by Ivy Fox
I promise Elle and Ollie to be back in an hour and bypass my unfazed brother without a further word. I push the button for the elevator door, thinking about the conversation I’m about to have with the girl who was most affected by last night.
I’m still playing with the words in my head when the elevator’s doors open, and a loud, obnoxious blur pushes people aside, making sure she grabs everyone’s attention with her over-the-top performance.
Vivienne West is in the building, ladies and gentleman.
Dressed up to the nines in distinct Dior couture, she belts out to anyone with a pair of ears how she demands to see her husband and the doctor in charge of his care. The Ice Queen looks like she’s about to slice apart anyone who denies her command. She looks more pissed than mournful—I guess the idea of losing her meal ticket when she hasn’t even been married for a month was bound to set her on a rampage.
I step into the elevator, and as the doors begin to close, I thank the absent God in my life for small mercies. At least I’ll miss the show she’s about to put on. I don’t think I would have the patience to deal with the insufferable woman anyway, especially when my head is being occupied by thoughts of her daughter.
Whatever drama Vivienne has set her black heart to do here, it won’t hold a candle to the one I have planned.
Hope you have your claws sharpened, Snow. You’ll need them to withstand the storm coming your way.
Chapter 5
Holland
The unforgiving sun seeps through the dark, navy curtains in sharp beams, sending my hand searching for the first thing I can find to cover my swollen eyes and keep me in the shadows. However, the fluffy pillow preventing the sun from getting its way wakes me up further. The familiar scent brings with it a nostalgic feeling of a warm summer’s beach day—one filled with soothing light-winds kissing my cheeks and softly crashing waves tickling the soles of my feet.
They say that certain scents can trigger a memory from the dark corners of your mind. Even recollections that have been buried deep can be summoned with the right aroma. But this precise memory doesn’t need to be coaxed out with much force. It’s one I’ve cherished and kept locked inside my heart, only to revisit when I’ve succumbed to the night’s spell.
Like a puffy white cloud, I’m unable to hold on to the lingering dream of warm days filled with laughter and love, no matter how hard I try. And the blaring sun only serves as a wakeup call to remind me that life is long gone. A new day is here, where summer kisses and moonlight swims are a thing of the past. They can only be relived in secret, with eyes closed shut, anticipating the night’s veil to drop and kidnap me back into a blessed slumber where my dreams feel real, and reality is the illusion.
But as I inhale the sweet smell into my lungs, it dawns on me that the fragrance is far too heightened for it to be my imagination or traces of a lingering, foolish dream.
Ocean breeze and sunshine.
Ash.
It smells as if Ash is right here beside me.
He is. Or at least he should be.
I push the pillow away from my face and turn rapidly, to see if the boy I love is still sound asleep next to me. The obviously missing body, plus the cold bed sheet, is my solemn answer. Although it’s hazy, I’m positive he spent most of the night here with me and only left my side in the early hours. I’m certain of that much at least. Ash stayed. He stayed and kept me safe. Protected me from myself, when I thought I was no match against my demons and their will to overpower me at the first sign of weakness.
But what are my feeble nightly fears, compared to the monsters that walk in broad daylight?
At first, the memories of last night start trickling back in, coming broken and shattered, not being gentle with their prickly invasion. Then they come at full force, waking me up from my previous stupor. The shredded pictures of last night’s horror are not as crystal clear as the dream I’d been having, but what they lack in clarity, they more than compensate in torment.
I remember fear.
God, do I remember fear.
And amber golden eyes mocking me to give in to my terror, so he could destroy me from the inside out.
The awful realization slaps me with such force that I’m sure its imprint is tattooed on my face. Malcolm Grayson tried to rape me. He had put his hands on me. Pushed me to the floor. Grabbed and tore at my clothes. Shoved his tongue down my throat. His fingers down my shorts.
“Oh, God!!!” I wail out, running to the bathroom.
