Captive and Crowned

by Elizabeth Newsom

  His face tensed. It seemed she’d wiped that nonchalance clear off his expression. “You know why I ignored you? Why I’ve let so many of your childish impulses slide? Why I’ve put up with your clinginess for years?”

  Her spine snapped straight. “Clinginess?”

  “Don’t deny it. I mean, come on, you come in here disguised as your sister just to see me. A wig? Contacts? Really, Evelyn?”

  Actually, she wasn’t wearing a wig; she’d completely dyed her hair. But telling him would probably just prove his point.

  He stepped closer and stared down his nose at her. “I’ve been trying to be nice, to save your feelings by ignoring mine. If I hadn’t been afraid of hurting you, I’d have broken up with you long before now.”

  She clenched her fists more tightly, willing her anger back even as the chill in her chest dove deeper.

  “But I’m done now,” he continued. “You hear that, Ev? I’m done. And no amount of pleading is going to stop me from leaving you. And another thing: as wacko as your father is, he’s right—about everything. Especially your mom. She left because she didn’t love you anymore.”

  Tingles ghosted across her skin. She wanted to return each of his fiery words with a spray of her own, but her tongue sat thick and heavy in her mouth.

  “And I’m leaving because neither do I.”

  With all the garbled chatter around them, she was sure she’d heard him wrong. But then she realized the chatter had vanished. Everyone had turned to watch them. Only the thump of music echoed through the mansion.

  “Who’s this, Mason?” Janessa asked as she sashayed up to him.

  Mason slipped an arm around Janessa’s waist and hugged her to his side.

  Everything was so wrong about this—from Mason’s possessive touch on another girl to his suddenly thawed gaze.

  Mason nodded toward her. “This is Evelyn. Evelyn, I’d like you to meet Janessa. My girlfriend.”

  Evelyn stared, her gaze sliding between the two. No wonder Janessa hadn’t invited her. “What a way to break up with someone, Mason.” She pivoted away from them.

  She wove her way through the curious crowd, keeping her head low to avoid their gazes. She bumped someone on her way out the door and muttered an apology, though she couldn’t remember exactly what she’d said.

  A few seconds later, she was tripping across the lawn in her heels. Her vision blurred, and the sloping lines and angles of cars parked by the curb congealed together. She blinked, and a tear slid down her cheek.

  She shouldn’t be crying for him at all. He was a complete jerk. Who broke up with someone by blocking them and picking up a new girlfriend? She sank to the curb. And how long had he been dating her out of sheer pity? It was hard to believe he’d ever cared for her. Maybe her father was right.

  She scrubbed the tears from her cheeks, even as more poured down. Raindrops tapped her head, further wetting her face. She would find her mother and prove her father wrong. And Mason.

  She slowed her breathing, closed her eyes, and retreated into the Room in her mind—a technique she’d learned when she was little to control her emotions. In her mind, her hand curled around a silver knob and opened the door to her Room. The Room was furnished with memories—memorabilia based on the past, the future, and fantasy. It was the manifestation of her hopes and dreams.

  A vase sat on an end table, bursting with wildflowers plucked from local fields, forests, and the neighbor’s garden. It roused memories of a past Valentine’s Day, when she and Mason had picked these flowers to arrange this bouquet.

  She fingered a white daisy. The delicate, stiff petals fluttered to the table’s wooden top. She needed to rip this ache from her heart, to move on. Mason didn’t love her, so she’d have to stop loving him.

  But was that even possible? Her feelings for him had always been so strong. It wasn’t going to be easy, but the least she could do was toss some memories of him. And it started with the vase.

  She picked it up and heaved it into a trashcan. The glass shattered. The flowers crumpled. She ripped a photo pinned to the wall with a tack. It was a picture her friend had taken just before her first date with Mason. Her smile was too large to be attractive, her amber eyes glittered, and a blush flared in her cheeks. She wore her cutest outfit, and the humidity frizzed her carefully arranged curls.

