PROLOGUE
TEN YEARS AGO
“What am I going to do, Rue?”
My sister sits on the floor of our dining room, rocking back and forth as tears leave glittering pathways down her red, chubby cheeks. The cold black-and-white marble tiles beneath her contrast starkly with the warmth of her distress, stretching across the grand room like a forgotten ballroom, all polished edges and echoing silence, far too pristine for breakdowns like this.
“He’s going to kill me this time!” She cries through hiccups.
You would think seeing your own flesh and blood in anguish like this would pull at some heart string, force you to try and comfort or take away some of their pain. Yet all that I feel when I look at the shards of a priceless vase scattered around a crumpled up thirteen-year-old, is resentment.
Resentment for the fact it will be me cleaning this mess up. Resentment that my sister always puts me in the same predicament repeatedly. Resentment that I will eventually allow her tears and soft cries to persuade me into taking the blame, which will subsequently lead tomypunishment.
How can you love someone and hate them with just as much passion?
Her brows furrow as she looks up at me standing in the doorway, sunlight cutting across the marble floor and catching the mess of tears on her face.
I could walk past her. Let her sit with the weight of her own choices for once. I could slip outside, let the sun warm my skin, and for the first time in what feels like forever, put myself first. Maybe I’d bring a book, lose myself beneath the old blossom tree by the fountain. The one that dances in the breeze, scattering pale petals like soft, slow snow.
“Please Rue. Please don’t let him punish me again. You are so much stronger than I am,” Her voice is pleading.
My jaw clenches as I think through my options. The last time I took the blame for Marlowe was the worst it has ever been. He didn’t just stop at a few slaps around the back of the head. He made me stand there and take three lashes of his belt to the once unblemished skin on my back. Three lashes that broke my delicate surface due to the thick metal buckle he purposely let slip.
I must have stood deliberating too long because Marlowe huffs and starts to try and sweep up the shards of the vase into her tiny hands.
“Ouch” she hisses as a bead of blood forms on top of her index finger. I roll my eyes knowing she did that for dramatic effect. If Marlowe is an expert at anything in this life, it is manipulating me. Using her innocence and Bambi charm to get me to do whatever she wants. I hate it. But what I hate more is that I fall for it every time. I would take this sliver of comradery over the lonely alternative, hoping that this time it will make a difference.
I finally cross the threshold into the room and crouch down to help. If I can get this tidied up before he gets home, then maybe we could blame one of the maids when it goesmissing.
“Clean up your finger and go straight to your room” I say through gritted teeth.
Marlowe’s face lights up like it is Christmas morning. I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself. Father would never hurt Marlowe theway he does me. The most she has ever gotten is a smack around the head and a few harsh words. My punishments have always been more severe, but it’s no surprise why, when Marlowe’s mother Delphine is in his ear twenty-four seven. The devil doesn’t wear Prada. She wears sheer panty hoes, more hairspray than Tracy Turnblad, and freezes time with injectables.
“Thank you Rue!” Marlowe shouts as she pulls me in for a hug that doesn’t feel quite right.
“Go,” I pull away. “Hurry before he comes back,”
“I owe you one,” Marlowe announces as she hurries out of the dining room.
“Yeah” I whisper to myself as I carefully but quickly pick up shards of porcelain. “You said that the last twenty times,”
I am almost done with the larger shards when heavy distinct footsteps have my heart dropping into my stomach.
“What the fuck is this Ruella?”
I keep my eyes to the ground as they fill with hot tears that I refuse to let slip free. They never help me like they do Marlowe anyway. They only make him madder and the hits harder.
“Stand. Now”
I stand on shaky legs but keep my back to the doorway where I know his huge frame clad in a suit will be seething with rage.
I thought I had endured the worst of what he was capable of at thirteen years old, but I would soon learn of the real pain he could inflict.
ONE
RUELLA
The click and snap of metal fills the room, steady and familiar, like the ticking of a clock marking time I can never get back. I lie flat on my bed, eyes closed, letting the rhythm anchor me. It’s a cold sort of comfort, mechanical, predictable, but today, that’s enough.
