For just standing there, silent and small, like now, like I always do.
Pathetic.
Still, the robe feels like soft armor, and the rabbit hole I’ve spiraled down fades as my eyes blink slow and heavy. Maybe if I stand here long enough, I’ll start believing I’m not just surviving anymore. Maybe I can make myself safe.
Maybe.
I spend the next few minutes brushing my teeth and swirling the GHB in the vial. So, each girl who’s been here has received one? That makes me feel a bit better, knowing that anyone else bid on this evening may get out of their “duties.” How would I do it? Would I act quickly enough? Dump it in his drink? I’m not some trained assassin here, and Edmond didn’t exactly say how to go about it.
“It gives you a fighting chance. That’s what Congressman DuPont can offer right now.”
What’s he playing at? Cares enough to offer us a way out, but not enough to expose them. Walking that fine line … he must have an agenda. A plan.Right?
I wander out of the bathroom, dragging my feet as the warmth from the hot bath leaves in favor of the cool air blastingin the bedroom. I bet the bed is warm. Full of plush pillows and blankets to sink into. So much more than the twin cardboard mattress with a single blanket backthere.
I pad around the room. My feet flex, toes sinking into the woven rug, a blend of ivory and faded sea-glass green. It stretches across the floor until its frayed edges meet the tall French doors that lead out into the night. Outdoor lighting is bright beyond the glass panes and spills over the water, broken only by the occasional lap against the dock.
The curtains stir beside me. They’re wispy and flowy, and for a minute I imagine being here because I want to be. Maybe this was a vacation with Tristan, on the beach. I inch closer to the frame of the door, my robe tugging against the handle. It’s peaceful.
Tristan …
My mind claws him to the surface, trying to break through everything I’ve conjured about Slade DuPont. Part of me feels guilty for having tucked him away so easily. I wonder if he’s worried about me. I wish I could tell him I’m okay, so he could move on. That guilt is the worst. What if he’s resigned to wait for me? What if he’s turning over every stone trying to find my father and demand answers? I sigh. Even if he found me, even if Icouldreturn, I’m not the girl he knew, and I don’t think he’d recognize what’s left of me. Not after this. I’ve already spent too much of my life surviving things that weren’t love. I couldn’t waste any more time with someone I don’t see a future with.
More guilt crawls beneath my skin, and I cringe at my honest words. Ones I should’ve been brave enough to admit to him all along.
A shadow moves across the lawn, and my gaze lifts, heart skipping. Beyond the shadow of the balcony railing above me, a tall figure moves. His powerful silhouette cuts across the motionless glass, and I shiver at how easily it radiates throughthe distance and darkness. I can’t move—don’tmove. I just stand there, watching the lake, but also, out of the corner of my eye, feeling the shadowed presence like it’s here next to me in the room, or worse yet, lingering in the night.
CHAPTER NINE
SLADE
My plate sits untouched on my desk. The mound of mashed potatoes has formed a skin, and the steak juices have congealed to an unappealing gelatinous texture. All the while, the only bite of food I took last night roils in my stomach.
What came over me? The need to sit down and listen to her, to Edmond.
Dinner, contract, an explanation—that’s his job.
Thea is different. There’s so much behind those bright blue eyes, and her expressions tell me there’s deep thought whispered in her stares. But it’s the opposite of what comes out of her mouth. It’s as if she’s caught between fear and finding her voice.
I snarl at the irony.
She signed the contract, though. Adding to the handful of women I’ll use to destroy my grandfather.
Pulling on my suit pants, I move around my bed to grab my button-down and tie. It’s still neatly made, except for the subtle dip on the left side of the California king where the duvet has been creased and my pillow is indented. I spent hours pacing my room, restless, then more hours lying still with heavy thoughts too loud to silence.
I drag myself to the standing mirror in the corner of my room and stare at my reflection, shirt and tie hanging loose in my hand at my side.
When they said they needed fresh blood four years ago, I hadn’t realized they were being literal. The scars are a jagged mess slashed over my left pec, a sloppy EV whipped across my chest. It’s still clear, even after all these years—still puckered and pale against my skin. As though it never really healed.
To the average person, the initials EV aren’t legible. For me, going without a shirt in public isn’t an option. It isn’t for many of us. Only at home or EV locations am I allowed to breathe.
The year after I joined, I drowned myself in women. I thought it would help with the influx of emotions. And while most tried not to stare, they always did. Their eyes would flick to the gnarled skin mid-kiss, or when my shirt came off, there’d be a flicker of curiosity, sometimes pity. Mostly, disgust. As though it makes me less human. Isn’t that the goal? We give up more of ourselves for the society than most of us would admit to.
I hate it. Hate looking at it. It’s not just a mark. It’s a reminder of what has been forced on me, what I’ve become. This half-in, half-out game I’m playing is dangerous. How close am I to becoming the person I swore to dismantle?
The lines blurred faster than I expected, and it’s not strategic. It eats at me. Deep down, I know if I don’t finish what I started soon, I may forget why I began. It’s for the right reasons. I’m doing this to bring him down, the way he tore me down. He whittled away at the potential man I could be. Every lie, every mask, every calculated silence brings me one step closer to destroying the man who built this kingdom of rot. He taught me how to weaponize charm, how to hollow out the truth, and look clean while my hands are anything but.
But there are days when my reflection is foreign, and I wonder if I’m just another version of him. Another generation of DuPont with a savior complex.
