those passing by he looks like a doting father wishing me luck as he murmurs, “I wouldn’t want any embarrassing mistakes, Elena, tonight is very important.”
My skin prickles, and I push down that simmering rage that keeps burning beneath the surface. I quash the voice that screams ‘How dare he?’ inside my head. I ignore the stab of guilt as I imagine freeing myself from this fucking dress and running away. I let the walls go up as I close myself off and try to calm the storm inside.
I enter the side room alone and eye my violin case wearily. Reluctantly, I open the clips and flip up the lid. It takes me a few moments to register that something is wrong, and it’s like a slow exhale of relief as I see that all my strings have been cut. Even my bow hairs have been severed. My violin is useless. I don’t feel solace for long as the panic begins to set in, my father was going to kill me.
That is, if he could find me first. Fastening my ivory mask in place, I slowly sneak out and make my way into the ballroom, trying to lose myself in the crowds.
A hand darts out and grabs my arm. “What’re you doing here? You’re supposed to be playing your violin?” My mother’s voice is quiet as she tries not to draw attention to us. She’s standing with some people I don’t recognize with their faces covered, but something about them feels familiar. One person has their hand on her hip, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she watches me carefully.
I shake my head. “I can’t. I won’t.”
“Head over to The Marble Hall, it’s where the auction pieces are being displayed. He won’t find you there.” She grins, and it reminds me of the Cheshire cat. Calculating. Sly. Tucking a strand of my hair back into place, she whispers, “You’ll have to face him eventually though, you can’t hide all night, Lena.”
I enter The Marble Hall, which is named so because of the creamy marble floor and Corinthian pillars, making it easily one of the most beautiful rooms in the building, with this almost sacred, museum-esque feel to it that has me wandering around between the marble statues in awed silence. Beautiful emerald chaise lounges are dotted about the place, so that you can sit and bask in the spiritual vibe of the place. The walls are usually adorned with various pieces of classical art, but tonight they’ve all been replaced either with new works of art or glass cases displaying other auction offerings. I like seeing what people are donating, it’s almost like having a sneak peek into their lives. How did they get the item they were auctioning off? Why are they getting rid of it? How much money would it raise?
The first painting is a watercolor of a woman reading amongst some shelves, she looks engrossed as the sunlight filters in, making her little more than a silhouette. Her face is shrouded in shadow, but the artist has created this ethereal atmosphere that invites you to get lost in the story. It’s beautiful and filled with a sense of longing that has my pulse quickening.
I move on to where an oil painting of a dancer, exhausted and spent on the floor, captures my attention. Her face is hidden, but I don’t need it to see the pain, the disappointment, or the sadness I knew I’d find there. The soft blue hues combined with flecks of yellow and pink make my heart race. I know those feelings well, almost like I know this woman.
The third painting is titled ‘My Queen,’ and as soon as I see it, I know why my heart feels like it’s about to burst. The queen in the painting is naked, her body covered in blood. It’s everywhere, like she’s waded through a river of blood as she stands defiantly. The areas of skin that are still pink are marked with bloody fingerprints or lines. A black barbed wire crown rests on her head, and while she is more beautiful than me, those eyes are mine, there’s no denying that. These paintings, all three of them were me.
I reach out to touch the canvas, pausing when I feel a warm breath on my neck. Tristan. Why is he everywhere I turn? And why wasn’t I mad about that anymore?
“Do you like them?” he whispers, and I shiver.
“Why?” I murmur. “Why did you paint me?”
His hand slides around my waist, and I can feel the heat of his touch through the silk fabric.
“Why do you ask stupid questions when you already know the answer?” His lips brush against the curve of my neck, words sinking into my skin.
“You cut my strings,” I accuse, already knowing it was him. No one else would have dared to touch my instrument, but Tristan didn’t understand boundaries.
I feel his mouth twitch against me, just below my ear. “You should’ve stood your ground and told him no.”
Spinning around to face him, I pause, he looks devilishly handsome in a navy suit with a cream shirt. When did he look so...grown up? His navy and silver mask is resting on top of one of the display cases, and I’m glad, it would be a waste to hide that face. His smug grin doesn’t detract from my annoyance, and once again I feel that ball of anger in the pit of my stomach. Who did he think he was? He was no better than my father trying to control me.
“Look at you, Lena.” He pulls me in closer, until our lips are just inches apart. “You need to let go of all that rage.”
