I snap my robe closed, hiding my nightie. I don’t want him to look at my ruined clothes. His stare makes everything worse, stickier.
“Doesn’t matter. I have work tomorrow and I need to go sleep.”
And I need my mom and dad to come back.
I should leave now that it’s all over but my legs won’t move. They are trapped by the sudden thought in my head.
Usually, I’m good with burying everything inside and doing what needs to be done. I’m good with putting a date on my fucked-upness. Delaying dealing with it until I get my house back.
But standing here, in front of the guy who’s always tormented me and liked it, I feel so alone. I never told my parents about the bullying and the pranks but now, the choice has been taken away from me. I couldn’t tell them even if I wanted to.
They are not here anymore.
There’s no one to save me. From the world.
From him.
“Are you crying?” he asks with a frown.
At his question, I realize that yes, I am. And just like that my tears turn into something hot. Something like anger because what the fuck am I doing, showing weakness in front of him.
“No, I’m not,” I tell him in a clear, stern voice. “I don’t cry. Especially not in front of people who don’t give a fuck.”
He said that to me once, actually.
Didn’t your mom teach you to not cry in front of people who don’t give a fuck?
Even though it was years ago, I can see he remembers it, too. He knows what I’m talking about. It’s in the way he’s looking down at me, with such intensity.
Such… connection.
Like we share something.
I hate that.
I hate that we share a history. I hate that he’ll always be a part of my life. He’ll always own a corner of my soul.
“Is it the dress?” he asks.
This is the moment when Ashley chimes in, “Oh please, don’t be a baby. It was an honest mistake and it’s only a dress.” Then, she mutters under her breath, “And not a very good one at that.”
The growl that’s been building up inside me finally escapes.
“What’d you just say?” I narrow my eyes because I’ve had it with her.
I’ve fucking had it with everyone. I’m going to fucking rearrange her face.
She flinches at my question. “Excuse me?”
I think I hear gasps.
I was right. The staff members are up and about and they’re probably watching this altercation right now. But no one dares to enter the kitchen. Maybe because Mr. Prince is here.
Fuck it. I don’t care who’s watching; I’m not backing down.
I take a threatening step toward her. “Say it again. I dare you.”
Ashley moves back. “You’ve lost your mind.”
I laugh. “And you’re so going to lose your teeth right now.”
With that, I launch myself at her, or try to.
But suddenly, Zach is holding me hostage. His fingers are wrapped around my biceps and my body is flush with his.
“That’s enough.”
Even through the shocked shrieks and gasps of people around me – definitely everyone’s watching – I hear his low growl. It inflames my anger.
“Let go of me.”
“Not until you’ve calmed down.”
I struggle against his hold but all he does is clench his jaw and flex his grip around my arms. “I swear to God, Zach, let me go or I’ll scream this fucking house down.”
His black eyes flash. “That’s the second time you’ve threatened me with it. Keep it up and I’ll give you a real reason to scream.”
Zach appears menacing, glaring down at me. His words highlight the fact that he’s bigger and stronger than he was three years ago. Every muscle in his body is bunched up and stacked, fraught with power. And my front is smashed with his.
I swallow. In real fear.
No one would dare step forward if he decides to do something. Not a single person. Servants don’t have power over the rich.
“Let me go,” I say with clenched teeth.
His impossibly thick eyelashes flicker as he studies my face, my neck – I will the rapidly beating vein on the side of it to slow down, to not show fear – and then, finally, his eyes settle on my chest. Thankfully, it’s covered with the robe.
He lets me go and I take a stumbling step back. My biceps have lost feeling under the force of his grip and I wish I could reach up and rub my nerves awake but what he says next stops me.
“I’ll have your dress replaced.”
My breath gets stuck in my throat, and almost becomes a hiccup. Did he just casually say that he’ll replace the only thing I have left of my dead mother?
“You’ll have it replaced,” I respond in a flat voice.
“It shouldn’t be that hard to find a replacement.”
His lips barely move when he says it. It’s so unimportant to him that his body doesn’t even put the effort into the words.