Page 24 of Fatality

The urge to punch them rises inside me, my hands beginning to shake.

“Your mother is right,” my father says. “You look like some girl from the Lower Layers—a Below—waiting to get paid. This is not acceptable. You are a shame, girl.”

Girl.

I'm his daughter, and he calls me a whore. A girl waiting to get paid.

I try to calm myself by digging my nails into my skin.

“Excuse me?” My eyes narrow. My fists clench, then unclench, my stiletto nails biting into my palms hard enough to sting. “I wonder what high society would say if they heard Adrien and Celine Laordie speaking to their own daughter like that.”

My father takes a step closer, looming over me even with my heels, his eyes, that steel blue grey is piercing my soul.

“You will not threaten your own family, girl. This is not negotiable. You are the heiress, we didn't want it, or want you, but with Kyle's death, we didn't have a choice.”

He pauses, lowering his voice.

“So... act like a Laordie. Smile. And do not make a scene or I'll make sure your little rebellion with the tattoo studio comes to an end. Then I'll drag you back here.”

Another pause. He simply stares at me, his cold eyes pinning me in place.

“Permanently.”

With that, he steps back, smooths his jacket, and extends his arm to my mother. She takes it, and they walk away, smiling at the guests, leaving me here.

Alone.

The music, the conversations, they all seem so far away. I feel like I'm drowning.

My heart beats too fast, my breathing quickens.

How can they keep breaking through the walls I've spent years building just by reminding me I'm not wanted? By threatening the only thing, I have any control over in my life.

And using Kyle as an argument?

No.

The edges of my vision begin to darken. I'm having a panic attack, I know it.

They always hit whenever I'm reminded that I'm only here because they had no other choice, or whenever Kyle's name comes up like this.

Seriously, Riven, get a grip.

I close my eyes, trying to compose myself, my nails biting into my palms hard enough to almost break the skin.

My feet move before I can fully process it. I head for the bar and order shots of whatever they've got, I just need something strong enough to either calm me down or knock me out.

With every shot, my body loosens, my smile comes easier, and my posture relaxes. But it does nothing to numb the part of me that wants to scream and burn everything down.

If anything, it feeds the anger.

I play the perfect daughter when required—smiling at the right moments, exchanging polite words, looking exactly like the version they want on display.

But the sarcasm keeps slipping through.

Small, sharp comments disguised as jokes, each one aimed at the polished elite circling like vultures, each one tightening my father's jaw another fraction while my mother's eye twitches almost imperceptibly, like she's seconds away from having a stroke.

I look at them and smile—all teeth—before dipping into a mocking bow and setting my glass onto a passing waiter's tray.