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“My daughter here is a beautiful girl,” he snarls, “and I’m sure it made you feel really good to show up here with her on your arm. But she’s not brought you here for your looks, and she’s not brought you here because she loves you, or even because she likes you. So I’ll tell you why she’s brought you here.”
He finally turns his face to look at me. “My pretty little empty-headed daughter thinks she’s going to be a fashion designer, and she wants to waste years of her life and thousands of dollars going to fashion school. But since she can’t do that without my money, and since I cut her off from her trust fund, she tried to find a nice little way of blackmailing me. What was it you said again, honey?You’re not afraid to go low, but I can go lower?”
My face burns and every organ inside my body feels like it’s melted into black, bubbling mush. I’m suddenly thankful I’ve not eaten anything all day, because if I had, I’d be throwing up right about now. I glance at Noah, but Noah is still watching my father.
He’s still calm, but there’s a dull flush in his cheeks now.
My father’s voice is trembling with barely repressed triumph as he looks into Noah’s eyes. “Clever little Seraphina went ahead and found herself some low-class bum to bring here, hoping, no doubt, I’d be willing to do anything to spare us both from the embarrassment she’s causing the Rosenthal name. But you know what, honey?” My dad turns back to me. “You win. It worked. You reallyaremy daughter, after all. So yes. You can have your trust fund back and still go to fashion school, just like you wanted.”
He bats his hand at Noah in a dismissive gesture. “As for this poor bastard here, you can just send him crawling back to whatever shithole you plucked him from.”
I blink, and tears drop from my eyelashes like cold pearls. I touch my cheeks and look in surprise at my wet fingers—I hadn’t even realised I was crying. Noah finally speaks.
“I’ll leave if Seraphina wants me to leave.”
“She must really have you whipped, boy—where’s your pride?” My father’s face is red with anger. “If you won’t leave, I’ll have you tossed out like so much trash.” He looks around, ignoring the crowd that’s formed in the room. “Security!”
I force myself to speak. “Daddy, please don’t—we’ll both leave now, we’ll—”
My father grabs my arm, startling a cry out of me. He’s not holding me hard, but he’s not grabbed me like this since I was young. I stare at him in shock.
“You’re just going to do what you’re told for once,” he grits out.
Before either of us can say anything else, Noah steps calmly up to my father. He takes my father’s wrist in his hand and squeezes. It barely looks like anything, but my father releases me with a grunt of pain. Noah, though, doesn’t let him go straight away.
“Don’t ever lay hands on Seraphina again, Mr Rosenthal,” he says, his voice colder and harder than I’ve ever heard it. “I won’t tell you again.”
He drops my father’s arm as if it disgusts him. He turns to me. “You look warm, princess—shall we get some fresh air?”
I nod, tears streaming down my cheeks. My voice comes out small and pathetic.
“Yes, please.”
Eventhoughwetakea fire exit out, we still walk out to the flash of cameras. As far as they’re concerned, this is juicy gossip happening in real-time, but I don’t feel that way. This is my life—my problems—served up like a platter with everyone helping themselves.
And for once, I wish they would just leave me alone.
Noah, holding me firmly against him, barges past the ravening crowd. Neither of us has any wish to stay outside the gallery, so we dash away through the cold, orange lights of London. We walk until we lose ourselves in the crowd, and then we follow the dark, glimmering ribbon of the Thames.
We finally stop in a small park lit by garlands of fairy lights. Nearby, an old man ambles down the pebbled path, smoking a pipe and walking his dog. He tips his head at us as we sit side by side on a bench. His dog giddily runs up to us, sniffs Noah’s hand then scampers off just as giddily. I shiver, and Noah takes off his tuxedo jacket and places it around my shoulders. He doesn’t speak.
He’s not said anything since we left.
His silence is more terrifying and heartbreaking than anything he could be saying.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I ask finally, peering up at him.
He looks at me. His cheeks are a little flushed from the cold, and he’s rubbing his hands together, but he still seems, despite everything, astoundingly calm.
“I’m not sure what to say, to be honest.” His voice is quiet and thoughtful. “This is the first time I’ve ever been in a situation like this.” He lets out a low chuckle. “You rich people are pretty complicated, huh?”
“We’re not complicated, we’re…” I sigh. “Just not very nice.”
“Yeah, I kind of noticed.”
We look at each other. My tears stopped and dried up while we were walking through London, but now I’m looking into his pretty grey eyes, they well up again. My lips tremble.
“I’m so sorry, Noah.”