“I can’t,” I snarl. I need to be a good girl. I need to behave. I need to represent the Montgomery family. I need to make my father proud. Except, nothing was ever good enough, the small voice at the back of my head whispers harshly. “If I lose control…”
/> I try to explain that losing control would cost me everything, but the words die on my lips. I can’t verbalize why letting myself go would be the end for me, it just would.
“You’ll what?” he taunts with a stupid half-smile as I grab his lapels, my fingers turning white as I hold on tight. “Hurt someone? Kill me?”
His hands come over mine, and instead of pushing me away, he brings them up to his neck. “Then go ahead, Princess. I’d rather die at yours hands than anyone else in this messed-up town.”
I squeeze, feeling him swallow beneath my touch. “You don’t understand!”
I had an anger that couldn’t be tamed, it was there all the damn time, and being around Tristan made my grip on my temper tenuous. I wanted to kill him half of the time, and the other half...well, that was just hormones.
“Don’t understand?” he says softly as he takes off my mask and throws it to the ground, letting it shatter. “I see you. Every damn day. I see you pushing it down, swallowing the bullshit, pretending not to be angry. You are not a pretty little doll. Not a puppet for that wanker, Randolph. You do not have to be perfect. You are beautifully flawed, and people need to be reminded of that.”
He takes a step back, taking me with him as my hands are still wrapped around his throat. Another step. And another, until he’s sitting back on a chaise longue and I’m leaning over him. His dark eyes never leave mine as he murmurs, “So, show them your monstrous side. Remind them who the fuck you are.”
Seeing him below me, offering himself up like a sacrifice to my fury, has me feeling all kinds of things that I just don’t have the words for. The anger that bubbles away is still there, but it’s simmering, moving between rage and lust, and I realize that’s exactly why he’s been pushing my buttons for weeks. Tristan Radcliffe wants me to come undone.
And I give in.
His hands are on my dress, pushing it up my thighs so that I can straddle him as I take what he’s offering. My lips crash against his, and there’s no kindness or softness there, only need. Only raw emotions, as I keep one hand on his neck and tighten my grip, while the other comes up into his hair, and I yank his head back. Peppering little nibbles and kisses along his jaw, I love feeling his moans as they rise up his throat. His hands slide further up my legs, as I bite down on his bottom lip before sucking away the pain.
I grind against him, feeling his hardness through the material of his pants. His hands cup my ass as I do, pushing me harder against him.
“No panties?” he breathes against my mouth.
“Not with this dress,” I groan as his fingers feel the wetness between my thighs.
“You really are trying to kill me…” He tilts his head back and groans, allowing me to move my tongue over his Adam's apple before gently sucking.
Two fingers slide inside me, making me buck my hips against his hand like I’m losing my mind. His thumb brushes against my clit with every roll of my hips, and I’ve never felt anything like it. His free hand moves up my body, and this time it’s him who grabs me by my hair and demands my mouth once again.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t ask for it,” I say, pulling away with a wicked grin as my orgasm builds. My breasts are held firmly in place by the corset part of the dress, but that doesn’t stop him from kissing anything he can gain access to as I fuck his hand. His mouth moves over my collarbone as I lose control. My fingers dig into anything they can, his hair, his shirt, his shoulders. I have this overwhelming urge to touch him everywhere as if he’s not close enough, I want more. I need more as the feeling inside me grows, building and building until I begin to fall apart.
He doesn’t stop until I’m trembling, my forehead pressed against his as I try to control my breathing. I feel as though I’ve been through a storm in a paddle boat by the time we’re done, but the anger I felt earlier is gone. There's no knot in my stomach, and I feel weirdly calm as he whispers against my skin, “Fuck, Princess.”
“Fuck indeed,” a voice hisses behind us.
Chapter Sixteen
Tristan
Randolph Montgomery stands with his arms crossed, face twisted in anger, and I see where Lena gets her temper from. The man is normally the pinnacle of politeness, smiles, and goes around kissing cute little babies, but here he was, looking like...well, looking like I had my fingers in his daughter.
Lena turns a shade of red I have never seen before and climbs off my lap, smoothing down her dress. “Father…”
“Where the fuck were you?” he spits, his eyes blazing. “You made me look like a fool out there! I told them you were going to play your violin for us, and lo and behold—you vanished.”
He strides up to her and grabs her wrist roughly. Standing, I glare at him, the man makes me fucking sick, but he was her father, and I needed to wait. I needed to see how she would handle herself.
