Page 13 of Stolen Moments

Or do you?my inner voice pipes up.

The part of me that longs to escape all this beckons me to flee. To let go of the hope that they will change their minds and leave me to live the life I want.

Everyone laughs and I force a chuckle, my smile brittle. No one sees my unhappiness, nor do they care. I’m just an ornament, a pretty thing to look at as I sit here on the settee, in an expensive pink gown my mother laid out for me to wear. A dress that’s disgustingly bland and not to my taste at all.

“So, Emery, tell us what’s new, dear,” my mother’s friend, Eleanor, says.

My mother, as usual, answers for me. “Oh, you know our girl. She’s out gaining experience before she’ll return home to work with Sinclair at the Rhodes Publishing.”

My mask slips at the mention of working with my father. My mother intensifies her grip on my thigh, daring me to disagree. I smile and nod my assent, as required.

“How wonderful, dear.” Eleanor turns to my mother, ignoring me. “Cybil, you must be excited for Emery to return home and settle down.”

“Of course. Our girl knows what’s expected of her.”

My hackles rise, and my heart beats double time as the cage I trapped myself in closes in on me. My palms sweat, and my stomach churns. Placing my flute on the end table, I stand. “If you’ll please excuse me, I need to use the powder room.”

My mother waves me off as I make my leave. I doubt anyone will miss me, so I head down the hall that leads to the kitchen.

It’s almost midnight, and the luxurious kitchen is empty, not a crumb of food or dish left behind. Aside from the bartender and a handful of servers who will finish running drinks for the rest of the night, the staff has gone for the night.

Grateful for the lack of prying eyes, I grab a bottle of champagne from the makeshift bar on the peninsula and step out onto the patio, overlooking the Long Island Sound. Opening the bottle, I pop the cork, the bubbles fizzing over and dripping down my hand.

The sprawling green lawns of my family estate are inky black in the pale moonlight. It looks and feels like a sad, endless abyss—just like my life.

I lift the thousand-dollar bottle of champagne to my lips and take a swig. The cool liquid pops onto my tongue as I take another huge gulp. I’ll pay for it tomorrow, but it will be worth it if I can forget about the past few days for just a minute and pretend I am back at the airport.

I’d do it all differently if I could. I’d look up into the eyes of the most handsome and sweetest man I have ever met and tell him to call me. I’d give him my number and let him take me away from all of this. I’d let him own my body as he bent me to his will and gave me unimaginable pleasure.

A vision of Mason pulling my hair and bending me over as he spanks my ass has my core lighting up like the fireworks that just exploded over the water.

I take another pull from the bottle before placing it on the floor. A gust of wind blasts me, freezing me to the bone—stepping outside without a coat during winter in Connecticut was stupid.

Muffled voices on the terrace beside me catch my attention. Sinking into the shadows of the pillars that surround the kitchen veranda, I avoid getting caught listening to the seemingly private conversation.

“Does she know, Cybil?” my father’s hushed voice asks.

“Of course not. She’s as oblivious as ever,” my mother snipes.

“Good. Let’s keep it that way. Alfred still needs to get rid of … you know who … before we can make the announcement.”

You know who?What the heck are they plotting this time? If my parents are scheming with the Westfields, no good can come from it.

“It’s already in the works. Helene is planting the seeds as we speak.”

My head floats, the champagne hitting me. Not wanting to lose my buzz or hear any more, I grab the bottle of champagne, slip back through the sliding glass door, and make my way upstairs to my childhood bedroom.

I open the door and memories I wish would die hit me. I hate this room. Not a single thing about it has changed since my mother redecorated it for my sixteenth birthday. I thought helping her would be fun. My excitement lasted until the interior designer showed up. Decorating this room did the opposite of bringing us closer together; it widened the gap, forcing me to realize Cybil didn’t want my opinion, nor a relationship with me. In the end, I gave up. It was pointless to fight her. After that, I began counting down the days until I could leave this place.

The pale pink walls and beige furniture are a mockery. A wave of anger crashes through my body. I am so freakingtired of my parents making the decisions, forcing me to bend who I am for them and for the sake of their image.

I tear the silk gown off my body and throw it in the corner—the only act of defiance I have left in my arsenal. Well, that and my red lipstick.

A smile pulls at my lips.

Not just any red. Burgundy. The deepest shade I could find. A shade that matches my light, sand-colored skin. A “fuck you” to my overbearing and critical mother with her muted colors that wash her out, and make her look pale and white like she wishes she were.

I envision my grandfather shaking his head at his daughter in disappointment. Tears cloud my eyes as the pain of losing the only man who’s ever loved me surfaces. I miss Papa so much. He loved Chris and me unconditionally, and I wish he was here now to help me get out of the mess I’ve found myself in.

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