But here they are, in front of me, just people. It’s almost anticlimactic, like coming face-to-face with your worst fear and realizing that it’s nothing more than a shadow.
Feeling bolder by the step, I walk right up to them and hold out my hand, ignoring the salt-and-pepper-haired woman who is in the middle of telling some kind of terrible joke.
“Sophia Moore,” I introduce myself to Mrs. Hawthorne. “It’s a pleasure.”
Mrs. Hawthorne’s critical eyes sweep over me, and I resist the urge to flinch. I’ve put on my best dress today, a pink-and-purple floral dress with a silk sash that wraps around my waist. Even if I don’t feel like I belong here, I certainly look the part.
“Moore,” she repeats in a high-pitched, drawling voice. She glances at her husband. “Darling, don’t you know a Moore?”
Charles looks down into his martini, uninterested. “I think there’s a Moore at the firm. Or perhaps his name is Morgan.”
I drop my hand, which the Hawthornes have already forgotten.
“I just wanted to stop by and say thank you for hosting me at your marvelous party,” I say, “I’m actually new to New Orleans myself, and I’d be absolutely flattered if we could find a time to have a cup of coffee together next week. I’m a young investor, you see. I’m about to graduate from business school and I’d really appreciate the opportunity to learn from you and hear about your experience.”
Lies, lies, lies, all of it. But at least they bother to look up at me this time.
“My son William handles the investments for my company. You should speak with him,” says Mr. Hawthorne.
“I did, actually. He was the one who invited me here,” I say sweetly. Does mentioning a party qualify as an invitation? Well, close enough, I think.
“Oh, really?” pipes up Mrs. Hawthorne.
“Yes, and he recommended that I speak with you,” I say. I gaze at them both, waiting for a response. I can’t seem to breathe.
Mr. Hawthorne sighs. “Our son was kind to make that suggestion, but unfortunately he forgets how full our schedules are. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss—what was your name again?”
“Moore,” I breathe out, my mind reeling with rejection. There has to be something else I can say, before they shoo me away like some kind of pestering bug.
I find myself starting to babble; my lips begin moving of their own accord. “I also wanted to ask you how you handled controversy, since I know that comes up from time to time in business and I’ve already begun to encounter it. For example, I was reading about that whole incident with the Morrison family many years back…didn’t you accuse them of fraud?”
Suddenly, it seems like everyone at the party has held their breath. Everyone except for the Hawthornes, that is. They just fix me with their steely, cold smiles.
I’m suddenly aware that I’ve just said something very, very forbidden.
“Miss Moore, one thing that you should learn, and quickly, is that it’s considered poor manners to bring up unpleasant memories at social gatherings,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. Her words are all Southern politeness, but her voice is like ice. “It’s hardly fodder for proper conversation, which it seems you have yet to achieve. Have a good day.”
The Hawthornes’ friends are glaring daggers at me. Even a few servers throw a few frightened looks in my direction.
Realizing that I’ve crossed a line, I back away slowly, one step behind the other, until finally I twirl around. It takes all of my self-control not to burst into a sprint.
Fleeing around the side of the house, I nearly collide with a suited, black-haired man. I stop just short of stomping on his perfectly polished shoes.
“What’s the big hurry?” he says in a greasy voice. “Come now, surely the cocktails can’t be that bad.”
I stifle a gasp.
I know this man.
Even with his bland, straight features, it’s difficult to forget the face of your parents’ prosecutor.
Robert Chaisson.
First the judge, and now the district attorney? I think wildly. Suddenly the picture of my parents’ incarceration becomes clearer—it certainly must be easy to destroy a person’s life if you’re friendly with all of the right people.
I feel an angry pressure in the back of my neck, like the beginnings of a throbbing headache.
“I don’t think I’ve seen your face around here before. Certainly not at one of Charles and Barbara’s gatherings, anyway. What’s your name?” the lawyer is saying. He says the Hawthornes’ names with the familiarity of a longtime acquaintance.