  That was the girl she used to be—the one with too many daydreams in her head and too much hope in her heart.

  She let the picture flutter to the bottom of the trashcan. It landed on top of the flowers with a sharp slam. Only, that noise hadn’t come from inside her Room. She blinked, surfacing up to reality. Her face was plastered in rain, tears, and red hair.

  Someone had slammed a car door. That’s what the noise had been. It was probably some teenagers who’d had too much to drink.

  “Evelyn Smith.”

  Her gaze slid up a suited man with the build of a gorilla. Definitely not a drunk teen. Rain slipped down his sunglasses. Only her father’s security would wear sunglasses when it was raining.

  “Your father has summoned you.”

  Her gaze shot to the gray sky. She should’ve known he’d come home. Stormy weather always seemed to coincide with his arrival and departure. In fact, it seemed the only rain Coppell got was during those times. Perhaps he paid the weather to do his bidding. He was certainly rich enough.

  She could nearly feel marionette strings jerking at her wrists and elbows as she rose to her feet. Her father had control over every aspect of her life, and she hated it. She’d have to bear being his slave for at least a few more months—until she found a way to transport herself to Colorado. Her breakup with Mason would cost her precious time.

  She managed a smile. “Of course. His wish is my command.” She even added a curtsey, just for the sake of sass.

  The bodyguard seemed unimpressed. He extended his meaty hand toward her. “Keys.”

  It took her a second to understand. She fished Kimberly’s keys from her pink purse and tossed them in his direction.

  His fist closed around them, and he marched toward Kimberly’s Mustang. In the middle of the street, another bodyguard was waiting, holding a limousine door open. He alternated between glaring at his watch and her.

  Evelyn strode to the limo. “It’s rude to shoot that watch such nasty looks.”

  The bodyguard opened the limo door a bit wider.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re feeling a bit impatient.”

  “Get in,” he snarled.

  She slid onto the butter-soft cushions, Kimberly’s wet dress chafing her thighs. Typically when she tried to rile the security guards, she received blank looks and stony stares. But this time, he’d snapped easily. It seemed her father wanted her home as quickly as possible. Which meant she was in trouble. Big trouble. She clutched her purse to her chest as vents overhead blasted icy air.

  It wasn’t that her father was overprotective. Regardless of whether she was on her worst behavior or best, the most she usually got from him was a disdainful glance. No, she wasn’t going to be in trouble for sneaking to a party. She was going to be in trouble because her actions affected Kimberly, and her father worshipped the ground Kimberly walked on.

  Minutes later, the limo lurched to a halt, and the bodyguard held the door open for her. She scrambled out of the limo. The longer her father had to wait, the longer his tirades were. It was best just to get it over with. She strode toward the mansion.

  Windows speckled the stone walls, gleaming like dozens of eyes. The double doors swung open, giving Evelyn a glimpse into the mouth of the beast. The monstrous building sprawled across a sizable portion of property. The retreating storm clouds revealed the setting sun, which spilled red across the sky as it cowered behind the horizon.

  She was home.

  2

  Into the Belly of the Beast

  The wooden paneling and trim lent the foyer a deceitfully warm ambience. A red rug streamed from the stairs to the entrance like a lo
lling tongue, and a chandelier dangled above, its crystals pointed like fangs.

  Evelyn scrubbed her thumbnail along her purse’s handle. Thanks to this particular habit, she’d scratched long streaks of the faux pink leather off over the course of several months. She shifted from one foot to the other. The balls of her feet were already beginning to ache from the heels. As soon as this was over, she was going to fling those things off and drop into bed.

  The door to her father’s study squeaked as it swung open.

  Ice flashed across her skin as her heart jolted. “Tuteno,” she muttered. Cursing in her secret language was always fun, since no one knew what she was saying. Except for Mason. He’d known her long enough that he would have understood tuteno roughly translated to crap.

  She swallowed, shoving the ache back into her heart, and looked toward the door. The rail-thin butler stepped forward, his woolly white beard so long it nearly swayed. If he were jollier, he could have been Santa Claus on a diet.

