Page 3 of Entangled
I made my way down the stairs, heels clicking on every step before I made it to the bottom landing. This house was entirely too big for only two people and the help to live in. I was desperate to move into my own apartment in downtown Boston with lots of windows, the complete opposite of my attic bedroom. But Lilah kept me trapped here. If I didn’t stay here and do everything her little heart desired, she’d somehow take away the inheritance I was meant to get at twenty-five. She held it over my head any time I even considered rolling my eyes at one of her requests.
My father had set up a trust for me as soon as he found out my mother was pregnant with me. But the guidelines of the trust and his will stated I had to be twenty-five to obtain it. Since Lilah had been written into the will when they got married, I had no idea how much of that was still true. She was such a snake, she could have somehow snuck a document in for my father to sign without his knowing. The man signed so many things he’d probably have no idea and think nothing of it.
So, even though I’m allowed to leave and do as I please for the most part, I couldn’t leave permanently. All I did was spend my days in my room, and my nights on the town getting so wasted I could barely remember my name. Now with my job, I’d have to keep my nights sober unless it was the weekend.
Getting a job may have meant more freedom during the day, but the nights were what I lived for. I lived for quiet nights under a blanket full of stars the same way I liked the buzz of a dancing crowd in a club. Either scenario helped with the loudness of my thoughts and the itching of my skin to be free.
“Ready to go?” Lilah asked, slinging her purse over her shoulder. I couldn’t deny that she was drop dead gorgeous, bottle blonde hair and all. But I’d always believed it was what’s on the inside that mattered. I could never understand what my dad saw in her. Because on the inside, Lilah Canella was a vile, venomous bitch of a woman.
I closedmy journal on the diary entry from two years ago.
I’d read online that writing your thoughts down was supposed to be a healing experience, but for me it just cemented the hard facts of my past down on paper.
“Fuck,” I mumble under my breath. What I’d give for it to be two years ago. To have Lilah be my biggest problem. I slowly brought my fingers up to graze my busted and bloody lip. It wasn’t my first and probably wouldn’t be my last. But it still hurts like a bitch every time.
My life felt so much simpler back then. I almost took for granted howeasythings were. I would work at my father’s office under Lilah’s command and watchful eye, come home every night and stay alone. It was a cycle I had gotten used to, and one that I would always seek comfort in.
I’d even begun to be at peace with some of the darker parts of myself: the way I blamed myself for my father’s death, the sadness I had over the missed opportunities of my life.
But in the last two years, I've gone from one prison to another.
The souring of my marriage at first started off as little things: If I got the wrong kind of wine for dinner, or if I wore the wrong shade of lipstick. He’d coldly correct me and I’d made the mistake of not taking him seriously, and I’d slip up again. Then he told me I embarrassed him in front of his family at dinner one night by wearing a shorter dress, and that’s how I ended up with my first black eye. I’d known some ruthless girls in high school, but never had I ever gotten into a fight or my ass beat. Lilah was a bitch, but at least she kept her hands to herself.
But now I’d gotten so numb, that the pain was a normal part of my life.
At this moment, I was currently sitting on the chaise in the study section of my bedroom, reading over my journal entries from the last several years. Sometimes I’d lift up the floorboards and pull out my journals and reminisce on my previous hell during my new one. It was something to pass the time and fill my day. At least I have my own personal library where I can read all day and paint. But there’s only so many books to read, and only so much paint I can use before I have to ask my husband for more. I try to avoid Jude any way I can. If I did have to interact with him, it was to do everything in my power to keep him happy. Or fulfill whatever sexual duty he needed from me.
Not to mention that my motivation to paint anything full of beauty had crashed and burned at a rapid rate. Some days it felt like I was better off staring at the walls then painting a portrait of sadness.
Jude had gotten everything when he’d married me, and I’d lost everything. My inheritance. My body. My freedom. I was merely alive to exist for my husband’s benefit.
Shortly after I’d started at Canella Inc, my stepmother had begun setting me up on what I thought were blind dates. But Ijust shrugged it off because of the free meal and wine, right? It gave me something to do, and I’d never have to see them again, or so I thought.
Instead she was showing off her inventory. Because two months of blind dates later, I came home from work one night and was told to put on my favorite dress. It was cute, kind of short, black as the night sky. It was always my go to whenever I went clubbing and it had been so long since I’d worn it. It made me feel like myself again slipping it on, and I felt hopeful for the first time in a long time.
At first, I thought maybe Lilah was shipping me off for another blind date. But instead, I was led into our extravagant and large dining room to a table full of rich and powerful men, and sold off to the highest bidder. She was preparing me for an auction. A fucking auction to be married to a man. What or how much she got in return I’ll never know. But I got a lifetime with Jude Peirano, who would you believe it, was the son of a notorious crime boss in Rhode Island.
So I finally got my wish to spread my wings and leave Boston. But it wasn’t in the way I’d ever hoped or dreamed. Instead, it was my own personal nightmare.
I could still remember how full of hope I’d been when Jude had been the one to win the auction for me. How it could have been someone worse, or someone older. But little did I know that Jude was one of the worst men there.
I smoothedmy dress down for the hundredth time, not ready for another impromptu date that Lilah had decided to send meon. It was always a shot to my nerves to have to go on these dates. One, because I had absolutely no idea who it was going to be, and two, what was going to come out of it.
What if one of them decided they wanted more out of this than just a meal? What if I had to hand myself and my body over?
“Soren!” Lilah’s voice traveled up the stairs as it always did, alerting me that the driver was ready to take me to the restaurant of my date’s choosing. It was usually so disgustingly expensive, but the food was good, so at least I got something nice out of it.
But as I came down the stairs, and heard the murmurs of voices, something felt different. Our house was never this busy. There was never any noise to fill the dead silence within the walls.
“Soren, I have a surprise for you,” Lilah said, sickly sweet. It was another sign that something wasn’t as it should be—any surprise Lilah brought was liable to get me in some sort of trouble.
“What is it?” I asked hesitantly, noticing the driver wasn’t waiting at the door like he usually was before these dates—strike number three on the checklist of signs that things were about to go to shit.
Lilah wordlessly placed a hand on the small of my back, and led me towards the dining room. As the table came into view, the blood rushed from my face and nausea coiled in my gut because surrounding the table sat a variety of men.
Old, young, black, white.
Some looked harmless, while some looked like they could snap my neck with their bare hands.
