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“I’m not fucking stupid,” I snap. “Give up this fucking game, will you? You’re the only person I told about my fake identity.”
Alexander’s mouth falls open. I have to give it to him that he’s a damn good actor—he looks genuinely shocked at my accusation. No wonder he had me fooled.
“I can’t be the only one—” He falls into a stupor. “You think that I—” Strangled laughter leaves him. “Youhonestlybelieve that I was the one who did this to you? That I would fucking grass you up? For what?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “We’re engaged now, aren’t we? I owe you my life now, don’t I? Isn’t that what you wanted all along, Alexander, for me to have nowhere to run to but to you? When I broke up with you, you threatened me withthis!”
He laughs for a long second, holding his forehead with his hand. Then he covers his face with his palms, running them down his cheeks. He looks like a truly deranged man.
“You give yourself too much credit, Alize.” The humor has leached from his voice. “I would never have to do any of this to get you to do what I want. I can’t be the only one you told. This isn’t how I handle things.”
I scoff, and my disbelief enrages him. His nostrils flair, and his blond hair flops over his eyes like a matador’s cape. This is the Alexander I remember, the one so consumed by his rage he had to burn the entire world to feel something else.
“This fucking engagement was the only way I could keep you safe,” he hisses.
“Ah, just like making me your Courtesan, huh? How fucking convenient that everything you’re ‘forced’ into doing always ends with me at your mercy!” I frown. “I’m starting to think this is what you wanted all along, you sick bastard.”
Alexander reaches for my neck, but his hand stills as something to our right catches his attention. I turn to find we’ve drawn a crowd.
A few of the Hemlock House girls have gathered on the balcony, watching our exchange. We’re still a way off that I don’t think they can hear what we’re saying, but the optics of this situation aren’t good. If they find out our engagement is fake, things will spiral out of control.
“This isn’t over, Alize,” he says sharply. “But we can’t talk about this now. Get the fuck inside.”
I’m annoyed that what I want to do is also what he’s told me to do.
I storm away from him toward Hemlock House. When I climb the polished steps, I turn to look at him right before I open the double doors. Alexander is standing at the gate still, watching me with that incensed look on his face.
I flip him the bird before I step inside.
My shoes echo against the marble floor of the cavernous entryway. The brocade and wood-paneled walls, antique chandelier and silken runner are familiar, but strange all the same. The House feels different, possibly because this is the first time I’m able to appreciate it through a different lens—I’m not hiding who I am anymore.
Up head, a throng of girls have gathered, right by the staircase that leads to the wing where my dorm room is. They’re talking in hushed tones, but their heads lift as I approach. I’m certain they know they’re blocking my way, but they don’t move.
The sun streaming through the stained glass windows at the end of the hallway picks up the platinum highlights in their hair. They are all dressed in different shades of blush, most of them in dresses, though one of them wears a vintage pantsuit. The thick stench of their perfume wafts through the air, warring with the fragrance from the bouquet of freesia and peonies sitting on the side table near the window.
Now I’ve seen the underbelly of Hemlock House, the obsession with everyone looking the same must be a sickness. I hate that for a while, I tried to look like them—I might just dye my hair a darker shade of blonde like Tara does.
When I get to the girls, they just stare at me.
I don’t know any of their names—they aren’t sisters-in-waiting, though. I can tell from the haughtiness in their eyes. They think they’re better than me because they’ve licked Cassidy’s boots.
I try to weave behind one of them, but she steps back, blocking my path.
Gosh, not this shit again.
“Watch where you’re going, monkey,” the girl who is blocking my path says. She’s the one wearing the pantsuit. The other girls titter, which makes me think she’s the leader of their little friend group.
I size her up for a long minute.
She would be beautiful if I didn’t know her heart is as black as coal. She’s got tawny skin, and though her blonde hair is straight, I notice the kinks by her temples—tell-tale signs she’s due a relaxer. She’s black just like I am, but light enough to pass.
Is this what she feels she has to do to fit in with them?I don’t hate her for it.
You either suffer for resisting the Hemlock House culture, or end up losing yourself to it.
They’re all in heels and I’m in flats, so I use it to my advantage.
I shove the girl who’s blocked my path so hard, she falls to the ground, hitting her head on the stairs. There’s a yelp of surprise and shock from her, then screams from her gaggle of lackeys. I hop over her prone frame, taking the steps two at a time.
