Page 4 of Crowned In Blood
I'd have to keep up the heroic senator’s daughter act a little longer, but I'd be able to go home feeling safe each night, at peace, knowing I'd helped both myself and others.
I stood, checking my appearance in the mirror. My dark-brown hair shined and bounced, the curled ends brushing the top of my ass. My makeup was light—as my father had ordered—mascara to call attention to my long eyelashes and thin black eyeliner to enhance my dark eyes—but the crimson lipstick I'd chosen was all me. My little act of rebellion.
My long, plum gown of lace and silk highlighted my too-thin body but accentuated my natural curves, the high slit coming to mid-thigh, elongating my legs.
I was a perfect blend of elegance and seduction—my forced role for the night.
I practiced my smile and greetings in the mirror until they were flawless. Then, before the grief of my life could consume me, I shoved it away.
You're almost there. In less than a day, you'll be gone.
My party—moreof an art gala with me as the main showpiece—had so far gone off without a hitch.
My father was the picture of perfection in his perfectly tailored black suit, gold watch and cufflinks. Not a single strand of graying, dark-brown hair out of place.
He gave a grand introduction, professing how beautiful I was and how proud he was of me before wishing me all the happiness in the world.
Managing to force a warm smile, I issued a heartfelt thank you. Even shed a small tear, like the Oscar-worthy actress I’d trained myself to be.
I dabbed the tear away with a napkin, and he grabbed my shoulders, kissing my cheeks with a big smile. His blue eyes lowered to my dark-red lipstick and flashed. A warning that I would be punished for defying his orders.
Good.The pain would be worth it for that small piece of control.
His grip on my waist was tight as he nearly dragged me to meet his guests. If I wasn’t used to it, I'd have tripped and fallen flat on my face.
When he left to attend a meeting, the vultures descended, trying their best to play matchmaker.
I'd rather die before marrying anyone here.
My rounds finally done, I grabbed a flute of champagne and a few stuffed mushroom hors d'oeuvres before stealing a moment in a secluded corner.
I was exhausted. It wasn’t exertion, but something deeper, darker. I'd spent my life holding onto the edge of a cliff, a fingertip away from falling into the abyss, and now, I was starting to slip.
All I had left was myself, and I swore I wouldn't lose who I was to these people, to this life.
But as I looked around the room, rage and hate consumed me. They deserved a taste of the brutality I endured just as much as my father did.
Yes, my father caused my pain and despair, but these people played a part as well. They paid him. They paved his way, bought his every word. Believed his every lie.
There's no doubt my father did and condoned illegal things over the years, and these people knew that. But they didn't care. All they wanted was another dollar sign, another paycheck, another source for power. But what aboutmypower? What aboutmyvoice?What about my life?
Why shouldn't I let loose? Rain hell down upon them and show them what years of abuse could do to the heart? To the soul?
I was ruined, destroyed. There were cracks in me that would never be filled. And all I could do was try to cover them and ignore the violence and cruelty underneath. But it was there, festering, waiting to spring free.
Taking a deep breath, I exhaled. In these moments I scared myself, not knowing the lengths I would go for vengeance.
I stared at the champagne, rolling the flute between my fingertips. What would it feel like to break it in my hand and use the shards as a weapon? To experience the same raw, unabashed, chaotic freedom every person in this room but me had enjoyed? How many people could I hurt in the ways I'd been hurt?
Could I kill Malcolm Richards—the man who had been undressing me with his eyes since I was thirteen? Would his wife Cathy cry over his death, or would she use his life insurance policy to take lavish trips with the pool boy she was fucking on the side?
Maybe I could stab Shawn Cruz. He'd certainly deserve it. All he got was a light slap on the wrist after his drunk driving caused the death of a father of three, because he was the District Attorney’s son.
None of the people here were innocent, and perhaps, neither was I. But as long as I kept myself under control, I could be better than them.
"You don't seem to be enjoying your party."
The deep voice jarred me and I looked up to find an unfamiliar man gazing at me intensely. He was over six feet tall, with long brown hair that touched his wide shoulders. But it was his eyes that unnerved me the most.
