Page 65 of The Misfit

My jaw clenches. Of course. She’s checking up on my “progress.” Making sure I’m still playing straight for the family name.

“Salem is fine.” More than fine. Perfect, actually, in ways I can’t explain to anyone, especially not my mother.

“Wonderful.” She doesn’t sound like it’swonderfulat all. “Then you’ll both attend the foundation’s charity gala next weekend. The Sterlings are hosting this year, and the event is set to take place at The Grand Hotel downtown.”

It’s not a question. Not even close to a request. My mother doesn’t ask. She commands.

“Mother—”

“The entire board will be there,” she continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “And the Hendersons. Their daughter, Charlotte, is newly single, in case you were wondering. It’s really such a shame her engagement ended.”

Again, she doesn’t sound as if she’s saddened by the news. What it really sounds like she’s saying is,follow my orders, do what you’re told, and wear the mask I want or face the consequences. Did I mention that image is everything to her?

“We’ll be there.” The words taste like ash. “Text me the details.”

“Wonderful.” This time, she means it, and that terrifies me. “Oh, and Lee? Do make sure your girlfriend knows how to behave at these events. We wouldn’t want any unfortunate incidents to take place.”

The line goes dead before I can respond. Before I can defend Salem or tell my mother to fuck off or explain that Salem is worth ten of their society princesses. And just like that, the freedom I felt earlier is ripped right out from underneath me. It’s an illusion. With my mother meddling in my life, I’ll never be free, not truly.

“Fuck!” I hurl my phone onto the couch and run both my hands through my hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. Guilt eats away at my insides. This obsession with Salem is out of control. I never should’ve taken an interest in her or looked into who she was and what made her so unique. Now I have to wonder if bringing her into this was ever a good idea. She can barely handle coffee shops on bad days. How the hell is she going to manage a ballroom full of Sterling-approved vultures?

The crowds, the touching, the judgment …

The all-too-familiar rush to reach for a bottle of alcohol and drown inside it snakes beneath my skin.

One reason to cancel: I can’t expose her to my family’s cruelty.

Two reasons to go: If I don’t, they’ll never believe this is real. If I don’t, my mother might stoop low enough to start putting these poor women into my bed in hopes they will turn me straight. A chanting prayer echoes in my head, followed by the crack of a belt.

Fuck this.I give in to temptation and snatch the nearest bottle of alcohol off the table, twist off the cap, and swallow, letting it burn away the memories.

Three reasons I’m terrified: Because it is real. Because I’m falling for her. Fuck, I already have. I’m obsessed with her, and the moment we shared in my bed when I claimed her sealed the deal for me. If I’m being honest, none of this was ever fake, at least on my side.

I’m a mess, a fucking mess, but I don’t want to let her go. I also don’t want to drag her deeper into my shit.

But isn’t that why you approached her in the first place? To be your fake girlfriend?

My phone buzzes again with Mother’s text—event details attached with a note about appropriate attire. As if I don’t know how to dress for a formal fucking event. As if I haven’t been performing for their approval my entire life.

Except it’s different this time.

This time, more is at stake. I can no longer worry only about myself. I did this and asked her to pretend for me. I can’t leave her to be thrown to the wolves. Still, my doubts linger. We’ve been preparing for this exact scenario, but I don’t know if she’s ready. I guess my only option is to make it as easy as possible for her, just like she makes things easier for me.

I grab my phone and search my contacts for the number to our family tailor.

If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. And fake girlfriend or not, I’ll make certain that Salem outshines every real society princess in that ballroom.

Which means I’ll need to find her the perfect dress.

Putting the bottle of alcohol down, I pull out my laptop. I focus my attention on scouring the internet for dresses. Forty-three minutes later, I’m scrolling through designer dresses on a website the tailor sent me while my brain runs calculations.

Not just sizes and prices—those are irrelevant when you have the Sterling name—but all the little details that matter to Salem.

Fabric that won’t irritate her skin. Nothing so restrictive that it might trigger a panic attack. A cut that makes her feel protected but stunning. Something that says “I belong here” to all the vultures who’ll be watching her every move. Frustration mounts the longer I search for the perfect dress that never appears.

Instead of tossing my laptop out the window, I shoot Bel a text.

Me: SOS. Trying to find a dress for Salem.

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