“Are you truly grateful for all the things I do for you, Ingrid?” he asked, stepping closer.
“Of course I am,” I lied.
A smirk twisted his mouth, before his hand shot out. He gripped my arm—right over the bruise he’d given me the other day. I let out a sharp squeal of pain, tears instantly pricking my eyes.
“Well, you sure as hell don’t act like it,” he seethed, his face inches from mine. “Yourabuelitadoesn’t have the slightest clue how much I sacrifice for an ungrateful brat. Listen closely.” His voice dropped, dark and venomous. “She does not dictate you. I do. You belong to me. I say what you do, when you do it, and how you do it.Do I make myself clear?”
I nodded frantically, a single tear escaping.
His fingers dug impossibly deeper into my skin. “You arenothingwithout me, Ingrid,” he whispered.
Finally, with one last agonizing squeeze, he released me. Then he turned and walked out, slamming the door behind.
I collapsed to my knees, clutching my arm, the sobs finally breaking through.
I wished Tristian were here. I wished he could take me away from this terrible house. I wished my mother would say something—anything—instead of just watching me drown.
But wishing had never once saved me before.
Chapter eleven
Ingrid
“Head up, back straight. Put a damn smile on your face.”
My father’s voice was a hiss as we reached the venue.
I stepped out of the car, struggling to find my balance in five-inch cream platform pumps. My hair was swept into a tight, elegant updo, and I felt like a stranger in my own skin.
The ballroom was breathtaking—gold leaf, crystal, and the hum of powerful people. As we walked in, I felt the weight of a hundred stares.
I’d been to these business parties many times. Dominated endlessly by men and their trophy wives and elegantly dressed daughters brought for exactly the same purposes as I was here—to show off—the parties were tiresome, not remotely something I could summon an ounce of caring about. But I was expected to be on my best behavior, to greet the men I knew by their names, to ask how they were and to laugh at their jokes and then to shut up and stand and smile like a damn mannequin while they all schmoozed each other.
It wasn’t unusual to stand beside my father as a group of fifty- and sixty-something men in well tailored suits leered at me, made comments about my beauty and my body, how long my legs looked tonight, or how they could teach me a thing or two.
And I had to smile. Always.
My father took it in stride. He allowed it. Of course he did: this was my purpose. I didn’t think he ever would allow one of these men to lay a finger on me. But he dangled the bait, used me to make connections and strengthen business deals, and that was bad enough.
The only way I could get through it was by doing a much more extreme version of what I did at home: I locked my true self away inside, deep within my mind, caged and safe, and I held myself together on the outside.Just a few more hours,I thought, over and over.Just a few more hours.
Sometime around ten, my father directed us to a group of mostly strangers.
One, however, I recognized.
Except… maybe not. Racking my brain for his name, I found nothing. He was a stranger, someone I’d never met at one of these parties before. And yet there was something in his face that looked oddly familiar.
“Samuel, my friend,” he chuckled as we approached, shaking my father’s hand.
“Noah, it hasn’t even been a full day. Give me a break,” my father replied with a grin.
Noah looked at me with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—a predatory, examining look.
“And who might this pretty little gem be?”
“My daughter, Ingrid. Ingrid, this is Noah Locke and our executive team.”
“It’s a pleasure,” I lied, my skin crawling.
