Staring down at my math homework, I can’t help but wonder why algebra was ever invented. Does anyone even use this stuff in real life? Or is it just put here for math teachers to torment us with?
“This shouldn’t take you this long. Your sister can do this in her sleep,” my grandfather sneers, squinting his wrinkled eyes at me. He is such a hateful man. It makes a lot of sense why my father lacks the ability to love us.
He was never taught how.
I slam my pencil down and shake my head. “Well, I’m not her, and it’s useless learning this stuff. We can use calculators in school.” I slide off my stool, making my way to the refrigerator to grab some juice. Our father is back in town, so of course the fridge is well stocked, and I’m making good use of the food before he leaves again.
Before I even have the carton out the refrigerator, the door slams, trapping my arm, making me howl as pain shoots right through to the bone of my forearm.
My heart races as fear blooms to life inside me. I know not to offend the elders in this family. I’ve let my temper get the better of me, and now I’ll pay for it.
Grandfather doesn’t come around often, but our latest nanny quit after she realized my father liked to fuck her when he was back in town, but never allow her to move past the easy lay status. She gave no notice when she left. She was just here one day and gone the next. Our father was away on business, so our grandmother had to step in to look after us until he could hire a new nanny. He returned home five hours ago, but has yet to make his presence known.
The pressure on the door intensifies as my grandfather pushes his weight against it, making me whimper like a fucking dog being scolded. I hate how weak I am. I make a promise to myself that I’ll never be this weak again.
“You don’t get to help your damn self to anything until this work is complete! You have no pride in yourself, Samuel. It’s a trait you inherited from your vagrant mother. She was worthless too.”
Pain slices into my heart at his words. I never got to meet my mother, but I know in my heart she was special, not the wretched woman everyone makes her out to be.
He releases his grip on the door, and my arm falls slack at my side, my pounding pulse vibrating right up to my elbow. How the hell am I going to use my pencil now? His wrinkled eyes bore into mine, taunting me, daring me to say something in retaliation.
But I won’t.
I can’t.
And he knows it.
“Samuel.”
Turning from the refrigerator, I look around to see my father standing there—all six-foot-two of him. As usual, he’s wearing one of his Henry Poole bespoke suits. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father in anything but a suit. When you have the most exclusive tailor flying in from Saville Row in London to make you them, why would you wear anything else? His gray jacket is fastened in the middle with two pearl buttons hand lasered with our family crest. It’s the smaller details that make the man, he always insists. He stares at me, shoving a hand in his trouser pocket. He looks uncomfortable. Hope blooms in my chest that he saw what just happened and is going to do something about it, but it vanishes with his next words.
“Where’s Sabella?”
Going back to the table, I sit and attempt to pick up the pencil, wincing when a sharp stabbing pain throbs. I fight the tears threatening to spill over and gulp past the lump growing in my throat.
“I’m not sure. I think she said something about an extra credit project at school,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice steady.
“At least one of them has some brain cells,” my grandfather grunts, and I see the shame in my father’s eyes. I embarrass him.
Sabella and I go to different schools. Hers is an all-girls Catholic finishing school. Mine is whatever school will accept me. I might be eleven years old, but I have a knack for getting into trouble.
My father nods and pulls his hand from his pocket before finding the cuff of his shirt and tugging it down lightly. Sleeves should finish above the hand and show one-point-five centimeters of shirt cuff at all times. I know the mantra.
“I have someone coming to talk business with me,” he says, his dark, brooding eyes holding mine.
My father is a domineering presence. He commands a room and everyone in it, and right now, he’s commanding me to listen and obey. “She’s bringing her daughter with her, and I need you to keep her company while we talk.”
Business. Does he think I’m foolish? I’ve seen the sort of activity he does with women who come in and out—and the last thing you could call it is business.
“Yes, sir,” I reply automatically. You don’t say no to my father.
“I need you to behave, Samuel,” he orders. “And we’re not to be disturbed. For any reason. Your grandfather will be watching over you until your grandmother gets back from her appointment.”
Dread prickles my skin.
“Yes, sir,” I say again.
He lets out a huff of air, his stare still on me. He looks like he wants to say something more. Something important. But the moment is gone. “Your hair is getting long,” he adds dismissively.
