“If it was such anaccident, why have we been quarantined here under full guard?” He shakes his head. “We both know this was something more. An attack.”
“That remains to be seen. Perhaps Chloe will provide more information when she arrives. ” Her eyes scan him up and down. “At least one of you is of some use.”
“Oh, Mother, do stop — you’ll spoil me.”
Mother?!
She continues to stare coldly at Carter. “You expect my praise? You look as though you’ve just stumbled out of a brothel.”
“Maybe I have,” he seethes, jaw clenched tight. “But that shouldn’t be a surprise to you. Chickens always come home to roost — isn’t that right, Octavia?”
I’m not sure what, exactly, he means by that, but it’s evidentshedoes. The words are an undeniable blow. She goes pale and her manicured fingers clasp so tight, I can see the whites of her knuckles even from here. The way she’s looking at her son, she’d clearly like nothing more than to cross the room and slap him across the face. Instead, in an eerie show of composure, all she does is smile placidly.
Who the hell are these people?
Thoroughly uncomfortable, I shift from foot to foot, wishing I could teleport myself literally anywhere else in the world to escape the suffocating malice of this room. Instantly, I realize my mistake — the small motion draws Octavia’s laser-like attention to me. Her eyes flicker up and down, practically dripping with hauteur as she takes in my scanty clothing, my limp curls, my smeared eye makeup.
“And here I thought you were joking about the brothel.” She shakes her head. “Did you truly think it wise to bring one of the escorts here with you?”
Wait, what?!
“Hasn’t this family endured enough for one night?” Octavia hisses. “Why must you insist on always making a scene?”
A low, angry sound rattles in Carter’s throat. “Octavia—”
“Honesty, I am so very tired of these attention-seeking stunts! Your stepfather will—”
“Excuse me,” I cut her off, stepping forward before she can spout another venomous word. She looks completely dumbfounded that I —a common brothel wench!— have dared interrupt her diatribe. “Did you just call me a prostitute?”
She sniffs, as though she smells something foul, and doesn’t deign to answer.
“Perfect!” I snap, my hands flailing out in a burst of pent-up emotion. “Just fucking perfect. That’s the goddamned cherry on top of the goddamned cake!”
There’s a simultaneous gasp from Simms and Octavia at my crass language, but I’m too worked up to stop myself, let alone apologize. “Let me see if I have this right. You people send armed guards after me, have my best friend bludgeoned over the head, throw me in the backseat of an SUV with absolutely no explanation, drive me to the middle of the countryside…” My voice crescendoes with each word. “And now you actually have the gall to sit there and CALL ME A WHORE?!”
As though she hasn’t heard a single word, Octavia reaches out and picks up her teacup again. Her eyes scan me up and down once more — the rapid rise and fall of my chest, my hands planted on my hips, my furious glare — and with a delicate sniff she takes another infuriatingly slow sip of tea.
Ugh!
I take a threatening step her way but jolt to a stop when a warm male hand lands firmly on my shoulder.Carter. His fingers flex against my bare skin, but I’m not sure whether it’s to comfort me after my outburst or warn me against continuing it.
“You two are quite the melodramatic pair, aren’t you?” Octavia tilts her head haughtily. “Feel free to tell us who you are and why you are here.” When I don’t respond, her eyes flicker to the press secretary. “Gerald! Who is this girl? Why is she here, privy to our private family matters?”
Simms’ double chin bobs nervously. “Your Grace… She… Well…”
“Spit it out, Gerald.”
Simms has gone beet red. “She’s… she’s…”
“She is my daughter,” a deep, rasping voice says from the doorway.
Octavia’s teacup crashes to the carpet with a clatter.
Carter’s hand disappears from my shoulder.
Simms lets loose a chortle of pure distress.
And I — well, I don’t do a damn thing. I can’t. I’m frozen with dread and fear and rage.