  “Miss Evelyn Smith,” he said. “Mister Smith wishes to see you.”

  A chill settled over her shoulders, trailing its frigid fingers down her bare arms and leaving goosebumps in its wake. It was just a tiny chat with her dad. Only a few more weeks of this, and she’d be out of here. She pushed her shoulders back before striding into the study.

  A fire sparked behind the desk, turning her father into an inky silhouette. She squinted against the brightness of the flames. Her father was leaning back in his red leather chair, lined with golden piping. The silver chain he always wore around his neck glinted in the firelight, its end dipping beneath the collar of his shirt. The chairs, desk, and even bookshelves were large, seemingly built to suit his frame.

  The study’s walls would have been bare if not for the red and gold art-noveau-patterned wallpaper. There wasn’t a single painting or picture to be found—even in the rest of the house. She imagined most mansions this stately would have had pictures of great-great-great grandfathers adorning the walls and lining the hallways. Despite her extensive online research, the other members of her family seemed to be nonexistent. Maybe they were all in hiding, staying as far from her father as possible. She didn’t blame them.

  Her father’s arm was folded across his chest. With his other arm, he pressed his index finger against his chin. An outsider might think he was deep in thought, but she saw through his calm veneer. Whenever she came face-to-face with him, it was like a cloud had suddenly smothered the sun, dimming the blue-green in his eyes.

  Despite the fire, shudders wracked her body. She held her purse in front of her with both hands, keeping her thumbs stiff so she wouldn’t fidget.

  She wasn’t sure how much time had passed in silence before he spoke.

  “You stole Kimberly’s invitation.” His words were crisp and calculated, as if he’d measured them with precision before speaking. If he’d ever had a southern accent, it’d long been purged from his lips. “Along with her car.” He tilted his head, as if he were studying bacteria in a petri dish. “All for a boy.”

  His words hung suspended in the air between them before evaporating into silence.

  His chuckle was gentle, like a summer breeze ruffling grass. “To think such a daughter could be raised in my household, without loyalty, dignity, honor.” He shook his head and settled back in his chair. “What a disappointment.”

  Each syllable felt like a metal fist slamming into her gut. She held her shoulders back and her spine straight, refusing him the satisfaction of seeing the damage he’d inflicted. She took a deep breath and plunged deep inside of herself, into her hidden Room. The deeper she retreated, the less her father could hurt her.

  In her Room, she ran her finger along a golden figurine, mounted on top of a trophy. It was from a dance competition. After receiving the award and realizing her father hadn’t bothered staying to watch, the only thing that had kept her from falling apart was imagining her mother was beside her, hugging her tightly, encouraging her to smile for the pictures.

  “Your mother was a gorgeous woman,” her father continued. “When I met her, she was kind, sweet, loving… Or so I thought.”

  His voice echoed in her Room, so far and distant. Evelyn cradled the trophy to her chest. Her mother was kind, sweet, and loving.

  “I loved her even more after she gave me our first beautiful daughter, Kimberly.”

  Her father had never called Evelyn beautiful. She set the trophy back on its stand and ran her fingers along its crevices to wipe out the dust. Perhaps her mother would call her beautiful when Evelyn found her.

  “Life couldn’t possibly be any better,” he said. “And I was right. Two years later, she abandoned me, ran away with a man who had less money and more charm—your true father. I never saw her again. If it weren’t for Kimberly, I wouldn’t believe she’d ever been mine. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t believe she’d betrayed me. She left you with me when you were an infant. She loved this man and nothing would get in the way. Especially not you.”

  In her Room, Evelyn curled herself onto a raggedy sofa, a sofa where she’d spent many evenings watching movies with friends, and plugged her ears. Lies. All lies. Her mother had left her the necklace, an apology and a symbol of her love. Regardless of what had happened, Evelyn knew she was loved by at least one person.

