I open the door and keep hold of the handle, disguising the tremor in my fingers. But there’s no disguising the way the steep steps pitch and yaw before my eyes.
A girl’s down there with him. Sixteen, seventeen maybe. His favourite age—just legal. She perches on the edge of a carved wood armchair, legs crossed at the ankle, hands clasped tightly in her lap. For the briefest moment, our eyes meet, something desperate already parked in hers.
“Wait here,” my father orders without looking her way. She nods mutely and her shoulders hunch tighter.
I retreat into the hallway as he emerges, softly closing the door behind him.
“Where were you tonight?”
“Out with Chelsea.” I snap my heels together. “As ordered.”
He doesn’t acknowledge my sarcasm; just studies me like I’m a faulty piece of machinery. “How’d it go?”
“Good. She’s coming to your party next Saturday and we’re going dress shopping beforehand.”
His brow lifts slightly. “And her father?”
I shrug. “Hasn’t entered our conversation at all, but I’ll invite myself back to hers after the dress fitting, wrangle an introduction. Snoop a little.”
Dad’s gaze sharpens further, but I keep my face impassive until his eyes stray back towards the basement door. “Don’t fuck it up.”
“I won’t.” I hesitate, then add in a rush, “There’s something else.”
His eyebrows arch as he turns back to me.
“Do you know Rothschild, the eye doctor?” He gives the barest nod; he knows everybody. “I need an appointment for next week. A tutor at school is fully booked up for the term… but this would sway her.”
“A tutor,” he repeats flatly.
“For music. I’ve already sorted my other classes; it’s just this one left. And it’s the only way I’ll catch up now.” His face stays impassive. “I don’t want Chelsea thinking I’m thick.”
He frowns for several long seconds, then he pushes away from the wall. “Send the request through Gregorie, and he’ll sort it.”
“Thank—”
The basement door clicks shut, his final word. He knows I won’t follow him down there.
Tension eases from my shoulders as I head upstairs, already typing on my phone.Need an appointment with Rothschild next week, outside of school hours.
There’s no elaboration needed. Once dad’s private secretary gets a command, it’s done.
Inside my room, I nudge off my shoes and slide open the doors onto the wide balcony, inhaling lanolin and tussock from the sheep dotted hillside, salt spray from the sheer ocean cliffs on the other side.
Beautiful, everyone says so.
All I feel is the hollowness inside.
My knuckles sting when I grip the railing, and I flex my right hand, the skin itching as it knits together.
The emptiness is at a manageable level now, but last week it was a starved creature chewing through my ribs, lunging at the first fresh prey it saw. My English teacher’s cheekbone had cracked like a wishbone snapping.
If my father hadn’t been hip-deep in this Impaglia merger, the resulting exclusion would have been my final chance. He’s threatened me with banishment to the Rarotonga office before. Nothing but a Pacific island cage. Eyes everywhere. The sort of place they’d arrest me for spitting on the footpath.
And that’s a merciful option compared with my mother.
Until he’s safely on the other side of his planned deal, I need to focus on Chelsea.
But my mind’s eye fills with the delicate colouring along Ophelia’s cheekbone, the tempting hollow at the base of her throat.