Just by a fraction of a second, I fall to my knees at the base of the toilet and hurl my guts out. The stench alone makes my heaving continue until there is nothing more to throw up. I fall to the floor, hugging my stomach while pressing my forehead to the cool tile just to keep my bearings.
Malcolm Grayson tried to rape me.
And I killed him for it.
“OH, GOD!” I yelp again, my head barely lifting in time to retch into the bowl.
I’m not sure how long I kneel there, unable to keep the bile suppressed, but enough time has passed for logic to have finally revealed its ugly head.
He’s not dead.
No.
Rome said he was alive. I remember that now. At least, he was alive when Ash brought me back to his room. And in a cruel, merciless loop, those words repeat in my head until new ones make their grand entrance, distressing me further.
He was alive last night, but is he today? Is that why Ash left without waking me up? Are the police waiting for me downstairs? Biding their time to arrest me for murder? Do they know it was self-defense since he disregarded all my pleas to get off me? Why didn’t he listen? Why didn’t he stop?
Because he’s a monster.
He didn’t want to have sex with me. The man I met last night wanted to destroy my very soul. I saw it in his hellish eyes. He took pleasure in my cried denials. He wanted me to back away. He craved my fight. He enjoyed it. At least, up until I cracked his skull open. Then that sinister grin was nowhere to be seen—just a vacant expression that held nothing.
I just have to explain to the authorities that it was all in self-defense. But is it self-defense when my life wasn’t in danger? He wanted to hurt me, abuse me, and take from me things that I would never offer him willingly. But he didn’t want to kill me. Break me, yes; but kill me, perhaps not.
Yes, he did.
If he ravished my body the way he intended, he would have killed something far more precious inside me. Just because he didn’t intend to leave a dead body in his wake, doesn’t mean he wouldn’t leave me a scarred, empty corpse.
But will anyone believe me?
I know that once people find out, I’ll be forever branded with this new identity.
Victim.
Survivor.
Murderer.
I’ll be the topic of everyone’s gossip and speculation.
I had grown used to hushed whispers behind my back when I was diagnosed with lupus. People giving my nana and me their sincere condolences when they saw us up and about in Brookhaven. Looking down at me with sorrowful smiles, as if I had been handed out an early death sentence. Pitiful looks and awkward side hugs, worried they might catch whatever was cutting my life short. I hated their pity. It made me feel weak and destitute when all I wanted was to feel normal and alive.
But this…
This will be different. People won’t stop in the street to wish me all the best. They’ll slant their eyes and whisper in each other’s ears how, maybe, I asked for it to happen. That somehow I must have brought it all on myself. That’s what they’ll think, even if they’re not brave enough to say it.
But one person won’t be so subtle with her cursed views. On the contrary. My mother won’t even be as kind as the people who will slander me. No. Vivienne will kill me. If Malcolm didn’t do it last night, then my mother will be sure to finish the job this morning.
Shit!!!
“Take it easy, Holland,” I mumble to myself
. Or as Candy would say, “Woman the fuck up!”
No use in worrying about something that I don’t know for sure yet.
First things first—I have to find out what I’m dealing with. And in order to do that, I’m going to have to look for someone to give me some answers. I won’t get them if I’m holed up in Ash’s room, that’s for sure.
Having made up my mind to learn for myself what my dire future now looks like, I stand up from my fetal position on shaky legs, to see that I’m still wearing one of Ash’s large T-shirts. If answers are what I want, then I can’t go looking for them dressed like this. More likely, I’ll be the one interrogated, as to why I left a man downstairs, dead by my hand, while I took a nap with his son. I have to get dressed and then call Ash or Ollie for them to tell me just exactly what I’m facing.
You already know the answer—murderers go to jail. That simple.
I fist my hands, ordering those self-deprecating thoughts out of my head.
