The head, back, and pain from the light faded just enough to unblur my eyes and let me see the person talking to me.
I was right about the voice being feminine. But that was all the femininity she outwardly displayed.
She was a teenager. Fifteen or sixteen, maybe. She had short black hair, which she wore like a man from the 1950s—parted on one side and smoothed back into a pompadour.
I’d been instructed to smile prettily when meeting someone new. Her lips tilted slightly downward, as if she’d received the exact opposite encouragement to frown at everyone you meet. Heavily.
She appeared to be one of the “butchy girls” my bi first-year roommate told me she preferred to date when I tried to set her up with one of my newly out sorority sisters. But she wasn’t white. If I had to guess her ethnically ambiguous race, I’d go with Latinx born in Louisiana, like me. But nothing like me.
I only ever allowed the slightest hint of my Southern upbringing to touch my refined voice—"just enough to let them know you’re from around here,” my mother had instructed me growing up. But this girl sounded like she’d crawled out of one of the swamp communities I was never allowed to visit.
I immediately regretted taking the pill.
As welcome as any relief from the pain was, I knew in an instant that I could not trust this person. Despite her youthful appearance, lean muscles rippled up both her arms. And she regarded me with an angry scowl that let me know her tone hadn’t been soft and nurturing, as I assumed, but mocking.
Panic and alarm temporarily muted the pain. Along with the realization that I was naked from the waist up.
My dress…the beautiful designer dress I’d picked out with such care had been ripped away. Why? I didn’t understand.
As scared as I was of the woman glowering down at me, I had to ask, “Who are you? What did you do to my back?”
Her glare became a little less intense. “Either those knockout drugs did a worse number on you than we thought, or your father didn’t do too good a job of explaining things to you.”
“My father? Is this about ransom?” I began to ask, only to break off when several flashes of memory hit me all at once.
CHAPTER 4
STEPHANIE
My father didn’t start lecturing me right away as I expected when I perched on the couch he used in front of his desk, as opposed to guest chairs. Instead, he went straight to his office liquor cabinet and said, “Let me pour you a drink.”
Not wine—which was the only thing I’d been permitted to drink before officially turning twenty-one—but several fingers of the thirty-year-old Glendaver Bourbon he only brought out for special guests.
“Happy Birthday,” he said, handing the bourbon to me in a crystal tumbler.
So, this talk was about wishing me a private happy birthday, not about yelling at me. I let out a grateful breath of relief before gulping the whole thing down like it was a shot and I was at a Greek party.
The fine bourbon burned my throat, but I managed to choke out a, “Thanks, Dad. Thanks for everything. Mom would have been so proud of this party.”
Dad was a handsome man. He was only five foot eight, but clean-cut with just enough salt in his black hair to appear distinguished, not old. He was also known for his charm. My mother had often quipped that he didn’t have to argue—even for his job. He was that good at convincing people to do what he wanted without ever having to raise his voice.
But instead of responding to my words with a warm smile, he shifted his eyes away. “I’m glad your mama died, actually. After the doctors told us there was nothing else they could do, I prayed she wouldn’t hang on too long, like some people who get diagnosed with terminal cancer do.”
I blinked at him. “Why would you say something like that?”
He went back to his liquor cabinet to pour another drink. For himself this time. “I was torn up about this for years. Had no idea how I’d explain things to your poor mother when the time came. I didn’t know how to make her understand the deal I had made. Lucky for her, she got her cancer diagnosis and died without ever having to know.”
Lucky for her? Was he serious?
I narrowed my eyes. “Are you trying to say it’s a good thing Mom died?”
“It’s better than the alternative,” Dad answered with his back still turned to me. “If she’d known I gave you to him….”
Dread pooled in my stomach like a dark lake with gators in it. “Dad, what are you saying? Who did you give me to? I don’t understand.”
Dad turned back around with double the amount of liquor he’d given me in his glass. But he’d chosen something clear. Vodka. Maybe tequila. Neat. “That Brandt boy. He came by my offices yesterday and asked for my permission to marry you.”
“Lukas? Lukas wants to marry me?”
