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I hate her too. I hate her more. I hate everything about her. I hate her in every way possible. In every word possible. H-ate. H-8. H-eight. HATE.
Desdemona sat up in the middle of her bed with her knees bent and her arms wrapped around her legs as she rested her chin in the groove. She looked at what should be proof of warmth and love but instead was a constant reminder of the life she used to have.
It was mocking.
The pretty pink princess bedroom was far too childish for a fifteen-year-old. And she felt like a prisoner. It was the only space in the house where her stepmother didn’t make her feel unwanted, but it also isolated her. No friends. No family. No joy. No love.
“No TV,” she muttered.
She rose from the bed and stood before the faded white dresser with bubblegum pink knobs to look at her reflection in the round mirror on the wall. She was tall and slender but her breasts, hips, and buttocks were developed, giving her a hint of an hourglass shape. She raked her fingers through her hair, frowning a little at the rough ends, thick roots, and haphazard curls as she did the best she could to do her own hair.
And wash her own clothes.
And cook her own food.
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud . . .
Her eyes went to the closed door, frowning at the sudden noise.
By the time her stepmother got in from work, Desdemona had already done her homework, taken her bath, microwaved a TV dinner, cleaned the kitchen, and closed herself up in her bedroom for the night.
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud . . .
Curious, she crossed the room and opened the door, looking down the dark hall at Zena’s bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, leaving a sliver of light against the base of the wall and floor.
A feminine giggle and masculine chuckle sounded from the room.
Desdemona’s eyes widened as she crept on tiptoes down the unlit hall, careful to miss the loose floorboard in the middle that always let out a loud all-too-telling squeak.
“Ssssh, before you wake her up,” Zena said in a harsh whisper.
Desdemona pressed her back to the wall before peeking through the opening in the door. She frowned at the sight of Zena bent over the side of her bed with her dress up around her waist and her panties down around her ankles and Hervey Grantham—her father’s attorney and best friend—pumping her from behind with his pants down around his ankles as well.
Her eyes widened in shock, and she covered her mouth with her hand and prayed the fast beating of her heart wasn’t as loud as it seemed to her own ears. She turned to ease her way back down the hall.
Mr. Grantham and Zena?
That hurt. Desdemona knew her dad wouldn’t like it.
“Hervey, it’s been five years that I had to put up with her.”
Desdemona paused in the darkness.
He grunted in agreement.
“Why can’t I send her away to boarding school?” she asked.
Desdemona peeked into the room again, shaking her head at the bored expression on Zena’s face while Mr. Grantham was sweating profusely and licking at his lips.
“You . . . can,” he said, punctuating each word with a thrust. “But . . . the . . . money . . . will . . . go . . . toward . . . paying . . . for . . . it.”
She looked back at him over her shoulder. “So, no kid—”
“No money,” he finished with a deep bite of his full bottom lip.
It was Mr. Grantham’s job to ensure Zena lived up to her obligations, and now Desdemona understood why she supplied the very minimum. She bought his complicity with sex.
Anger flamed inside her.