“Breathe, Snow. Breathe.” I remember a gentle voice whispering, one who kept me sane when all I wanted to do was give in to the madness. I latch on to those words with a fierce grip, creating a brick wall around them so no other menacing notion can infiltrate through its shield.
I go over to the sink, place some toothpaste on my finger and clean my mouth as best I can, trying to get rid of the taste of vomit. I do all of this with my head bowed low, away from the mirror’s reflection, focusing solely on my breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Breathe, Snow. Breathe.
I don’t want to go outside wearing only a T-shirt that barely covers my thighs. With my luck, someone might catch me coming out, and it would just add grief to my already-screwed state. I look around Ash’s room for something that can cover my bare legs, and pick up his discarded, mesh shorts hanging from the armrest of his desk chair. I open the door as silently as I can, feeling like a thief in the night when, in reality, my crime is more severe. Once I’ve made sure that it’s safe, I rush down the hall, thankful no one is around to see me smuggle myself out of my stepbrother’s room and into my own.
Once I’m inside, I silently close the door behind me, tilting my forehead against it until my heart slows down.
“Miss?” I hear a small voice question from inside my room. “I thought you were at the hospital with the others.”
I turn around and see Carmen under my bathroom’s threshold holding clean linens and towels in her hands, with a perplexed look on her face.
“I… Ummm… I… Ummm,” I stutter foolishly, not sure what to say.
“Are you not feeling well, Miss?” she asks, concerned, placing the clean laundry on top of my boudoir.
“Actually, no. Not really. Upset stomach, I think,” I lie through my teeth, hoping she doesn’t call me out on it.
“You do look pale. I’ll go down to the kitchen and ask Henrietta to fix you some tea and plain toast. That should settle it a bit.” She smiles.
I offer her my own weak version of a grin, even though hers far outshines any I could ever give.
Carmen has a beautiful smile, but since I moved in, I’ve never seen one quite as bright crested on her face. She must be trying to keep my spirits up since I’m sure my appearance must look sickly. Lord knows I feel sick to my stomach, but it has nothing to do with a virus, and more to do with my own guilty conscience.
“Thank you, Carmen.”
“Would you like me to run you a bath first?”
“Oh, no, please don’t trouble yourself. I’ll just take a shower.”
“Very well, Miss. I’ll leave you to it and bring you something to eat in a bit. Do you need anything else?” she questions warmly. I just shake my head, knowing she could never give me what I really want—the last twenty-four hours back.
I step away from the door so she can pass and do her thoughtful errand. Once I’m alone in the room, my mother’s hospital-like furnishings only increase my apprehension. I ransack my top drawer to get some clean clothes and hurry to the bathroom, never once making any eye contact with the vanity mirror inside.
I take off Ash’s clothes, making a note not to put them in the hamper, but hide them in my closet until I’m able to give them back. I turn the three showerheads on and step inside the heated, enclosed space. For the next half hour, this is exactly where I stay—under the cascading waterfall until I’ve cleaned away my sins.
Of course, the minute my feet touch the plush, white bathroom mat, I know that no amount of water and soap can ever clean the villainous stain off me. It can’t erase how my skin still feels his vile touch, or how the ghost of his hot breath continues to crawl up my spine. Not if I spent the rest of my life underwater, could it cleanse the ugly blemish he branded on to my soul.
I put on a light-blue T-shirt and jeans, then brush and dry my hair on autopilot. I’m just going through the motions since the chaos in my mind has taken over, and I no longer have any control in restraining the screams inside my head.
Carmen said she thought I was at the hospital with everyone else, which means one of my anguish-filled questions has been answered—he’s still alive; his blood is not on my hands.
Yet.
Sooner or later, I’ll have to pull myself together and face the music. I’ll ask Carmen which hospital I should go to, and pray that my punishment won’t be as dire as that of the man who tried to condemn me with his. But if I’m to do this, I’ll have to see what others see when they look at me. I need to know how far his ruin has slid its way out of my body and onto the surface, where every eye can behold. I clasp the rim of the sink, murmuring the only mantra that has given me courage so far.
