I halt before my apartment block, where a large white removal van with the wordsPickton Auctionson the side is parked onthe pavement. The back is open, and uniformed men in pale blue Airtexes are lifting a sofa inside it.
My sofa.
My stomach free-falls. I glance at the entrance to the building, where two more men are carrying my coffee table.
Holy fucking shit.
I run towards them, arms out, handbag dangling from one hand. “What are you doing? That’s my stuff. Stop!”
One of the men glances at me as they shuffle their way towards the open van. “House clearance.”
Panic roars through me, tingling in my joints. I turn from side to side, scanning the area like it will give me answers.
When I catch sight of the odious red Ferrari parked on a yellow line, I get my fucking answer:Dad.
Shit.This flat is a prime piece of London real estate, nestled down a side street in St James’. It’s been my home for nearly three years, but Dad owns it.
Of course, he’s not going to let me stay.
I try to stay focused. “You can’t take this stuff. It’s mine.”
“Sorry, Miss,” the man says. “Orders are to take the lot. Anything that’s not broken.”
I stagger. “Broken?”
He tips his chin towards the upper floors of the building. “It’s a mess up there.”
My mind splinters, a cacophony of panicked thoughts and fragmented memories exploding in my head. Screams. Smashes. Crashes. Me and Sylvie hiding under the stairs.
I race through the lobby, ignoring the screeches of the concierge telling me that I’m not allowed in the building anymore. My heels clack on the stairs. Can’t wait for a lift. Not now.
My heart is hammering, and a hot, panic-ridden sweat breaks out all over my body. I skid out onto the second floor.
The door to my flat is flung wide, and I catch my breath on the threshold, clinging to the door frame as I take in the destruction.
Lamps are broken, the rug stained with god knows what. The drinks cabinet is empty, broken glass shimmering over the floor. The side table is upside down, one leg broken. All my special edition books have been torn from the shelves, ripped pages scatter the floor.
My knees threaten to fold and I white-knuckle the doorframe, holding myself up. “Oh, my God,” I whimper.
Dropping my handbag to the floor, I creep inside, glass crunching underfoot. All the silver-framed family photographs on the shelves by the fireplace have been swept to the floor. I close my eyes, imagining Dad bursting in here and finding me gone, uncontrolled rage whipping through him.
“Where the fuck have you been?” His rough voice has my heart lurching, and I freeze when he steps from the kitchen into the living area.
He casts a disdainful look up and down my body. “You look like a whore. Stepped right out of one of your books.” He plucks one of the remaining books off the shelf—a blue hardback, embossed with gold lettering—a signed special edition ofTaming the Beastby Abigail Enwright, and one of my prized possessions.
He wrenches the book open and starts tearing out pages, dropping them to the floor like autumn leaves. “I should have put a stop to this vile habit,” he says, ripping another page out.
“No!” I yell, but Dad only throws me another look of disgust and bends the spine fully back, tearing the book in half with a strength that makes me shudder. He throws both halves to the floor.
He takes a huge step towards me, bellowing in my face, “You ruined everything, you selfish little bitch.” His spit spatters my cheeks, and he raises his hand like he means to strike me.He’s never hit me before, but I’ve never made him this angry. On instinct, I cower, blood humming in my ears as I brace for impact, hands over my head.
But the impact doesn’t come.
Dad takes one of my raised wrists in an iron grip, squeezing so hard I have to bite back a yelp. He yanks me upright, forcing me to face him.
“What were you thinking?” His growl grates up my spine, and his eyes blaze with untamed rage. “You fucked it all up. The deal. The hotel. The land. You cost me millions.Millions. You stupid little bitch. Did you think there was something better out there for you than the man I chose?”
I try to pull free, but his grip only tightens. “You’re hurting me,” I say, my voice pitifully weak.