That had been one of the many times we had sex. Each time he had sex with me, he hated himself for it, and I knew it. It didn’t sit well with me. But I couldn’t help it. I became so addicted to him, I couldn’t stop.
One day, we took the car and drove out to Runyon Canyon, and he ended up bending me over the trunk of the car and taking me from behind.
Another time, he snuck into my room in the middle of the night.
I couldn’t decide if he felt guilty for doing something unprofessional, doing it with a twenty-one-year-old, or because my background made him wonder if I was somehow punishing myself by sleeping with him.
Either way, I was enjoying not only his body, but also his attention.
Ransom protected me fiercely. Much more than before. Sometimes—oftentimes, actually—I wondered if there was more to his behavior. Why he flung himself in front of me whenever someone rushed toward me to ask for a photograph or an autograph. Why he now patrolled the house three times before he went to bed every night. Why he insisted on armoring my car. But Ransom didn’t give me anything. Even when I tried to pry information about who those people were who’d taken pictures of me the other day with Keller.
“You’ve nothing to worry about,” he’d evaded the question. “As long as I’m here, they won’t get to you.”
“And after you’re gone?”
“They won’t bother you. Trust me.”
That wasn’t a satisfying explanation to say the least, but it was all I had to work with.
My parents still tried to call and arrange for me to come home. I rarely picked up, and when I did, I told them I was busy trying to find an interesting college program. It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely. I had looked into programs, but mainly for sketching and painting.
Hera and Craig went on their two-week honeymoon to Montenegro. Neither of them tried to contact me, and I fooled myself into believing I could probably avoid them for a few more years.
All I had to do was make sure that next time we were in the same zip code, I had a bodyguard with me. Just in case Craig sought revenge.
Ransom stopped bothering me about what I wanted to do with my life. Or at least, he stopped pestering me about it. He still brought the subject up, but never pressed.
The only issue that did give us a constant reason to argue was him asking me again and again to see a therapist about what happened with Craig, and the dyslexia.
Each conversation went the same way.
“Do you have a therapist, Random?”
“No.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m beyond repair.”
“And I could be easily mended?”
“You show promise. Potential. A soul. Things I don’t possess.”
“I’ll go to therapy if you go to therapy.”
This was the part he’d usually give me an are-you-insane? look.
The part where I smiled back in triumph. “There you have it.”
Life was good. Suspiciously good, actually. I should have known it would come to an end. Specifically, in the form of my family.
Three weeks after Ransom and I got back from Texas, I woke up to a string of text messages from Keller.
Keller: <<<Link>>> The Thornes Like You’ve Never Seen Them Before! Anthony, Julianne, Hera, and Craig discuss Love, Marriage, and Loyalty!
Keller: <<<Voice>>> Pass the puke bucket. Hera is trying SO hard. And she looks terrible in this shoot!
Keller: <<<Voice>>> Why aren’t you there, by the way? Looks like a whole family ordeal.
I clicked on the link, my heart jackhammering in my chest. Ransom lay beside me, snoring softly. He didn’t always sleep in my bed, but recently, he’d done it more and more.
I saw an array of photos of my parents, Hera and Craig standing in my parents’ vast garden. Dogs included. Everybody smiling into the camera. One big, happy family.
Punching Ransom in the arm, I shoved my phone in his face. I couldn’t read fast enough—if at all—in my current state.
He stirred awake, not looking to be in any particular hurry to know why I’d assaulted him. He leaned back against the bedframe, plucking the phone from between my fingers.
“Jesus Christ, Craig’s isn’t the first face I want to see when I wake up,” he mumbled, digging the base of his palm into his eye socket.
“Read it,” I ordered, folding my arms over my chest.
He shot me an unsure look. “What the hell for?”
“I’m going to have a shitty day either way. At least let me know why I’m bummed.”
With a sigh, he began reading.
“…Julianne, 55, cannot stop gushing about the new addition to the family. ‘Craig’s everything we’ve ever wanted in a son. He is loyal, loving, steadfast, and puts his family above all else. Watching him grow alongside Hera into this courageous, virtuous man has been very inspiring.’”
“While Anthony, 60, insists: ‘Everything Hera has ever achieved was on her own merit. She is the most hardworking, compassionate, loving human being I’ve ever met. Fathering her has been by far my favorite, most honorable role.’”
“…President Thorne insists that, despite his daughter Hallie not being present for the shoot or the interview, things have never been better. ‘The truth is, there will always be rumors, but that’s just what they are. Rumors. Hallie adores her new brother-in-law and has never been closer to Hera. They’re truly two peas in a pod.’”
“This, on the heels of Miss Thorne delivering a less than favorable speech in her duty as maid of honor, makes people wonder…”
“Stop!” I ripped my phone from his hand, flinging it across the floor. It skidded until it hit the wall. I jumped out of the bed, pacing back and forth, feeling sick to my stomach. “This is such undiluted horse crap.”
Ransom stayed in my bed, eyeing me through calculating eyes. No matter how many times we’d had sex, how many nights we shared, every time I saw myself through his eyes, I shuddered. He treated me clinically. Like his unfinished, messy job.
“You’re upset.”
“No shit I’m upset!” I flung my arms in the air. “I’m officially no longer a member of the Thorne family, according to this article.”
“Does it bother you?” he asked.
“No!”
“Yes, it does. I suggest you do something about it.” He reached for the nightstand, unhooking his phone from its charger.
“And give them the satisfaction of knowing I’ve read it?” I let out a huff.
His eyes were dead on his screen as he scrolled. “The entire world has read it. It’s on every media outlet out there. Even videos, pictures, and snippets on the news.”
This wasn’t just spitting in my face. It was throwing an entire bucket of saliva.
I stopped pacing, turning to him. “What do you think I should do?”
“Get on a goddamn plane and give them a piece of your mind. Confront them. About everything. Craig. Your undiagnosed dyslexia. Their poor treatment of you,” he said, straight-faced.
I faltered. “But what if—”
“Every worst-case scenario has already happened,” he cut me off, flinging the blanket and collecting his phone, wallet, and gun, which was always within reach. “They made this asshole your brother-in-law, they deprived you of context, opportunity, and better life conditions. They treat you like a second-class citizen. I fail to see how this could get any harder for you, Princess.”