She sits on the far end of the couch, hands folded in her lap, knees pressed together, back straight. Her face is blank, so placid she looks like a mannequin. No light in her gorgeous eyes. No expression on her gorgeous face.
Anton steps into the frame, moving with a steady rhythm that churns my stomach. He sets a glass of water on the table, then crouches low until his eyes meet hers.
“Drink, sweet girl,” he croons and she obeys, lifting the glass with both hands.
My skin breaks out in fucking hives.
The girl on the screen is... just a shape. A shell. She should be out partying, making mistakes, laughing, but instead she’s locked in a twisted Wonderland. Her lips touch the rim, her throat works, but nothing else moves. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t smile, not a shadow of an expression.
Anton brushes her hair back when she puts the glass down and his knuckles graze her cheek. She places her hands back on her lap, expectant eyes on him.
She’s waiting. For what, I don’t know. For another command? Approval? Praise?
The atmosphere in Carter’s living room grows even heavier once Ryder cues the next clip.
The nanny cam catches the couch from a steeper angle. Leilani sits in Anton’s lap, her back ramrod straight while his arm snakes her waist, hand balancing a small plate. He forks half a grape and lifts it to her mouth.
“Last one. Open up, petal.”
Her lips part, then close around the fruit, and she chews slowly while Anton sets the empty plate aside. He scrutinizes every movement of her jaw until she swallows.
“That’s it. All done. You’re always so good for me.”
She doesn’t answer, doesn’t make a single move when both his hands lift, combing fingers through her hair.
“Messy again,” he murmurs. “Can’t have that, can we?” He starts twisting the dark strands into a braid, then ties it off with a small band and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “There. My perfect pretty girl.”
“That’s fucked up,” Broadway chimes, throwing the last of his Bourbon at the back of his throat.
I stand there, so fucking uncomfortable I’d love to prove Ryder right and shed my skin like a snake. My mind’s racing, those fucked-up clips playing on repeat before my eyes, each like a punch to the gut because Leilani looksdeadinside.
The screen cuts to black and the next file loads. The bathroom fills the frame, tub full, steam clouding the lens. Anton has his sleeves rolled as he leans over it, testing the water temperature with his elbow.
“Perfect,” he says, turning to Leilani.
She’s motionless in the doorway, hands hanging loose at her sides, eyes cast downward. My heart fucking twists.
“Bath time, sweet girl. Let’s clean you up before bed.”
She shuffles closer, a puppet on strings.
“Good. Now, arms up, petal.”
I watch her obey as if in slow motion, her eyes dead, her face dead, not an ounce of the girl I know visible, and I realize I’m shaking.
The hot and sticky rage inside me demands an outlet. I wish I could jump in my car, head for Florida, and drag Anton through a hell of my own devising.
“That’s my sweetheart,” he whispers, approval leaking from every word. He brushes her hair back, drags his knuckles down her cheeks, arms, then reaches for the hem of her pink, frilly dress. “Always so good for me.”
That’s as far as it goes.
I snatch the remote, switching off the TV before Carter, Ryder, and Broadway get an eyeful of Leilani’s naked body.
My hands ball into tight fists, knuckles whitening, breath stuttering in my chest as fury coils and writhes. Images of that fucker smiling, cooing,groomingmy girl while she sits vacantly on the couch keep punching through my head.
They won’t go away and I can’t fucking take it.
I spin on my heel.
