Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
All right, I agree. I’ll find a way to get to you tomorrow.
“We’ll be waiting.”
I’m not certain about a lot of shit, but I am certain about this—plan or no fucking plan, we end this.
Plan or no fucking plan, Romy will walk away from this alive.
Romy
Grogginess clings to me as a knock on my door wakes me from a hard slumber. I glance to the armoire first, half expecting it to open its own doors to Narnia or Cal or some other dreamlike fantasy, but when the knock sounds again, I realize it’s coming from the actual door.
Two questions hit me instantly. What time is it, and how the hell much did I drink last night?
I jump from the bed and run to my suitcase first, climbing into a pair of shorts like I’m in a timed Olympic sport, and then scurry to the door as the fist meets its wood for a third time—third time may normally be the charm, but this time, it’s just more demanding.
My guard waits with a tray of breakfast foods as I pull it open, an annoyed impatience crinkling his face. He’s handsome for the most part, but a much too heavy brow and a pucker around imaginary sour grapes are ruining the balance of his features.
“Sorry,” I apologize, the habit of minimizing my basic human needs so ingrained in me from birth that I’m literally coddling my captor. “I…was asleep.”
He extends the tray of food instead of replying, so I accept it in kind and close the door without another word, mocking grumpy puss’s face with a comical scrunch of my own as I do.
The childish gesture is an uninvited reminder of my mother’s betrayal, and all at once, I’m angry again.
But it’s not the quiet, simmering kind of anger. It’s the kind that claws its way up your throat and demands to be acknowledged.
My mother didn’t just let this happen—she prepared me for it. She made sure my bags were packed like I was going off to summer camp instead of being handed over on a silver platter of expensive gowns and designer shoes.
And there wasn’t a single time when she showcased any concern for my well-being—any care for me at all.
My jaw tightens as I set the tray down harder than necessary.
The amount of therapy I’ll probably need when this is over—if I even survive it—won’t be solved through those apps where you can text with a therapist. Hypnotherapy, damn near daily sessions, I’m going to need all the bells and whistles. At the very least, a punch card situation—buy ten emotional breakdowns, get one free.
Still, for as many faults as this place has, the smell of the food isn’t one of them, and my deference for alcohol over sustenance last night rears its ugly head in the form of a stomach growl.
After setting the tray down on the side table by the chair, I plop into the floral fabric and fall over the breakfast bits like a vulture. First the eggs and then the fruit, and I finish by tearing into the pastry with my hands until it’s completely pulled apart and in my mouth.
The softness of the bread melts like cotton candy on my tongue in direct disagreement with the barbaric way I’ve consumed it, and I hate that it’s given me even an ounce of enjoyment. This place is not an all-inclusive vacay—this place is evil incarnate.
Immediate needs met, I gulp down an entire glass of juice and set it back on the tray and then move to the armoire on the far wall to perform an inspection as the mystery of my mind comes to a head.
Since sleeping, the details of last night have fogged a bit, and I find myself wondering if the little girl who used to chase Calloway Slater around on the playground consorted with the scared woman staring down the barrel of this auction’s gun to manifest a better option in the form of a dream.
And maybe, just maybe, Cal didn’t scale a plain stone wall to climb in my window last night and declare himself as my fated mate after all.
Perhaps I put my head to pillow in the middle of a plush, luxurious bed of fine linens and fell fast asleep and into the clutches of vivid REM-driven fantasy.
It’d be sad. Devastating, even. But it’d make a hell of a lot more sense.
Moving to the side of the armoire, I lean my shoulder into it and try to push. It doesn’t budge, as suspected, and a certain sense of deflation makes my stomach feel queasy.
I mean, I knew my recollection of events seemed farfetched, but…could I really have dreamed that whole damn thing?
My fingers go instinctively to my lips, touching them gently. Warmth radiates there, and the overwhelming sense that it’s not from the eggs begs me to believe it.