Page 39 of The Muse
I look over at her. “Where is the cunt?” snaps out of me.
“Excuse me?” she says, standing slightly.
“Landon. Where is he?”
“Sir, I’m afraid–”
“You should be.” Her eyes widen, body shifting uneasily behind her desk. “Tell me where he is before I use you to get to him.” Not that I’m entirely sure that would work. He’d probably laugh at the thought of someone in pain because of him.
She picks up the phone, dialling someone. Good. Hopefully, she’s getting him down here, so I don’t have to deal with any other people before I beat the shit out of him. “Tell him it’s Scott Foxton. And that he’s a wanker.” She talks quietly for a few seconds, her eyes looking at me the entire time.
“How long?” I snarl, looking at her.
“A few minutes, Sir.”
I pace again and wait, scanning every single person that steps out of the lifts until I see two security coming around the corner. Fuck. They aim straight at me, but they’re not quick enough to stop me ducking sideways, jump the turnstiles blocking the route through and run for a closing lift door. I’m through it and watching the door slide closed before they manage to catch up.
Top floor buttons pressed, and I wait again, this time staring at my own reflection. I’m a fucking mess. Sweaty because of the run, reddened because of the anger and adrenaline fuelling me here, and my hair's at all kinds of angles because of the damn tugging I was doing on it. All her fault.
All his fault.
Fuck he’s going to hurt for this.
The second the door opens, I move forward, intent on causing maximum damage to anything that gets in my way. The three security guards that fold in before I manage to get out stop me in my tracks. One of them immediately grabs my arms to get me in a lock hold, and the other two block my exit. The buttons are pressed again before I even get a chance to fight my way out of them. Fine. I’ll do it another time then, find another way. I’m nothing if not patient.
And this is enough for me to be all kinds of pissed off.
Chapter Sixteen
PERSEPHONE
The door slamming shakes my body as I try to pick myself back up. The fissure in my heart splits a little further, sending a fresh spear of pain through my body. God, he looked so angry. All I wanted was to do the right thing. I thought he’d see past the lie; after all, I’m Seffi Castlewood much more than I’m Persephone Broderick. He didn’t even listen. All he heard was the name, and he jumped to all the conclusions I feared.
People walk around me, as I stand in the middle of the pavement waiting for the door to open again—waiting for Scott to appear and take it all back. He doesn’t. Not even after another round of minutes pass by. And the tears don’t stop falling from my eyes either. He should have listened to me. He should have heard what I was saying.
I picture the painting in my mind. All the thought and care, the light and grace that he showed on the canvas. His feelings screamed from the painting; at least, I thought they did. I thought that meant something and that he loved me, too. Or at least cared for me more than throwing me out of his house like I was nothing but a cheap thrill he was done with.
“You have to listen to me!” I scream at the closed door.
“Are you okay, Miss?” An older gentleman approaches me. He must be in his seventies.
“Yes. Yes. Of course, I’m fine. I’m sorry.” I dash the tears from under my eyes and retreat around the corner and down the next street to hide.
With shaky hands, I pull out my phone and fumble through the steps to order myself an Uber. The last place I want to be right now is home, but there’s nowhere else I can go. I don’t want to have to explain to Ivy or Neve why I’m so upset. At least at home, I can hide in my room until I’ve got myself under control.
With that thought, a new wave of grief hits me like a new door slamming in my face. The full impact of my feelings—of my actions—is starting to resonate. But as this noxious feeling settles in my stomach, I grow even more angry that there’s a feud between the families in the first place. Nobody knows why. At least, I don’t know the details. Why should that stop Scott and me being together?
My feet pace the short dead-end road I find myself in, and I’m inwardly relieved that there aren’t further witnesses to my meltdown. The Uber pulls up, and I do my best to hide in the back seat on the journey home. Luckily, the driver is good at ignoring me, and I spend the half an hour staring out the window as if the answers to my problems will just suddenly appear from thin air.
The closer I get to home, the more uptight I become.
I meant what I said. I don’t want to be a Broderick when I’m with Scott. He makes me still want to be Seffi Castlewood. Then, maybe if I didn’t have this stupid name, he wouldn’t have thrown me out the door and would have listened to me instead.
It’s like a curse. My mother assured me that it would afford me no favours in the dancing world, and I was happy to take a new identity in order to reach my goal. Being judged for me and my talent alone. I wanted to earn my success for me and not have my father, or brother, threaten to take that all away from me. And now it’s cursed me again—all because I fell in love with the wrong man.
Sneaking into the house is easy. It feels like a museum sometimes, and I remember again how it was when I was little and desperate to look for someone to play with me. Always alone. Young and alone.
Having shut the bedroom door behind me, I lean against it and take a deep breath to try to contain the hurt, but it keeps threatening to bubble over. My bag flies across the room as I fight with my emotion, followed by both my shoes as I kick them in turn. My sobs overtake me as my actions grow crazier. I turn to the dresser and sweep my arms across the surface, dramatically sending everything crashing to the floor. Anything I miss with my first pass is quickly picked up and thrown across at the opposite wall with all the hurt and pain racing through me. As the ornaments and other breakables shatter to the floor, I follow, hoping to feel some cathartic release from my destructive tantrum. All it does is give me another reason to feel guilty—more broken things.