Breathe, Snow. Breathe.
I lift my head up and stare aghast at my own reflection.
My face may be pale, the shadows under my eyes may be a bit darker, but aside from that, I look exactly the same. How can that be, when I no longer recognize the girl who is staring back at me? I’m not her anymore. I’m this broken mess—flawed, tarnished, and slayed from within. How can I look exactly as I did two days ago when I no longer feel like that girl even exists anymore? Is this some cruel karmic joke? To look so untouched, when all of me feels violated?
A mangled laugh rips through me as I confirm that the evil done to me can’t be seen. No one will know that this flesh and body covered in porcelain skin is just a pretty wrap camouflaging a hollow shell. My lips sneer at the cold, cruel realization. My trembling hands grip the sink tighter, my nails threatening to splinter away at the force, but it’s all I can do to prevent myself from throwing something at this mirror until its reflection looks just as ugly and repulsive as I feel.
No longer capable of keeping my eyes on the lie in front of me, I turn away, rushing to my bedroom in search of something—anything—I can take my anger out on. As luck would have it, I’m greeted by familiar, whiskey eyes that look close enough to the object of my hate—perfect to lash out.
“You know, you surprised me. That doesn’t happen often,” Rome states evenly, looking too comfortable sitting on the edge of my bed. His hair is wet, showing signs of just coming back from his own shower. But while he looks refreshed, cool, and collected, I’m bubbling with chaotic energy.
“And how did I do that?” I snap, the disdain I’m currently being swallowed by, thick and heavy in my voice.
“You’re angry. That’s good. You should be.”
“Glad you approve.” I snarl bitterly, walking over to the dresser and leaning on it for support, knowing it’s close enough to keep our little conversation intimate—away from anyone who might be tempted to eavesdrop outside my door—but still far enough to keep me safe.
Safety being the keyword here.
Unlike his father, Rome has threatened me plenty of times before. Who’s to say he’s not here just to pounce on me while I’m at my weakest and finish the job his father started? Sensing my irrational fear, he leans back
on my bed, his elbows keeping him up, making his own form just as vulnerable as mine. Yet, as much as he tries, I still read the danger in his eyes. He might look laid-back and relaxed, but he’s just as affected as I am. While my nerves are blistering away, Roman Grayson looks as if he’s in his element and has prepared all his life for this moment.
“How did I surprise you?” I ask, wanting this conversation to run its course and get Rome out of my room as quickly as possible.
“You fought back,” he states plainly.
“Is this a joke to you?” I croak appalled.
Of course I fought back. Why would he expect me to act any differently?
“No, Holland. It’s not. I’m fucking serious. Not many people would have reacted the way you did,” he whispers, and there is that small tinge of pain on the borders of his golden eyes again—the same one I had caught a glimpse of last night. His sudden vulnerability unnerves me. I’m not comfortable with him, letting me have a clear view of his suffering. Not when I’m being drowned by my own.
“What do you want, Roman?” I ask, feeling the fumes of my hatred starting to fade.
“I think the better question here is, what do you want?”
“Me?” I repeat, confused.
“Yes.”
“I want to go home,” I confess, and it’s the first time I let the desire leave my lips.
Going home is all I crave for. I know I can’t take back what I’ve done. What I let be done to me. I can’t rewind time, but I can go back to Brookhaven where I am safe and loved. I lost all hope for the future with Ollie and Ash the moment their father set his sights on me. The only thing I could hope for now is that I can leave this place, never to return, and forget this ever happened to me.
Rome lets out a heavy sigh and leans forward onto the bed. He clasps his hands together, making a fist just above his knees as if praying to give him the strength to say what he needs.
“I’m afraid I can’t let that happen.”
I swallow down his refusal like hot coal traveling down my throat, burning every organ inside of me until they hit the pit of my stomach.