“My violin, the strings…” Lena tries to explain weakly, and I hate how she seems to have shrunk in on herself. It's like Randolph takes up all the space in the room, forcing her to retreat to the shadows.
“I don't care what happened,” he growls, and I clench my fists as the tone of his voice grates on me. “You should have come out and played the piano in that case! You humiliated me!”
It was always about him. Selfish fucker. I wanted to choke him in that moment, how could he not see how Lena gave him everything? Everything.
Lena's hands begin to tremble as she looks up. “But I can't play the piano…”
Her voice is barely more than a whisper, but I can hear the confusion and hurt. Didn't he know what she was capable of? Did he realize how hard she worked? Didn't he understand his only child at all?
“Another inadequacy!” he snaps as he runs his free hand through his hair. “We'll rectify that immediately. I am so disappointed in you, Elena.”
He tugs on her wrist, trying to drag her towards the door. The force he uses makes me flinch, and I step forward as he grunts, “You will have to fix your hair and get back out there. Maybe if you sing something it will recover a little of my pride.”
“She can't sing either,” I call out. “She's tone-fucking-deaf.” Standing with my arms crossed, I give him a smug grin and relish the way his lip curls up in disgust.
“Tris…” Lena warns, and I can see the conflict on her face as she wrestles with trying to be a 'good girl' for her father and wanting to be herself. He really has done a number on her, conditioning her to need his approval, to break herself in order to be perfect for him.
“What did you say, boy?” He seethes as he drops Lena's arm and storms over to me, stopping when our toes touch, his face inches away from mine. It's an intimidation tactic, but Randolph can't touch me without backlash from my father, not because my father cares about me but because it would be a matter of honor within The Society. If he so much as spat on my shoe, my father would demand retribution. “Don't you start interfering. This is nothing to do with you.”
I straighten my shoulders, at full height I'm four inches taller than the smarmy politician. “Lena is my fiancée, it has everything to do with me.”
With our eyes locked, I reach up the small space between us and lick my index and middle finger slowly, throwing it in his face that they were just buried knuckle deep inside the woman he is trying to control.
Grabbing my jacket, Randolph pulls back his first to swing for me, but Lena throws herself on his arm instead. There's a loud crack as he turns and slaps her, the sharp noise echoing around the marble room.
“You'll pay for that,” I snarl.
“I'm not afraid of you, boy,” he sneers, ignoring Lena, who is turned away from us, clenching her cheek.
“It's not me you need to be afraid of,” I say with a half-smile.
Lena turns to look at him, and it's almost like slow motion as her tongue flicks out to taste the blood droplet that has formed on her lip. On one of the stands, up for auction, is a jewelled dagger, with several blood-red rubies encrusted on the hilt, glinting in the low lighting. Lena doesn't ev
en pause as she grabs it and unsheathes the blade.
“I am quitting the cheerleading squad.” Her voice is steady as she takes a step towards him. It was like this with Sam. And Selena. She's calm and collected when she embraces her monstrous side, it's like a switch has been flipped inside her, and I love it. I love her.
“Like hell, you will not shame this family.” Randolph doesn't flinch, but his nostrils flare ever so slightly. He isn't used to being defied.
“I am never going to play the violin again.” Another step closer.
“You will learn to behave, young lady!" Spittle flies from his mouth as his body begins to tremble, but it isn't fear. It's the anger. It's her defiance that's making Randolph come unstuck, like shitty glue.
“And I will be going to college.” She brings the blade up to her father's neck.
He scoffs, but I can see the way his eyes flit around the room as he thinks of an exit strategy. “If you think you're going anywhere after this stunt—you are sorely mistaken.”
“You have no power over me.” She growls as she forces her father to his knees. “Listen carefully, if you lay another finger on me, or if you threaten Tristan again—I will destroy you. I am not a child. I am not a doll, and I will not be your show pony.”
He opens his mouth to chastise her, but she pushes the blade in deeper. A bead of blood begins to form, and we all watch, mesmerized as it runs down the blade, and I can see why the creator chose the ruby handle. There's something beautiful about the color of crimson as it glimmers.
“Do you understand me?” The warning in her voice is clear, and it feels like Randolph is seeing his daughter for the first time as he watches her wearily.
“Yes,” he fumes, his voice quieter now. “But this is not over. If you think I'll allow you to marry that boy—”
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