When I go to school the following day, I’m not focused.
Everything seems to be out of control. Everything.
One, Mum got drunk at the end of the reception and she kept asking what Papa sees in Helen anyway. Is she prettier than her? Better accomplished? She said even her books seem like they’re written by a psychopath.
I told her that all crime thriller books need to be frightening in some way. Helen’s books always give me a chill and that’s why they’re so successful.
I had to ask Derek to help me drive her home. We’d barely gotten her in the car and she had a fight with Papa — again. Thankfully, it was away from the reporters or their other party members.
They screamed at each other and it was like a flashback from the divorce time.
After I tucked Mum safely in her bed, she hugged me, kissed me, and told me she was sad and that she didn’t want to be sad. So I stayed with her until she drifted off to sleep.
By the time I returned home, the reception was over. Papa and Helen had already retreated to their room. They decided against a honeymoon because of how busy they both are.
I was all alone with the catering staff, and Ronan and Xander, who didn’t leave my side. I was thankful to them in a way words can’t express, so I let them have all the food and alcohol they liked.
Cole just sat there, reading from his book as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t broken my world to pieces and made me walk unevenly all night. I had to feign spraining my ankle — to which he smirked at, the bastard.
This morning, Papa’s party friends and political life has returned at full force. Helen prepared them tea and told me to go ahead to school and not worry about anything.
Then there’s the damn text I received yesterday from the unknown number.
A rose deflowered.
He watched me. He saw me do it with Cole.
What if he tells Papa, or worse, the media? That would screw up everything.
Everything.
Since I received the text, I’ve been watching my surroundings as if he’ll come up from the shadows and attack me.
When I was younger, his texts were non-harmful ones, just compliments, like any comment on my social media posts, but a year or so ago, I finally started to see them as disturbing.
No one should know so much about me. My morning routines, from my favourite Chanel perfume down to the type of shampoo I use.
But the last text pushed every boundary I could’ve had. The fact that he was there, in Papa’s wedding, and possibly saw me coming out of his office is more than disturbing.
The reason why I feel like I’m suffocating is because I can’t show this to Papa anymore, or even to Mum. She’ll kill me if she knows I slept with my stepbrother.
And Papa will give me that disappointed look he saves for his party members who act like brats and cause a media ruckus.
Even Frederic is out. He’ll immediately tell Papa about it.
It’s all because of him. Cole. The bastard.
Why did he have to do that? Why did he have to make us fall into a hole of no return?
If I tell him about it, maybe he’ll —
No.
This stalker — or whatever — won’t get to me. Papa once taught me a trick that should exist up every politician’s sleeve — doubt.
If someone makes you doubt yourself and your core principles, they can easily destroy you. They’re using you to ruin you. It’s like when the body self-destructs.
That’s what the stalker is doing. He’s trying to make me panic, and as a result, I’ll make a mistake that he’ll use to his advantage.