My heart stutters.
Then his hand arcs away from his body.
Fly.
Chapter 8
ELLIE
Four Years Later
The champagne tasteslike liquid bullshit.
I take another sip anyway, letting the bubbles fizz against my tongue while some fossil in a Rolex tells me how lucky I am to have such awonderfulstepfather. The word makes my skin crawl, but I keep my princess smile firmly in place. That's what good girls do. That's what Senator Waterson's perfect stepdaughter does.
"He did so much for our community when he was the mayor," the man continues, his breath reeking of scotch. "And you, my dear, are just the prettiest little thing. Like a doll."
A doll. That's exactly what I am. Dressed up in this ridiculous pastel pink confection Todd picked out, designed to make me look like I'm twelve instead of twenty. Looks better on the campaign trail, I guess, instead of reminding people he got a readymade family.
The silk whispers against my skin with every breath, and I hate how soft it feels. How delicate. How fucking fragile. This concoction of fashion crimes is almost enough to make me hate my favorite color.
My fingers tap against my thigh. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. The rhythm grounds me, keeps me from screaming in this man's face that his hero is a monster who leaves bruises where designer dresses can hide them.
"Thank you so much," I say instead, voice sweet as the champagne I'm choking down. "Daddy's campaign means everything to him."
The word tastes worse than the alcohol. But I've learned to swallow a lot of poison over the years.
The ballroom sparkles with ostentatious wealth that makes my trailer park roots itch. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbows across marble floors, and every surface gleams. Women float past in designer gowns, their laughter tinkling like wind chimes, while men in ten thousand-dollar suits discuss tax breaks and golf handicaps.
This is my world now. Has been for four years. Four years since Mom married him and we left everything behind. Four years oflearning which fork to use and how to cross my ankles just so. Four years of becoming someone I don't recognize.
Eleanor.
But mostly, four years of surviving and compartmentalizing.
"Eleanor, darling!" Another donor approaches, this one female, dripping in diamonds and Botox. Pretty sure her cheeks would pop a seam if she smiled hard enough. "You look absolutely radiant tonight. Pink is definitely your color."
I want to tell her that pink is my rebellion, not my submission. That the streaks of rose gold in my blonde hair are the only thing I've managed to keep that's mine. But she wouldn't understand. None of them would.
"You're too kind, Mrs. Brindmore," I reply, tilting my head at the perfect angle.
Demure. Grateful. Empty.
She launches into a story about her daughter's engagement, and I nod at all the right moments while my mind drifts. The anxiety crawls under my skin like insects, making everything too bright, too loud, too much. My fingers find their rhythm again.
One, two, three, four, five.
Five is safe. Five is control.
Five is the number of people who used to matter before Todd ripped them away.
"Eleanor."
His voice cuts through the chatter, and my spine straightens automatically. Senator Todd Waterson stands beside me withhis silver fox charm and false warmth. To everyone else, he's the picture of paternal pride. To me, he's the reason I count pills and memorize exit strategies.
"Time for another family photo, Princess," he says, and the stolen endearment makes bile rise in my throat.
That isnothis name to call me.
