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Kat
12 years old…
I squeezed my eyes closed. One hand rested on the door handle of my room and waited.
No…please, no. Not this again. I could run away…just like Mom did. Run away and never come back. Not for anything. But where would I go?I closed my eyes at the thought. For a second, freedom burned bright and shining in my mind. Happiness, laughter, kicking sand at the beach as I ate cotton candy and played. Freedom. That’s what it looked like…until the warmth dulled and reality sank in. I had nowhere to go…and no one to come for me.Not anymore.
“Ms. VanHalen,” the servant murmured through the door. “He’s expecting you.”
Still, I said nothing, just waited for that fight to die inside me…and for emptiness to take hold. Slowly, the image of freedom slipped away, taking the echoes of laugher with it. I lifted my head to the ornately carved door and twisted the handle before stepping out.
The servant’s eyes widened before she took a step backwards. “There she is.” She forced a smile and met my gaze. “Your father—“
But I turned and left her behind, not bothering to listen as I headed for the stairs. My heels clicked on the marble. Shimmering, polished surfaces gleamed as I reached out, placing my hand on the handrail. With each step, I left that calling behind, the call with the sound of laughter. Because that wasn’t real. It was a fantasy and I was old enough to know the difference. Old enough to want for more…more than money could ever buy.
I had everything a girl could ever want. A stable of horses for me to ride. Holidays to Aspen and Italy. Pink diamonds to match my pretty white dress and knee length socks. I caught sight of myself in the looming hall mirror as I hit the last stair and made my way across the foyer. I looked perfect. Not a strand of hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in my brand new dress…a dress my father had bought for me…for his perfect Princess.
But as I caught my reflection, I avoided my eyes.
There was something in them I didn’t like.
Something that made that ache inside me twist and moan.
Something that made the dull thud in my ears race.
As I stepped forward, that image of freedom sank further down than ever before.
I tore my gaze from the sight and kept walking, through the open doors of the foyer and into the living room. White and gray closed in around me, blindingly perfect and intricate. There wasn’t a thing out of place here, not a chair too far to the right, even the flames of the fire flickered and danced in unison.
The crackle and hiss were the only sounds here. This was a place of hardness. A place where hope came to die. I swallowed hard and lifted my head. My steps slowed now, each movement like wading through water as I lifted my gaze to the closed black doors in the distance, to the wing of the house where only certain servants ventured, but not on nights like this when the double doors were closed.
Where monsters hid behind masks.
And the sickening scent of their cigars made me tremble.
I reached out, grasped the door handles, and pushed them wide before stepping in and closing them behind me. Laughter spilled from behind a closed door at the end of the dark hall. I turned, leaving the bright white furnishings behind to find myself in a different living room. One that was consumed by black.
Black leather shimmered, reflecting the amber flames from the obsidian hearth. Black walls…black carpet. This was my father’s domain. The place where deep, resounding laugher spilled from through the door and where power stained the air. Where power stained everything, tainting my perfect world black.
He’s expecting you.The servant’s words came back to me as I forced myself to move. But it was so hard now, my muscles trembling, fighting my will.He’s expecting you…he’s expecting you…he’s…expecting…
I tried to swallow, and reached for the door. But my heart was lodged in the back of my throat, thumping and aching. My hand trembled as I gripped the handle, twisted, and pushed, before stopping in the doorway.
Heads turned toward me. But there was only one person I looked for, the man sitting at the head of the table, the one with cards in one hand and a cigar in the other. The sounds of laughter dulled. Sparkling dark eyes glinted as the man sitting closest to my father fixed his gaze on me.
But Dad never looked at me, never even lifted his gaze from the cards in his hand. That smile was etched onto his face. Cold and cruel, nothing more than a faded slash on his pale skin. Thick gold rings sparkled as he moved his hand.
“Good, you’re here,” he muttered, his jaw barely moving with the words. “Took your time.”
But I said nothing, just waited, like a good daughter. I waited for him to look at me. For him to see the deep red hair like my mother’s and the emptiness in my eyes, the hate and the hurt he'd created. Instead, he just murmured, “You remember Mr. Hale?”
Only then did I face the monster.
The one with sparkling eyes.
The one who smiled at me and rose carefully from his seat.