Before I can respond with a “None of your business,” a deep voice calls out behind me.
“Sophia.”
I freeze. Even from here, I can recognize the annoyance in Liam’s voice.
So he did decide to come to the party after all.
With trepidation fluttering like butterflies in my chest, I turn to see Liam striding across the lawn toward me.
As always, he looks impeccable, dressed in a simple white button-down shirt and a pair of khakis. Liam’s dark hair flutters softly in the breeze as he approaches me. His eyes are narrowed; his jaw is square and angry.
Not breaking pace, he grabs me by the arm and pulls me toward the plantation house, away from the oily lawyer. His fingers are tight against my skin, only letting go when we have crossed the threshold into the sunlit foyer. A grand double staircase curves around each side of the foyer, leading up to an open second-floor balcony.
“What are you doing here?” he says in a low, threatening voice.
“I—“ I begin to protest, but the words fail me, languishing on my tongue.
He reaches over and grabs my arm again, leading me up the stairs and down a hallway. He uses his shoulder to shove open a door on our left. He pushes me inside first.
I land in the bathroom with a slight stumble, my heels wobbling beneath me. The room is spacious and bright, with a double sink and a clawfooted porcelain bathtub. Liam steps inside the bathroom and locks the door. When he turns around, his eyes are bluer than I’ve ever seen them.
“Why did you come here?” He takes a step toward me. I find myself moving backwards. “Why did you try to talk with my parents? Did you know that after your little chat with them, they called me over and asked me why I invited such a rude person to their party. But funny thing is—I don’t seem to recall inviting you at all.”
“I thought you did,” I lie breathlessly. “I’m sorry. I was confused.”
His eyes gleam with anger. “You’re lying. I’m not an idiot, you know.”
“I just wanted to come and see you,” I say weakly. “I couldn’t wait until Mardi Gras Day. I missed you.”
“That’s another lie,” he says through gritted teeth. “If you missed me so much, then why did you go up to my parents? Don’t think I haven’t come across girls like you before. It’s happened more times than I can count, all throughout my life. The particulars are different—one of them might want diamond necklaces, another wants high-end restaurants, flashy cars, bragging rights—but in the end you all want one thing. A chance to glom onto the family name and pump it for all you can.”
Ah, I think.
Instantly Liam’s anti-dating policy becomes clear.
“That’s not me. I swear,” I say, pleading. “I just wanted to meet your parents because I like you so much. Liam, I’m all about you. You’re all I can think about. I’ve never felt like this about anyone before.” This lie comes out more easily than the others. The are notes of truth to it; his merest touch is enough to occupy my thoughts for days.
His eyes soften slightly, but his jaw is still clenched tightly. “Show me.”
The butterflies in my chest are thumping heavily now, colliding wildly against my ribcage.
“Okay,” I say. “What do you want me to do?”
“It’s not what you’re going to do,” he says, “but what I’m going to do to you. Turn around.”
The blood rushes to my head. I find it sud
denly hard to stand straight. But I do as he says, putting a hand on the bathroom wall to steady myself.
“Lift up your dress.”
My hand trembles as it finds the hem of my floral dress, pulling it up slowly until my bottom is exposed.
I can feel Liam’s fingers slip beneath the band of my panties. He pulls it out as far as the elastic will allow, then lets it snap back onto my skin. The band stings on impact; I let out a small whine.
“And here I was thinking that you had finally gotten rid of your panties,” he says.
There’s something simultaneously exciting and terrifying about his voice. It’s low and restrained, but it’s not difficult to notice the rippling fury that laces his tone.
He continues, “Tell me: all of those other times we were texting and you told me that you weren’t wearing panties—were those all lies too?”
“I’m not lying to you,” I say quietly.
Liam hooks a finger underneath the hem of my panties and lets it go with another painful snap. I groan.
