Edmond has been with me since the beginning, and I value his discretion. His silver hair is neatly combed back, highlighting a sharp widow’s peak. His brown eyes always look like he’s going to cry, but the man has dry wit—his humor can rival Kenji’s. As always, he’s dressed in an immaculately pressed suit and, though I think they’re stupid, crisp white gloves.
He does so to piss me off at this point.
As I walk past him, his lean frame pivots to tap me on the shoulder. He holds out his hand.
To appease him, I remove my glasses, and he whips out a white terry cloth to clean them. I’ve had glasses for as long as I can remember, and it was one of the many reasons kids teased me at a young age. As I got older, my grandfather recommendedcontacts or LASIK surgery, as a way to market myself as more attractive to the voters. But the glasses are a buffer. A way to distance myself and keep my expressions guarded.
“Please, please let me go. M-my parents will pay.” The girl spots Edmond, her pleading gaze locking on him as if he were a lifeline—he isn’t. “Hey! Please help me.”
Edmond doesn’t flinch. He’s used to these Friday nights and the show they are. Holding out an arm, he allows the girl to hook hers through it, and her red robe drags along the hardwood floors as he leads her down the hall.
I follow behind, watching as her head swivels around to the stained exposed beams stretching the length of the entryway ceiling. Her eyes widen at the dome pendant above her as she’s led into the formal dining room.
Edmond pulls out a chair. The wood matches the hand-crafted walnut table that takes up the length of the room. I had the piece commissioned when I bought the house because I loved the live edge and knot swirling in with the natural grain. When I told my grandfather the table was going to cost forty-five thousand, he insisted on paying for it, and it’s since become the perfect setting for this to unfold.
Aside from the empty glass decanter, which serves as the table’s centerpiece, there’s only one place setting. A large plate of grilled steak, roasted vegetables, and a biscuit sits beside the contract and a small vial of liquid.
“Please sit, miss,” Edmond says, hands solid on the back of the chair. “What is your name?”
Trembling, she does so but lets out a squeak as she looks over the plate of piping hot food and full glass of water. Tears drip from her eyes. “Sarah. Please. I-I don’t know what’s happening or what you think I can do for you, but?—”
Edmond slides her chair in. “Rule number one: Never tell anyone you’re afraid.”
Her eyes pop, and she turns to scan his face, then mine. She sniffles, and I cross my arms, staring at her.
She’s beautiful in anearthy, blends into the backgroundkind of way. It’s been a long time since a woman tempted me. Certainly not enough to have anyone in my bed, and sure as hell not enough to care for.
“T-the others … they t-tried to tell me what would happen. But I assumed …” She looks down at the plate of food in front of her and licks her lips.
She’s like them all. Starving. Fed the bare minimum to keep their figures the perfect frame for the buying members.
Edmond moves to the side and tucks his hand behind his back. “Please eat, Sarah. I will go over the paperwork in front of you after your meal. You’ll then be shown to a private suite where you can bathe, shower, and sleep comfortably for the night.”
Her gaze slips to mine. “But I thought?—”
“Mr. DuPont will be in his own suite for the rest of the evening.” Edmond then turns to me. “I’ll have your meal sent up for you, sir. Have a good evening.”
I raise my chin, acknowledging all his hard work. He’s paid well, but not enough for this. I’m grateful he never presses me to eat with them. Never do I sit here while they eat or share a meal. I take my food in my suite, alone. Because that’s where I prefer to be.
Sarah hesitates to pick up the fork at first, but as she stares at the food, the rumble in her belly wins. She chews her lip and snatches her utensils, cutting into the perfectly cooked filet.
Edmond smiles and fidgets with the paperwork on the table, which ultimately makes me smirk, knowing he’s doing it on something my grandfather paid for.
I excuse myself before anyone can respond, slipping out of the room, which stays silent except for the clatter of silverware and the graceless sounds of chewing.
As I walk to my suite, a smile breaks across my lips. If he only knew, if my grandfather only knew.
I used to crave that man’s approval like oxygen—forever grateful he raised me and took me under his wing. But when I look back, I was only the prize. Groomed to be his perfect successor. My grandfather molded me, but now all I want to do is watch everything he built rot from the inside out. It’s the only language he taught me, and I plan to use it against them.
CHAPTER FOUR
THEA
At 3:30 p.m. on the dot, a chorus of textbooks thump closed and backpacks shuffle across the floor.
“Don’t forget! Your literary analysis essay is due Monday, May twenty-eighth at noon. Not a second after.” Professor Milton spins around, trying to catch us all before we bolt. “You are to explore the role of guilt in Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’”
Another chorus, this time of groans and muffled curses rises, and I shake my head. Freaking English Comp Two. One of the many useless requisite classes here at North Harbor Community College, especially for me.
