Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
But I don’t say any of that. I don’t trust him. He is my father, but he’s not a good man. Anything I say will be used against me one day. I stand. “I’m leaving.”
He doesn’t say goodbye, but I don’t care. I’ve had a lifetime of practice. I don’t look back either. I step outside into the cool night air, the quiet pressing against my ears like a living thing.
The rain has cleared the sky and made the stars shine bright. Immediately, thoughts of Raven come unbidden, so many sweet memories under the stars. I frown with frustration. I swore I wouldn’t let her get to me again and keep this arrangement purely in revenge mode. But already the clear crisp edges are blurring, and I can’t tell if it’s her fault or mine.
I get into my car and sit quietly for a moment. My father’s words settle into the silence with me. More memories flood into my head. Time passes and the chill of the night begins to creep around me. I hadn’t planned on being away this long, but here I am. Unable to leave the past and go out to meet the future.
She’s in the house now. I know because Ryan called to tell me he’d dropped her off. I don’t have to see her to know she’s probably unpacked her things, probably exploring, probably seen the portrait hanging in the music room.
I smirk as I think about that painting that she must have seen by now.
It was a spur-of-the-moment idea. I was walking past an art shop downtown and saw a caricature portrait in a similar style—gaudy, exaggerated. A mockery, and yet it was riveting. The image formed in my head before I could stop it: her, sitting on a throne like some haughty whore. Her hard, cold eyes looking down at me for the fool I had been.
But she is not a whore. She never has been. It was unfair. There is a flicker of something unwelcome—regret, maybe. It’s faint, but it’s there, crawling under my skin. I clench my jaw and squash it down. I’m not going to start feeling sorry for her. That way madness lies. I press harder on the gas pedal, and focus on the road ahead.
The drive back is short, the streets of town giving way to the expansive estate. The house emerges ahead, its grandeur lit softly by the glow of strategically placed lights along the driveway. It still feels foreign to me, this place. Too big, too polished, too much for me.
I park and step out into the cold air. Nora greets me at the door, her cheerful demeanor tempered with something more tentative tonight.
“Welcome back, Mr. Jackson. Dinner is ready to be served whenever you please,” she says, her tone cautious.
I grunt a response and hand her my coat, my eyes scanning the polished floors and the new chandelier. It was a good decision. It looks almost magical in this setting.
I’m not hungry, but I stride toward the dining room.
The long table is set for two. Crystal chandeliers overhead cast soft light on the polished wood and velvet-lined chairs. The blood-red walls are checkered with a darker shade of rectangles and squares left by the paintings that have been removed.
“Dinner is ready,” Nora says, her voice hesitant. “Should I invite Mrs. Jackson to join you? She hasn’t eaten yet. Perhaps she was waiting for you.”
I don’t even look at her. “No,” I say flatly, taking a seat at the head of the table.
With a quiet nod, she retreats, leaving me alone in the vast room. I stare out into the garden, my mind blank until the food arrives.
The silence stretches as I pick at the food, the clink of silverware against fine China the only sound. It is a feast by anyone’s standards—roast shank of lamb, buttery vegetables, fresh-baked rolls, some sort of lime and chocolate dessert, fruit, cheese—but I barely taste any of it. My mind is elsewhere, circling back to her, to the painting, to the way this house feels more like a stage than a home.
Somewhere upstairs, she’s probably unpacking, settling in, trying to figure out what the hell I’m playing at. Let her wonder. This is what she wanted, isn’t it? To be the mistress of a grand estate, to live the life of luxury she’d always dreamed of?
I stab a piece of lamb with my fork, the force of it scraping against the plate. Let her have it. I’ll make sure she enjoys every second of it.
When Nora is gone, I sit back alone with a glass of brandy and the echoes of my own thoughts. I’ve won. This is what winning feels like. This is how I get even.
And yet, for the briefest moment, I wonder if anyone would really call this winning.