He says, “Yes you are. Now, let’s try this again—were you or were you not actually wearing panties when you texted me? I can tell when you’re lying to me. Your voice falters. I’d advise you to tell the truth. It will be less painful for you.”
I know he means that literally.
“I was lying, I was lying,” I whisper, my fingers grabbing at the blue wallpaper.
One more snap of the panties. The pain is sharp and hot against my bottom. I bite my lip, trying not to yelp again.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he says quietly.
I hear him opening a drawer and rifling through it in search of something, but I’m too nervous to look behind me. After a moment, the metallic swish of scissors breaks through the silence.
I jump as the cold edge of the blade slips softly against my skin. I can feel the scissors slicing through my panties. The air is cool against my bare ass as the fabric falls away.
When my panties are completely destroyed and laying in tatters around my ankles, Liam places the scissors onto the edge of the marble sink with a quiet thunk.
Was that all? I guess that wasn’t so bad.
I tilt my head upwards and take a peek at myself in the mirror, bending in front of the wall, with my now-bare bottom raised in the air.
But then Liam raises his hand suddenly and brings it down across my ass. A smart, biting pain ripples over my skin.
Before I can begin to process what’s just happened, he brings his hand down for a second time. My back jerks. I am suddenly aware of every twitch of skin, every pinch of pain throughout my body. Every single one of my nerve endings is ablaze.
Liam doesn’t let up. He keeps raising his hand and landing it sharply across my bottom, over and over, until I begin to wonder if it will ever stop. My body bucks under his touch, and he slips a hand underneath my bunched-up dress and onto my bare hip to keep me still. His fingers dig into my skin, intensifying the pain. I begin to whimper softly, and it’s only then that he begins to croon with approval.
“Look at how red your ass is, Sophia. It is really something to behold,” he says, pinching at the raw skin. “And God, look, you’re already wet.”
His hand slips between my legs, caressing my lips, and my body shudders with the sudden pleasure. Now that all of my sensations are heightened, his mere touch is enough to send ebbs of ecstasy through my body.
And I am wet—that’s the surprising thing. I realize I’ve never been so aroused.
He runs his index finger across the entrance to my vagina, flicking it back and forth, teasing me, before finally plunging it in.
I gasp with pleasure.
He slips in his middle finger, and then his ring finger too, all three fingers working in and out of me, stretching me from the inside, stimulating every single nerve inside me.
I curl my fingers against the wall, breathing in ragged gasps and moans, feeling each of my muscles tense and clench, mounting with pleasure, preparing for the inevitable, glorious release—
But then Liam removes his fingers, and suddenly the air between my legs is cold and empty.
He turns on the faucet and washes his hands dispassionately, somehow not noticing—or choosing not to notice—my quiet desperation.
My mind is a fog. I am drifting, untethered in an abyss of unfulfilled pleasure, and there is only one thing that can bring me back down to Earth.
“Please,” I whisper, gazing at Liam with wide eyes. “Please make me come.”
He looks into the mirror and locks eyes with my reflection. When he speaks, his voice is cold and indifferent. “Why should I?”
My heart sinks as I realize what he’s doing.
I’ve felt the pleasures of Liam’s rewards—but this? This is what punishment is like at Liam’s hand. It’s not just pain, no. Pain is simple. Pain I can manage.
But the prickling, clenching torture of coming so close up the mountain and then being left at the edge—it’s mind-reeling. I knew that I was taking a risk coming to his parents’ party against his wishes, but I had no idea what I was risking until now.
Would I have come here, if I had known the stakes? A bead of sweat trickles down my back. It’s hard to say.
“Please?” I repeat again softly, hoping that something in him will stir and give me the sweet release that I so desperately need.
But to my utter dismay, he turns and walks out of the room. He shuts the door behind him, leaving me alone in the bathroom, half-naked, chest heaving, and with every inch of my skin gasping for more.
