Page 89 of Wicked Salvation
Then the door crashes open.
My mother storms in, a tempest in pearls.
Her heels click against the marble. Her perfume chokes the room—sharp gardenia, thick and suffocating. Her eyes are wild, her mouth twisted into a furious frown.
“How dare you,” she hisses. “You selfish, ungrateful little girl.”
I step back, heart punching my ribs. “Mum, I?—”
She slaps me across the face, but I’m numb to it. “You humiliated me,” she seethes. “In front of everyone. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You’ve ruined our family name.”
“I couldn’t—he—Silas hurt me.”
“Oh, spare me the dramatics.” She waves a perfectly manicured hand like she’s swatting a fly. “You were fine earlier today.”
“You have no idea how I felt?—”
“Don’t raise your voice at me,” she snaps. “Don’t youdare.”
She lunges for me suddenly—grabbing my arms. Her nails dig in. I flinch. “You’re going to fix this,” she says, low and venomous. “The Lockharts and the Peregrine-Ashfords are going to make a joint statement that the allegations are false. You’re going to smile, and you’re going to make Silas feel like the bloody duke he is.” Just then, her voice reaches a high pitch. “You probably orchestrated this whole thing, but you willnotrenege on your responsibility to this family.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not making a statement and I’m not marrying him.” I don’t even bother to address her claim of orchestrating Lucian’s speech. The terror that washed over me, the pain I felt—she thought that was all an act?
“Youare.”
“You can’t make me.”
“Then I’ll send you back to Augustine,” she hisses. “You want ruin? You want pain? You haven’t seen anything yet. Go back. Let him break you into pieces so small no one can recognize what’s left. I’ll send you back with just the clothes on your back. Let’s see how well you fare then.”
I yank my arm free from hers.
She glares at me, chest heaving. “You’re not my daughter,” she spits. “Not the one I raised. Not the one I groomed. You’re nothing more than a nuisance and I’ll make sure you’re reminded of that every single day.”
She turns sharply and storms out.
The door slams so hard everything rattles.
Silence swells again.
But it’s a different kind—it’s not the hollow, cold silence from before. This silence? It’s hot, crackling, burning through me from the inside out. Something just broke inside me, like levee. Hot lava rushing after being calcified for over a decade.
I sink to the floor and my legs give out.
No tears. They’re ash—I have no more tears left to cry.
That’s when I see my handbag in the corner closest to me. Hastily thrown down after my mother swept me into hair and makeup earlier today.
Earlier today.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
But it’s not the limited edition Goyard print that catches my eye. It’s the book peeking out of it. The one Agnes Pembroke gave me in the library. What did she say about it? It asked for me? It still sends a shiver down my spine, but I still crawl to it.
I don’t even know why I brought it with me.
But now, the comfort of a book feels like exactly what I need. My plan is stupid but simple—sequester myself in this room until further notice. With the book in hand, I turn off my phone and prop a chair under the handle so it can’t be opened from the outside.
Then, I slip out of the stupid dress I’m wearing and open the book.
