A snort catches in my nose, and I cover it with a fake sneeze. I suppose being faithful is easy when you’re too busy being evil.
And right now, my father has never looked more so. There’s something sinister in his gaze, dark and contrite as he looks at me.
It sends malcontent slithering along my spine.
I feel Jonas look at me, but I don’t dare meet his gaze. “She certainly seems content enough.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt. That’s how they all start, and it’s how they get you.” Daddy’s eyes narrow at me, pinning me in place. “Mark my words, son. She’ll break your heart.”
“Could I have a word, Daddy?” I snap, extracting myself from Jonas’s grip. He doesn’t look like he wants to let me go, but since we’re in public, he seems to think better about protesting.
Daddy frowns as I walk away, following after he says something in Mama’s ear. I stop just out of earshot, and he folds his arms over his chest as he comes to stand in front of me.
“What’s your problem?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me, little girl?”
“No, not a little girl. An adult, actually, who would really appreciate it if you’d stop trying to manipulate her every chance you get.” I grip my biceps, hugging myself.
A muscle in his jaw thumps. “Big words from a girl who has nothing without me.”
The complete disregard for my previous statement burns, though I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. All he’s ever done was ignore me.
Pressing my lips together, I glance down at the ground, noting the shoes he has on. They’re old and scuffed, a pair of Italian loafers I had Mama special order for Father’s Day years ago, with little swans engraved on the sides of the soles.
Back when I was still okay with being the butt of the joke, because I didn’t know any better. Just wanted to stay as close to my father as I could.
Sadness swells in my chest, rising in my throat like a flood. Everything changed in such a short amount of time that it feels like it’s all just starting to catch up. Memories from the night my world shifted resurface like waterlogged corpses, crawling over my skin like a thousand tiny bugs.
Daddy’s voice, stern and low, when I tried to tell him what happened. The disappointment etched on his face when I used the word rape, and how it felt like a slap in the face when he asked what I’d been wearing.
If I’d been drinking.
Worse, the absolute mortification that came when I woke up to my name smeared across the internet, with intimate details of what happened up on dozens of blog sites. Statements from Daddy and Preston, talking about how unhinged I had become, and how I was having an early quarter-life crisis, and that was why I’d cheated.
Me. Cheated.
How I wished for the earth to crack wide open and consume me.
For that alone, I could never go back to the way things were. Not even if he returned my inheritance in full or issued an actual apology.
Some things are too heinous to come back from.
Not everyone deserves forgiveness.
He sighs. “All right, Helene. You want to play hardball? I’ll double my previous offer. Come home tonight, and we can just put all of this behind us.”
“No.”
His mouth turns down at the corners, and he reaches out, grabbing my forearm. “It’s no longer up for debate, missy. You will stop shaming this family by whoring yourself out to that Wolfe boy, and you will return home this instant.”
I try to jerk away as his grip becomes harsh. “Let go of me!”
“Stop making such a scene, or I’ll make it a point tonight to let everyone know the truth about your relationship.” My eyes swing to his, and a wicked smile pulls at his lips. “Yeah, I’m not stupid. I’ll tell everyone about how he’s using you to get back at me, and you fell for it because you’re a naive little girl. A slut who—”
Neither one of us sees the punch coming, but before Daddy can finish his sentence, Jonas’s fist is connecting with the side of his head. Dozens of gasps can be heard as his skull whips to the side, and even Mama lets out a high-pitched scream.
Grabbing him by the shoulders, Jonas pulls Daddy back into an upright position, but even the grip he has on Daddy’s neck seems violent.
“You’re lucky I don’t gut you right here,” Jonas says in a low, dangerous voice. “But I don’t want to ruin my brother’s night, even if you deserve to be rotting six feet deep right about now.”
Embarrassment clings to my pores, trying to soak into my skin as I stare at the two of them. With a harsh shove, Jonas releases Daddy, who practically tumbles into Mama’s arms.
I try not to let the shame take hold.
Try not to let Daddy win.
I do, I swear.
But even as Jonas whisks me away from the scene as Mama calls for a paramedic, I manage to steal a last glance over my shoulder. Pain lodges deep in my chest like a weed, rooting deep and making it difficult to concentrate the rest of the night.
Inside, the gallery is vast and beautiful, the middle aisle punctuated by beautiful sculptures while paintings by local artists line the walls. Jonas and I mostly stick to a corner in the back, and I breathe a sigh of relief when Elena and her husband make an appearance, giving me some reprieve from the concern in my fake fiancé’s gaze.
He hasn’t spoken a word since.
The air in the room seems to evaporate when they arrive, their presence alone enough to make everyone stop what they’re doing and stare, if only for a second.
She’s in a short, black cocktail dress while he’s dressed in an all-black suit, Hades and Persephone themselves gracing humanity.
“Jeez, who died?” Elena says when she and Kal find us. A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne, and she swipes two from the platter, sliding one to me across the tall, circular table we’re standing at. “I thought art galas were supposed to be fun.”
“The fun is really in the interpretations.” I point at a piece across the room. “See, that one with the blues and grays? The overall tone sort of screams heavy, while the intricate line work, the short brush strokes, say that while the subject matter that inspired the piece may be loaded, the artist’s vision might not have been. They might have been trying to relay the calm in the middle of a storm.”
Everyone looks at me, and I shrug, taking a sip of my champagne. “That’s just a guess, though. One interpretation. I could be way off the mark.”
“What about that one?” Elena nods at a piece in the corner, but there are too many people in front of it for me to see it.
Curious as to what’s sparked everyone’s attention, I walk over to the exhibit and push my way to the front.
My lungs seize up as I take in the canvas, immediately recognizing the watercolor style of the little ballerina dancing on top of a pond. Surrounded by swans, she spins on the water, driven to performance because of the crowd.
Or, perhaps, in spite of it.
It’s not the original painting—I have about six different versions that I’ve worked on over the last few weeks, each one with a different sheen of brightness and transparency.
Superimposed on this much larger canvas, though, I can’t help noticing how different the hues and use of white space look, as if made for this exact medium.