“Like who?”
Like me?I think, feeling the weight of my aunt’s gaze.
“A big ring might do the trick,” she says. “Something really ostentatious.”
Translation: I have no taste to expect any better. But then, that’s the public persona I’ve cultivated, because eccentricity is one of my most important tools of survival. And to be honest, it isn’t that difficult to be a tasteless heiress when I don’t have any. Taste, that is. I didn’t inherit any of my artist mom’s discerning eye or talent. One of Doris’s frequent lamentations is, “Susan wasted six years trying to impart some of her artistic genius on you. She should’ve just settled in Nesovia after marrying William, rather than frittering away our money taking you to all those fancy museums and exhibitions.”
Tiresome how everything’s measured by money. Mom wanted to create memories with me and protect me from the worst laws of Nesovia. She didn’t come back until Grandfather altered his will and trust to protect me as much as possible.
“Why? I already bought her one for the engagement!” Rupert says.
The engagement? When did he ask me to marry him?I move my left ring finger and realizethere’s a ring there that I didn’t have before. Oh my God.Did he propose during the flight when I was out cold from the drugs administered by their “doctor”?
“Just shut up and do as I say. Or maybe buy her some gourmet chocolate. No girl can resist that.”
This girl can. I haven’t touched food from them for years now. I filch meals from the staff in the mansion and throw wild parties that I never attend but are beloved by other idle and aimless heirs and heiresses. Acting eccentric and unreasonable has its benefits. No matter what I do, nobody questions it anymore. They just chalk it up to me being me.Too much money, too little control.
I add fuel to the fire by devoting most of my free time to painting whatever moves me at the moment. Although I didn’t get Mom’s talent, she tried to teach me before she passed away. Every time I complete a piece, Doris replaces it with a blank canvas, saying art is a good way to vent my emotions. She clearly doesn’t understand I’m not dumb enough to fall for her faux concern and encouragement. I always rein myself in just enough to ensure nobody will consider me clinically insane. Getting locked up in an asylum?No thanks.
The mattress dips. Cool fingers skim my forehead. “Why can’t you just accept our story about the fire? Rupert isn’t a bad catch. You should totally be in love with him.” It’s less a lament than resentment. Doris would love nothing more than for me to slavishly agree to everything Rupert wants.Gross.
The mattress springs back, and a few minutes later the door opens and closes. I count to ten, then open my eyes. Just the bed, an ornate ceiling fan with gold foil, a giant TV and a vanity.
I’m alone.Perfect.
I sit up, my bare feet touching the thickly carpeted floor. Doris hates giving me shoes, as though they’d allow me to run away. I grab a bottle of Evian from the minibar, bypassing a pitcher of water by the bedside stand. I’m not touching anything that isn’t sealed.
The mirror shows a pale woman in a white wedding gown. It’s designed to cover my shoulders, arms and back. Modesty isn’t the point, but covering the hideous burn scar on my shoulder is. It’s as big as my palm, but I can’t remember how I got it. You’d think a trauma significant enough to mar such a large patch of skin would’ve left a lasting impression. But no.
Doris told me it’s from the fire, where Rupert rescued me. Without his pulling me out of the flames, the injury could’ve been more significant—or worse, I could’ve died. Rupert didn’t get any scars or injuries from it—how lucky. I was supposedly hospitalized for a week, unconscious and feverish. Bet Doris and Vernon were biting their nails, since they need me alive to get my money.
The burn mark doesn’t hurt or anything, but Doris, Vernon and Rupert act like I’m running around with a used sanitary napkin stuck to my skin every time they see it. Maybe it looks that awful to them, but I don’t think it looks quite that horrible. Hard to say, since I’m probably not the most objective when it comes to my own scar.
But does the dress have to be so hideous? With such huge, poufy shoulders and lace on the sleeves and so many layers of chiffon—to the point that the skirt looks like a cross between a tutu and a rococo-style dress?
The lipstick on my mouth is bright red—ridiculous for my ghostly complexion, but then, Doris isn’t known for her taste, either. But she is good with hair. My platinum mane is twisted into an elaborate style with a few tendrils framing my face. If I had a bit more color in my cheeks, I could pass for a radiant bride.
I look down at my finger and scowl. There’s a diamond solitaire stone set on a plain platinum band. About as interesting and creative as Rupert himself.
All right. Time to grab my passport from the safe—where Doris always stores important documents—and get out of here. I’m only six months away from my thirtieth birthday and freedom. No way am I going to be forced into marrying Rupert. I don’t know exactly what Doris is planning, but she’ll stop at nothing to get her hands on my inheritance. And neither will her husband Vernon, who would make your average bribe-taking banana republic politician look conscientious.
I quietly head into the living room. Nobody’s around. I reach for the safe. It’s a simple four-digit combination type. I press 0-8-2-5, the birthday of Doris’s favorite actor, Sean Connery. She isn’t aware that I know it, but then, I’ve become very good at playing dumb and biding my time. Doris has grown “protective” after the fruit knife incident and put multiple bodyguards on me to keep me safe. But they’re actually spies, reporting my every move and ensuring I don’t do anything to harm myself. If I die too early, my money will go to a charity in America she can’t touch.
For this trip Doris brought two guards—probably the only ones she could bribe to look the other way as she forces me to marry her stepson—and they’re stationed outside the suite. When Doris, Vernon and Rupert aren’t around, they look at me like I’m a piece of meat. I call them Creepy and Creepier because the latter copped a feel a couple of times while “helping” me to my room after Doris put something in my drink. No matter how careful I am, it’s impossible to avoid all poison and drugs in the food and drinks—another compelling reason I need to get the hell away from my so-called family.
The safe clicks open, and I take out my passport and stuff as much cash as I can into my bra. The glint of Rupert’s diamond ring catches my eye. Making a face, I yank it off my finger and place it where my passport was.
“Sayonara, fuckers.”
I reset the safe with a satisfied grin. Doris likely feels secure, thinking the bodyguards won’t let me leave.
She doesn’t know there’s more than one exit to a hotel.
I head out to the balcony, where I discover that it’s late afternoon. The suite is on the seventeenth floor. The hotel exterior is ornate with gargoyle bas-reliefs, horns and talons as big as my forearms sticking out. Four such carvings, then a balcony. I look down. Lots and lots of little balconies underneath…and people and cars as tiny as ants.
My heart races, blood whooshing through me.Holy shit.That’s high.
I close my eyes to create a strong visual. First up: me as a bloody pancake on the sidewalk. I shudder.No, no. I’m too young to die.
