Kade's voice echoes in my head, rough and teasing. Tank's hands signing it with that warmth in his dark eyes. Even Cyrus, grudgingly, eventually.
Princess was theirs first.Onlytheirs.
Todd just took it like he takes everything that doesn't belong to him.
His hand lands on my shoulder, fingers pressing just hard enough to remind me who's in charge. "The photographer from the Times is here."
"Of course, Daddy." The word comes out perfectly pitched, but inside I'm screaming.
He steers me through the crowd, his grip never loosening. People part for us like we're royalty, and maybe we are. American royalty, built on lies and campaign contributions.
Mom stands near the photographer, a vision in a navy blue gown that brings out the shadows under her eyes. Her smile looks painted on, and I recognize the slight tremor in her hands. She's had her own pills tonight. We all have our coping mechanisms.
I guess it runs in the family.
"There are my beautiful girls," Todd announces, pulling us into position. Mom on one side, me on the other, his arms around us like we're possessions to be displayed. "Shall we?"
The photographer starts snapping, and I smile until my cheeks ache. Flash after flash captures the perfect political family, the image that will grace tomorrow's society pages. No one will see the way his fingers dig into my waist. No one will notice how Mom sways slightly, overmedicated and underweight.
No one will question the fairy tale.
"Just a few more," the photographer says, adjusting his lens.
That's when I feel it. Todd's breath against my ear, hot and threatening. "After this, you're going to mingle with the Hendersons. They're considering a substantial donation."
"I need to use the restroom," I whisper back, keeping my smile intact.
His fingers tighten, a warning. "Make it quick."
The photographer finally releases us, and I escape before Todd can object. My heels click against marble as I navigate through the crowd, dodging conversations and air kisses.
Click. Click. Click click click.
The bathroom door appears ahead of me like the gates to heaven and I slip inside, grateful for the sudden quiet.
The mirror reflects a stranger. Perfect makeup, perfect hair, everything exactly as it should be.
Except for the pink streaks Todd specifically told me to dye back to blonde last week. My one act of defiance.
I'll pay for it later.
Sometimes I wonder if he chose Mom because my eyes are a shade of green just a few shades off from his. Easier to pass off as his own. Instant family, just add a prenup. That thought makes me want to claw my eyeballs out of my own head.
I set my clutch on the counter and dig out the prescription bottle hidden in the inner pocket. The pills rattle like tiny promises of peace. My hands shake as I count them out.
One, two, three, four, five.
Perfect.
Way too much, according to the pharmacist, but perfect. I’ve developed a tolerance for a lot of things, and these are no exception.
The pills stick in my throat and I cup water from the faucet to wash them down.
The noise in my head dulls immediately. So do the memories. They're still there—alwaysthere—but quieter. The echoes are whispers, not screams. They dance around my mind in fragments, the good and the bad. Can't get rid of one completely without losing the other.
The sound of a '76 Thunderbird rattling in my driveway, followed by, "Hey, Princess. Ready to ride?"
Wind in my hair, warmth against my chest as I grip Tank's leather-clad waist and hurdle down a dead-end road at the speed of freedom.