  “But I’d been an orphan before, and I knew what it felt like to be abandoned and unwanted. So out of pity, I kept you. I had hoped you would prove you weren’t like your mother, that you would never betray a loved one to chase a man who arouses you.”

  She focused on the echo of each syllable, the rise and fall of pitch in his voice—on anything but the words themselves.

  His gaze sharpened, yanking her from her Room. “But at every corner, you’ve failed and disappointed. You’ve proven yourself to be completely without honor.” His lip curled. “Here we are, yet again.” The disgust vanished as he stared at her. Seconds ticked by as his expression cooled.

  When he spoke again, his voice was like silk. “You may disguise yourself as Kimberly, but you will never be her. You will never be my daughter.”

  Evelyn clenched her jaw, refusing to release the sob cinching her throat. She envisioned the raggedy sofa, a seam torn on the left, a cushion missing. But no matter how many details her mind painted, she couldn’t touch it. Her father’s voice was a splash of ice-cold reality, and she doubted she’d be able to return to her Room until she left.

  He shook his head, his gaze never leaving her. “You look ridiculous. Get out of that disguise.” His gaze slid to the clock, and he shoved fingers through his fiery crimson hair. “Tonight of all nights.” He glanced back at her. “I said change. Now.”

  Evelyn whirled around to leave, the wet cushions in her heels squishing with the shift of weight. As she strode to the door, she muttered, “Tuteno.” When she couldn’t pull back into her Room, her pretend language was her next choice for a coping mechanism.

  “Wait.”

  She froze.

  His footsteps tapped across the wooden floor before he grabbed her arm and turned her around. “Where did you learn that?”

  She blinked. “Learn… what?”

  He shook her slightly. “What did you say?”

  She stepped back, tearing away from his grip. Why did he care? “It’s my pretend language. I made it up when I was little.”

  The tightness vanished from his expression. “Of course, of course. I’ve simply never heard you speak like that before.” He fluttered a hand in her direction. “You’re dismissed.”

  She turned back toward the exit. Before she reached it, the double doors swung open and crashed against the walls. Kimberly’s blue-green gaze burrowed into her, her flaming red hair gorgeously tousled. Even in heels, Kimberly still had a good inch on her. With her height and willowy build, she was model-gorgeous.

  Evelyn glanced at her father, even though doing so with a wild Kimberly on the loose was dangerous. Just as she’d suspected, the sun had risen once more; the
flat line of her father’s mouth melted into a smile.

  She wasn’t sure why she tormented herself like this, why she always loved watching the happiness dawn on his face when Kimberly strode in. A sick, desperate part of her liked to pretend she was the reason the darkness had fled his expression.

  “You.” A manicured nail jabbed her chest.

  Evelyn swung her gaze to Kimberly.

  “You stole my shoes, my dress, my invitation, my car—”

  Her father cleared his throat. “It’s all right, Kim. I have taken care of it. Everything’s been returned. And there’s something urgent we must speak of.”

  Kimberly’s gaze slid down Evelyn’s figure. Her eyes sparked. “Not the dress.”

  “You have other dresses. I could always buy you more, if need be.” Her father’s gaze darted to his wristwatch. “It’s getting late, dear. Why don’t we have some tea together before going to bed?”

  Evelyn held back a grimace. Who in their right mind would have tea when they could have coffee?

  “We could browse for new dresses if you’d like,” her father told Kimberly. “And I’ll make you hot chocolate.”

  Kimberly glanced at him. Her smile was radiant, fit to grace the cover of a magazine. “With whipped cream and marshmallows?”

  Her father grimaced. “Is that much sugar really necessary?”

  Kimberly arched her eyebrows.

  Her father finally laughed. “Very well. I’ll even add sprinkles if you so desire.”

  Kimberly perked up. “I’ll start brewing your tea, then.” She darted out of his study, leaving Evelyn in the shadow of their joy.

  “Evelyn.” His eyes narrowed. He was probably upset that she’d intruded on their father-daughter moment. “You’re dismissed. And lock your window tonight.”

  She blinked. “Lock my window?”