Page 32 of London's Calling: Part 1
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know Clayton was coming to the house.”
“Clayton is at the house?” I nod. “Could it get any worse.” He slams the door shut before I can say anything more.
“You could be me,” I mutter as he rounds the car to get in the driver’s side.
When we arrive at my father’s, Carl opens the car door for me but doesn’t wait for me to exit before he’s jumping back in the driver’s side, preparing to go and park.
I close the rear door and stride into the house.
“Where have you been?” demands Clayton as he appears from the lounge, marching toward me.
I sideline the part of me that wants to rage at him for being such an arsehole and instead slap a smile on my face as I look up him. “I had to drop some books off at campus. If I’d have known you were coming, I’d have made sure to be here for you, babe,” I say, laying a hand on his forearm for effect.
He brushes my hand off with a scowl. I can tell he’s trying to work out if I’m being serious or not.
“Can I get you a drink?” I call over my shoulder as I walk toward the kitchen.
He stomps after me. “No. I have an event tonight at the Kerr’s and I want you with me.”
No asking if I’d like to attend, just a straight up order. With my back to him, as I grab a juice from the fridge, my words are in complete contrast to the expression on my face.
“Of course. What’s the dress code?” I keep the charade going as I turn back to face him, appearing happy to join him.
“I don’t fucking know. Just wear something appropriate. Nothing slutty.”
I almost spill the orange juice I’m pouring at his words, and it takes incredible effort not to react.
“And you’ll need this too.” He slams a small box on the counter beside my glass. I don’t need to look to know what it is. A fucking ring—an engagement ring!
Slowly I set the carton down and pick up the ring box while Clayton rests his hip against the counter beside me, watching me expectantly.
Taking a deep breath, I open the box and take in the extravagant single solitaire diamond rock—there’s no other way to describe it. I like pretty things, but this is an over-the-top monstrosity, a ball and chain around my neck, meant to let everyone who sees it know I belong to Clayton Simmonds. Of course, the warning isn’t for my benefit, it’s for his. Ensuring no male within our social circle, or otherwise, will so much as dare talk to me.
Swallowing down my revulsion, I turn to him as I pull the ring free. “Oh, Clayton, it’s beautiful,” I faux gush, and the only thing genuine about my words is the choked-up manner in which they are delivered.
He takes the ring from me. “Cost a small fortune, so make sure you look after it,” he says, snatching my left hand and shoving the thing onto my ring finger.
It’s like someone just placed a tonne weight there, pulling my hand down, gravity doing its best to put me on the ground where men like Clayton believe women should be—on their knees worshipping their husbands.
Before I can catch my breath over the hideous thing now adorning my left hand and how the hell he managed to get the size right, Clayton grabs the back of my head and pulls me forward, his lips meeting mine. It’s a crushing kiss, not in the good way, but his teeth smashing against my closed lips as I try to compose myself and not knee him in the bollocks.
My scalp throbs as he tangles his fingers in my hair, pulling me closer. I’m just about to push him away when he breaks the kiss, tugging on my hair and arching my neck so I can’t move.
Looking down at me with contempt, he says, “That was pathetic, Veronica. I know you can do better than that. And you will. I’ll make sure of it.” Releasing me, he strides toward the door, then says, “Be ready at seven.”
The second the front door closes, I swipe my hand across the counter with a screech. My orange juice goes flying, soaking the counter and floor, before the glass shatters into a million pieces on the tiled floor.
Footsteps echo down the corridor a second before Ms Rixon appears in the doorway.
“Miss Hart, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I snap as she carefully steps into the kitchen, eyeing all the glass and juice. “Thank you,” I say, softening my voice and tone. “I’m sorry for the mess. Let me help you.” I move toward the cupboard where I know she keeps her cleaning products, but her hand on my arm stops me.
“No need. I have it.” She smiles sympathetically. “You just worry about yourself,” she adds, giving me a pat on the forearm before moving away.
I leave the kitchen and trudge up the stairs to my room. I wish escaping my life was as easy as walking away from the mess in the kitchen.
Chapter Twenty-Three
