Page 14 of Fractured Loyalties
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say, repeating the same truth I gave to Roman. I clutch the book at my side and remind myself that I can always hurl it at her face if she attacks me.
She examines me then, her gaze raking over me. My sleep shirt is three sizes too big; it’s one from my dad’s closet. My hair is in a messy bun, and I know what she sees…
It shows in the disgust on her face.
“So,” she hums, “How was your first day at Woods?”
I swallow hard, my mind remembering all the shitty parts. “It was fine,” I mumble, staring at my feet. “Got a dress codeviolation. Spilled milk on my skirt.” I force a laugh, but it comes out strangled.
Irena’s mouth twitches, the barest hint of amusement. “You’re supposed to wear the uniform properly, Ivy. Otherwise, it reflects badly on the family.” She folds her arms across her chest, as if somehow her failing to get me a proper uniform before school ismyfault.
I just say, “I’ll fix it. Edward told me my new uniform will be here in the morning before school.”
She leans in, her perfume a chemical sweetness that fills my head. “Hmm, good. You know, people are watching your every move, Ivy. You need to make sure you’re not a disgrace to this family.”
I nod, shifting from foot to foot, my hands twisting the hem of my shirt. I try to think of something else to say, anything that might make her look at me with even a sliver of warmth.
I take a deep breath and take the risk. “It was just really different from my old school. People here are… I don’t know.Intense.”
She laughs, her voice sharp. “That’s the point, darling. The world is intense. This is just a preview.” She steps back, smoothing the belt on her robe. Her eyes flicker past me, and I swear I hear the sound of feminine laughter coming from somewhere.
“Just be a good girl,” Irena says, her voice terse. Her gaze meets mine, and for a brief moment, I think I see something undeniably sad there—but it leaves as fast as it came. “Obey the rules.”
I purse my lips. “Yes, ma’am.”
“If you want to make things easier for yourself, Ivy, you have to learn how to play the game. No one likes a victim.” She inspects her nails, then gives me a final glance. “You can’t rely on sympathy, here. This place will eat you alive.”
I feel my face burn from embarrassment, but also…Whatis going to eat me alive? The house?
Irena starts to walk away, then pauses, turning back toward me. “Just do us all a favor and make sure you are presentable.” The word hangs in the air, more a threat than a suggestion.
“Okay,” I say, but she’s already gone, her heels tapping away like a metronome. I’d love to scream after her, to shout thatshe’sthe one who set me up for failure today.She’sthe one who provided me with the wrong size uniform.She’sthe one who did this.
But I’m pretty sure she already knows that.
I hug my arms around my waist and hurry down the corridor, past the oil paintings and the mirrors that reflect and multiply my shame. When I reach my room, I shut the door behind me gently. Despite that, the click is still so loud it sends a chill down my spine.
I glance around, choosing not to flip on the switch. It’s cold and dark inside my room. The window is cracked, and the wind rattles the glass like fingers on a coffin lid. I cross to the bed, collapse on top of the designer comforter, and curl myself into a ball, my knees pulled to my chest.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. It’s dead. Like the insides of all the people I live with.
I hate this place. I hate this place.
I lie there for a while, just staring at the wall, tracing the hairline cracks in the plaster with my eyes. I remember when my dad used to tuck me in, and how he would whisper dumb jokes until I couldn’t stop laughing. I’d hear the TV playing from the living room as I fell asleep.
But here? Here, there’s only the sound of my own breathing and the echo of Irena’s voice telling me I could have had everything. Which is a lie. She didn’t fucking want me. She never offered to take me.
Shemademe stay away.
I wrap my arms around myself more tightly, squeezing until my ribs hurt. I want to cry, but the tears are stuck somewhere behind my eyes, blocked by pride or spite or just plain exhaustion.
However, as I close my eyes and try to find sleep, my lids are filled with the image of a battered Roman. I focus on that distraction, wondering what the hell happened to him, duringfamily business.
And I wonder if it could happen to me, too.
Six
ROMAN
