Page 74 of Love Bleeds Red
Tears well in my eyes but I refuse to let them loose. They won’t hurt me. I will stay strong.
“And look at her posture,” Sir adds, moving behind me to adjust my shoulders. “Six months of deportment lessons. Notice how she holds herself—chin up, spine straight. None of that slouching American nonsense.”
King slowly claps. “Impressive. Though I do wonder...” He leans back in his chair, studying me. “Has she learned proper obedience as well as pretty words?”
“Why don’t you see for yourself?” Sir gestures to me. “Bailey, a proper curtsy for our guests.”
A single tear rolls down my cheek. I can cry and cry and it won’t change anything, I have no choice but to obey. I lower myself into the curtsy Ms. Harrington drilled into me, keeping my eyes downcast as I rise.
“Charming,” the bushy-browed man chuckles. “Like something from finishing school.”
“That was the idea,” Sir beams. “Complete refinement. She’ll make a certain someone very—” His phone buzzes, cutting him off. He checks it and huffs. “Gentlemen, forgive me. I need to take this call. Important business matters.”
“Of course,” the gray-haired man waves him off. “We’ll keep ourselves entertained.”
Sir steps out onto the terrace, turning his back to the rest of us as he speaks urgently to whoever’s on the other side of his phone. As soon as he slides the door closed, the air in the room shifts, becoming thicker, more suffocating.
King pulls out a small object from his pocket, scooping white powder from it onto the glass table. I watch as he inhales two lines, offers some to the other men, but they politely decline.
When my feet finally feel lighter, I make a move to go back to where Polly’s standing by the credenza. Maybe I can make myself small and wait this meeting out.
“Pet, where do you think you’re going?” King’s smile widens, but there’s nothing warm about it.
“Nowhere,” I manage to say.
“That was quite a performance just now. I’m impressed.”
The gray-haired man lights a cigar, leaning forward to watch our exchange, the other settles back sipping from his glass.
“Tell me, Bailey,” King continues, swirling his whiskey, “do you remember the many conversations we had?”
I keep my eyes down, maybe he’ll stop, focus on something else. Through the glass, I can see Sir pacing the terrace, gesturing animatedly into his phone.
“I asked you a question.” King’s voice hardens. “It’s rude not to answer when someone speaks to you. Surely you’ve learned that much from Ms. Harrington.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Yes, what?”
My throat constricts. “Yes, I remember.”
“Good.” He takes a slow sip of his drink, never taking his eyes off me. “And what did I tell you about respect?”
The memory hits me like a slap to the face the moment the word leaves his lips—his hands on me, his voice in my ear, the way he made me beg, made me hurt.
My legs shake.
“I said,” King’s voice drops to that dangerous whisper I remember too well, “what did I tell you about respect?”
“That... that I needed to learn it,” I manage.
“Exactly.” He leans forward slightly. “And have you? Learned respect?”
I nod quickly, desperate to give him what he wants so this will stop.
“Show me,” he says. “Come here.”
My feet are rooted to the floor. Through the glass, Sir is still deep in conversation, completely oblivious.
