Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
No words.
He wraps his arms around me instantly, holding tight, but not too tight, just enough. My cheek presses against his chest, and I listen to his heart beat a steady rhythm. The sound is my anchor.
Then, together, still entwined, we sink onto the towel.
We lie back, his arm under my shoulders, my hand pressed to his chest. The stars stretch across the sky.
Bright and infinite. It feels like right here and now, anything is possible.
“That one,” I say softly, pointing.
He turns his head, his cheek brushing my hair. “Which one?”
“Cassiopeia,” I tell him. “The queen. She was punished for being vain. Hung upside down in the sky forever.”
He huffs a laugh, brushing his thumb along my arm. “Sounds familiar.”
I smile, small but real.
“She thought her daughter was the most beautiful woman alive. The gods didn’t like that,” I continue.
He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “You sure it wasn’t because she got caught dancing with a boy on a beach?”
“That’s not technically in the myth.”
“Should be,” he says, nudging me lightly with his shoulder.
We go quiet again. The stars pulse overhead. The ocean crashes against the shore.
“Sometimes I wish I could disappear into them,” I whisper. “Just float up and be done with all of it.”
He rolls onto his side, facing me, his body warm in the cool night air.
“What would you leave behind?” he asks, voice low, threaded with something fragile.
“Everything.”
His eyes search mine. Not judging. Just seeing.
He runs his fingers down my arm, slow, gentle, like he’s memorizing the shape of me.
“Even me?” he whispers.
I pause. My throat tightens.
Then I shake my head. “You’re the only thing I’d bring with me.”
His expression flickers. Almost like my words hurt. Or heal. Maybe both.
I help him. I take his hand and thread our fingers together, squeezing once.
“Do you feel trapped?” I ask.
“Every day.” His thumb brushes the back of my hand at his confession.
“Tell me,” I urge.
He swallows hard. “My mom acts like we’re here by choice. But it doesn’t feel like a choice. It feels like exile.”
“You asked her about it?”
He nods, jaw flexing. “She shut me down. Said we have no family. But I remember . . . I swear I remember someone. A boy, a little older than me, but he was my friend. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“What if she’s protecting you?” I whisper.
“From what?” he asks, voice rough.
“I don’t know,” I admit softly. “Something worse than this.”
He sighs and lies back on his side again, the sand shifting beneath us.
“She keeps saying we have nowhere else to go. But I think we had somewhere. And someone took it away.”
My chest tightens. I know that feeling. The slow rot of being treated like property.
A pawn. A possession.
“Maybe we are both caged,” I say.
He reaches up and brushes a piece of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my jaw. “But at least now we’re in the same cage.”
I laugh, but it cracks in the middle.
He hears it. I feel it.
He pulls me into his arms, and I melt into him, curling against his chest like we’ve done a thousand times.
Maybe in another life, we did.
We talk for a long time. About nothing. About everything.
I tell him about how I used to pretend to be a spy and hide in the attic, eavesdropping on dinner parties—my childhood rebellion.
He tells me about stealing comic books from gas stations and giving fake names to mall security—his childhood survival.
He tells me he used to be angry all the time.
“What changed?” I ask, tracing small circles on his shirt.
He lifts my hand to his mouth. Kisses my knuckles.
“You,” he whispers against my skin.
My throat closes. Tears prick. But I don’t cry. Instead, I press my mouth to his shoulder, breathing him in.
For tonight. For this single, dangerous, precious sliver of time . . .
We stay right here. And for tonight, that’s enough.
17
Victoria
I wake to the sound of my mother humming.
That’s the first sign something is wrong.
The second is the garment bag hanging from the armoire.
“Happy birthday, darling,” she sings, sweeping into my room with her hair perfectly curled and her lipstick already in place.
What the hell is happening? And why is she singing?
She hates me…
I squint at her. “It’s barely nine.”
“Exactly,” she chirps, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her silk blouse. “We have a schedule.”
“Do I get a say in this schedule?” I push myself upright, letting the sheets tangle around my legs.
“Don’t be difficult, Victoria Danforth.”
That’s the third sign. Because when she uses my full name, a disaster is guaranteed.
She claps her hands, and suddenly, I’m surrounded.
A makeup artist and a hairstylist, wielding enough hot tools to power a small city, have appeared out of nowhere.
If that’s not bad enough, a woman with a clipboard who looks like she organizes royal weddings for sport stands beside them.