Riot Arden spotted with mystery woman outside of hotel!
I gaze at the photo of Riot outside his hotel room, face twisted in a murderous expression as he screams at the paparazzi. The door behind him is partially closed, but through the opening, you can make out a flash of bright-pink hair and a blurry slice of my face. It’s not much, but clearly enough for Dave to recognize me. And I could lie, but based on the look in his cruel eyes, I don't think that would be wise.
I swallow hard. “He’s just a friend.”
Apparently, this is the wrong thing to say. “So you admit you snuck out to spend time with this… this cretin! Do you know what this could do to your career? Do you know what people will think when they see you with Riot fucking Arden?”
I nod, too scared to speak.
“Did you enjoy yourself, at least?”
This time, I don’t dare move.
“Hmm.” He steps toward me, grabbing my wrist in his meaty palm. “I hope it was worth it.”
He whips around, tearing all my books from their shelves in a fit of madness and rage. I can do nothing but watch as he takes my possessions—my cherished books—and ruins them, tearing covers from the spines and shredding the pages within. Pressure builds behind my eyes, but I don’t cry.
I don’t show any emotion. Not even when he throws the mangled scraps to the ground, then spits and stomps on them. I gaze down at the shredded pile of books lying in the center of my bedroom, unable to believe what I’m seeing.
Without a sound, I crouch down, picking up the pieces with trembling fingers. All the pages are torn and mixed, and I have no idea how to make it better. How to fix it.
“Why?” I whisper, gazing up at him with wide, honest eyes. “Why are you so cruel to me?”
Dave scoffs, his hand snapping out, closing around my wrist with surprising strength. “Because I’m able.”
With a sneer, he hauls me off the floor and drags my numb body toward the doorway, barely noticing my resistance. He pulls me out of my room, down the stairs, and toward a locked door that leads to the lower level of the house.
Toward the basement piano.
I whip my head around wildly, calling out for Forest—for anyone—but no one is here but Dave and me.
“Forest isn’t here, you stupid bitch,” he snaps, bringing the back of his hand hard against my cheek, making me see stars. “I gave him the day off so he wouldn’t have to listen to you scream and cry.”
My stomach bottoms out. “Fuck you. You’re an evil piece of filth. A rotten monster.”
He just laughs, the sound high and cruel. “Yes, I am.”
He unlocks the door, dragging me into a darkened stairwell, down to the pit of hell. With each step, each rapid heartbeat, my fear grows. It takes over me, clouding my mind and dulling my senses to anything other than panic. And I crack.
“Wait!” I dig my heels into the floor, voice rising in desperation. “Wait! Please, I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t?—”
“Are you making excuses, Eloise? You know how Ihateexcuses…”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry...”
“You’resorry?” Dave shakes his head slowly. “No. You’re not sorry, but you will be.”
Dave drags me the rest of the way down the stairs, shoving me onto the worn, chipped bench sitting in front of an upright piano. I sit there for several moments, frozen, knowing what’s to come and unprepared for it all the same.
Dave reaches out, grabbing a rust-colored stick lying at the top of the piano. “Play.”
I bring my shaking hands to the keys, my mind spiraling, desperately trying to recall the notes to any of the pieces I’ve learned over the years. In my panic, they all merge, the melodies uncoordinated and wrong—and I know I will make a mistake.
I begin playing, my fingers stiff, my stomach roiling. Every time I misplay a note, Dave whacks my hands with that cane—over and over again, until my fingers are reduced to bloody pulp and my throat is raw from screaming out in agony. The ivory is stained a dark brown color from all the dried blood, but Dave still strikes me one more time.
All I can muster is a pained whimper.
“Clean this mess up before you go to bed. I want the keys sparkling by the time I wake up,” he snaps. Dave places the stick back onto the top of the piano, turns on his heel, and heads toward the stairs. He stops at the bottom, turning his head over his shoulder to give me a cold glare.
