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“You just want to punish me,” she whispers dejectedly.
Richard doesn’t answer.
CHAPTER 3
Jade
I can feel Jaxon’s eyes behind me, boring into my back, and I’m sure he’s doing his best to hide a satisfied grin. Asshole. But he doesn’t say anything, and I don’t turn around to check whether or not my suspicions are correct. I don’t want to make eye contact with anyone. I don’t even want to speak; I don’t know what to say. This feels like some kind of betrayal or something. Aside from the odd firm lecture and sending me to my room once or twice, I can’t remember either my father or Richard ever punishing me. And now, that’s exactly what they’re doing and I’m not even entirely sure why.
I don’t pick up the ticket. I can see it in my peripheral vision, shiny white plastic with the travel agency logo in the corner. My eyes scan the desk curiously. I’ve never really paid much attention to my father’s desk before. I’ve never been in his office for long enough to bother, but now I don’t have a choice. I’m not allowed to leave—I tried and failed—and there’s no way I’m going to acquiesce to his demands. I’m just not going to be all happy about being kicked out of my home, my verycountry!tofly all the way to the bottom of the world on a commercial plane. If I do have to go, it’s going to be very reluctantly. Under the greatest of duress.
There are photos in gold frames sitting on the desk. I’ve never noticed them before. There are framed photos on the walls, too, plenty of them from different movies he’s made. But the ones on his desk are different. They’re smaller, more intimate. I pick one up and look at it—it’s me. They’re all of me, in various stages of cuteness. All taken when I was young and innocent, unmarred by the harsh realities of life. Before I became a star, noticed by the world. Before my picture became worth so much money paparazzi stalked my every move, invading my privacy, getting in my face. Reporting on my actions to the world. These were all taken when my mom was still alive. She probably took them, actually. I don’t remember my father ever being the one behind the camera. He was always working. These are all from when I was a young child. I was a different person then.
In one, I’m on the porch with a cat, blowing bubbles from a big pink bubble wand. The tiniest hint of a smile tinges my lips. I always liked bubbles. There was a special fan in my bathroom back then that floated in the water and blew all the soap bubbles around, filling the whole room with them. It was awesome! I remember the cat. Puddles, I think his name was. A big ginger, fluffy thing. Reminds me of Garfield.
“Why did we call him Puddles?” I ask Richard, pointing to the cat in the picture.
He smiles fondly. Remembering. “You named him,” he tells me. “You liked to jump in puddles back then, when you were little. Do you remember?”
I shake my head. I don’t remember. I can remember the cat, though. I was heartbroken when he died. It was my first brush with death. Before that, I think I just assumed we were all immortal. Invincible.Oh, how innocent I was,I think wryly.
Another photo depicts me riding my pink bike with tassels on the handlebars. I got it for my birthday—my sixth, I think. I can remember the bike as clearly as I can remember the cat.
Another picture is of my first day at school, standing proudly in my brand-new uniform, my backpack nearly as big as I was, since I was so tiny. I push the photo away and blink back tears. Why am I crying over photos? Is it because the photos that have pride of place on my father’s desk are so different to the photos in the newspapers spread over the top of his desk? Who knew that the little girl in those photos that were taken so lovingly would turn into some drunken wreck, vomiting in gutters?
There’s a shadow behind me. Jaxon. Mr. Asshole. He’s leaned forward to get a better look at the photos, and when I turn my head slightly, I think I see him smile. Good. I want him to think of me as a human, rather than some spoiled monster that he doesn’t particularly like. I want him to remember that I am somebody’s child. That I, too, was once sweet and innocent.
“See? I was cute once,” I mutter, turning my head slightly to address Mr. Asshole. “I wasn’t always a bitch.” I don’t know where that came from; he never called me a bitch. Plenty of people have, but he hasn’t. Not so far, anyway. I think it’s just my mood. I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself right now, and seeing these photos, seeing how far I’ve fallen, is like a kick in the guts. Not a wake-up call, but more of a kick-me-when-I’m-down kind of thing.
“I never said you’re a bitch,” Mr. Asshole states. “Your behaviour is appalling, but that doesn’t make you a bitch. It makes you a spoiled brat, and I’m good at handling spoiled brats,” he tells me with a wink.
Heat floods my face at his words, and I squirm slightly in my seat. My butt still throbs. I don’t like his method of handling spoiled brats at all.
Richard doesn’t speak up in my defence. Not that I was expecting him to, but still. It would be nice if he at least took some responsibility for the way I turned out. He left me to run amok after Mom died just as much as Dad did. What did they think I was going to do if they didn’t put any boundaries in place?
Tentatively, I reach out and pick up the little plastic folder containing my airline ticket. I’m almost afraid to open it. My mouth is dry. Too dry. Nerves? Or the aftereffects of alcohol?
“Water,” I croak. I meant to ask nicely, but it comes out like more of a demand. Richard gestures to the sideboard with a nod of his head and in just a few seconds, Jaxon places a glass in front of me and tips water into it from a matching carafe. “Thank you,” I whisper. I don’t always remember to use the manners that my mom so vigilantly taught me, but now that I know what Mr. Asshole is capable of, I’m going to try to stay on his good side.
He steps back. “I’m glad to see you drinking water,” he quips sarcastically. “The papers claim the only liquid you ingest is alcohol.”
Asshole. He’s mocking me, but it’s more light-hearted than cruel, almost as though he’s trying to build a jokey rapportwith me. I’m not interested. I glance quickly across the desk at Richard—his hand is covering his mouth, as though he’s trying to hide a smile. He’s an asshole, too.
I swallow down most of the water and pick up the ticket folder again, opening it up before I lose my nerve. Two shiny bits of cardboard peek out at me. The tickets. One for me, one for Jaxon. LAX to Auckland, NZ, direct. Economy.
“Economy?” I throw the tickets down in disgust. “You’re flying meeconomy? Cattle class? Where everyone is squashed in like sardines?” I leap to my feet and scream across the table at Richard. “You can’t do this to me! I hate you!” The pain that flashes in his eyes is impossible to miss, but I ignore it. I can’t believe he’s making me fly economy. Of all the cruel things to do to me…
“Jade, sit down,” he instructs me wearily.
“No.” No way am I going to just sit calmly down as though nothing is wrong. Economy!
I don’t even hear Jaxon come up behind me but his heavy hands on my shoulders force me back down into my chair.
“You were told to sit,” he growls.
“I don’t want to,” I hiss, trying to stand back up, but he holds me fast. No matter how hard I press my hands against the arms of the chair, trying to rise, I don’t budge at all. Jaxon is simply too strong and holds me in place effortlessly.
“Do as you’re told,” he orders quietly, and I have no choice but to obey. It’s not like I can get up—I’m trying, and he’s not letting me.