11
It takes me three tries to dial Miranda’s number, my fingers are trembling so much. I’ve only moments ago just crawled into my car, which is still parked on the street outside the Hawthorne estate. The muscles in my arms and legs are twitching madly; I’m fearful that I might run myself off the road if I try to drive right now.
I need to calm down. I need to talk to someone.
To my relief, Miranda answers on the second ring.
“What’s up, buttercup?” she says cheerily. “How are things going?”
“Hi,” I say grudgingly. “I’m at the Hawthornes’ house.”
“Excellent!” she exclaims, and lets out a whoop.
The line goes quiet for a moment while she waits for me to enthusiastically respond, but I don’t say a word. Instead, I just press a palm to my chest and wonder if my heart will ever stop pounding.
“April, doll,” Miranda says cautiously. Her pitch rises with concern. “What’s the matter? Shouldn’t getting to the Hawthornes’ house be a coup—you know, something to celebrate?”
“I’m not sure,” I mumble. “I think I really may have screwed this all up.”
“What happened? Talk to me.”
I rest my palm on my forehead. My face is still flushed. “I came here to crash the Hawthornes’ Mardi Gras party.” There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other line. “What, bad idea?”
“You want to gain their confidence, right? Do you really think intruding on their private party is going to create a good first impression?”
“Well…” I start to say, then trail off.
Honestly, I hadn’t even considered that. I tug nervously at my hair, wondering if it would have been a better idea to let Miranda come here in the first place and do the whole thing on her own. It wouldn’t have been as satisfying as doing it myself, of course, but at least she would have done the job right.
Compared to me, who seems to be botching it at every opportunity.
“What’s done is done,” says Miranda dismissively. “So you crashed their party. Fine. What happened next?”
I hesitate. I know for certain that Miranda isn’t going to like what I say next. But I know I have to say it. So I try to say it fast, to get it out and over with. Like peeling off a Band Aid.
“IwentuptothemandaskedforbusinessadviceandthenmaybeImighthavementionedmyparentstothemandthentheyaskedmetoleave,” I say all in one long breath.
�
��What?” Miranda gasps. “What was that last part? Did I hear you say something about you mentioning your parents?”
“Yes,” I groan. “I’m an idiot. You don’t need to tell me. Believe me, I already know.” I tilt my head around to the rolled-up window and lean against the cold glass.
“God, April, what were you thinking? Did they put two and two together and realize who you are?”
“No,” I say. At least I have that. “They just thought I was being a troublemaker. Trying to get a rise out of them, that kind of thing.”
“Was that your intention?”
“Not quite,” I say. “I was panicking. They had just totally shut me down. They were about to send me away, so I felt like I had to say something.”
“And you couldn’t think of anything better to say? God, you could’ve told them about your dirty trysts with Liam and even that would have been better conversation material.”
My cheeks turn crimson. “About that…”
Miranda’s voice drops. “Oh, no. What is it?”
“Liam was here, and he saw me…”
“Yeah? And?”
“And since he never actually invited me to come, he was…well, angry is an understatement.”
Miranda groans. “What happened? What did he say?”
“It was more like what he did—” I begin to say, but cut myself off abruptly.
This line of conversation is going to lead to nowhere good. Miranda does not need to hear the details about what went on in that bathroom.
I venture into safer territory: “He thinks that I’m just like all the other girls who hound him. That I’ve only been after his money this whole time.”
“Technically, that’s true…” Miranda says. “But you denied it, right? You convinced him otherwise?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, twisting a strand of hair tightly around my finger.
“Well, you’ve got to be sure,” Miranda insists. “I’m not going to lie to you, April. I respect you too much for that. You made some mistakes today.”
My stomach fills with embarrassment, heavy and sloshing like hot lead. “I know.”
“But it doesn’t have to end here, you know,” says Miranda. “Find Liam. Tell him that he’s wrong about you. Tell him that you love him. Tell him that you’ll do anything for him. Get down on your knees and grovel if you have to. It’s not going to be pretty, but at this point it’s your only option. You’ve got to win his trust back.”
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