Triple Threat (Deception Duet 1)

I nod and exhale a slight breath of relief. “She didn’t fight you for the purple one?”

“Oh,” Noel confides, “she did, but I’m twenty years her senior and outweigh her a tad.”

The air between us is light, but I can’t afford to be playful. Not this close to his arrival. Imagining a six-year-old trying to bully a twenty-something is quite comical, yet I’m not laughing.

“Her shoes match?” I ask, ignoring her teasing and push forward.

“Yes, ma’am.” She offers my dress to me, to which I step into and then turn so that she’ll zip me up.

“Hair?”

“She looks beautiful, Miss Landry. Please don’t worry.”

Am I that transparent?

“Remember your place, Noel.” My words come out sharp, stinging like a whip on flesh, making her flinch violently.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Noel’s freckled face turns crimson like that of her strawberry-blonde hair that’s pulled tight into a bun. I hate that I’ve been rude to her, especially since she’s been so kind to us in his absence, but I’m walking a fine line with my emotions tonight. If she knocks me off my game, even slightly, there’s no telling how that will play out for Della.

Please be a dutiful, sweet girl tonight, Della. Please.

“I can finish on my own,” I clip out in a cool voice that sounds so much like him. “You’re dismissed. Send Della my way.”

“Miss Ellis is with her.”

I nearly recoil at the mention of Sandra’s name. Sandra Ellis is our house manager and fills in the nanny role, when required, for Della. Neither Della nor I can stand that meddling tattletale witch.

“Send her anyway,” I grind out. “Tell Miss Ellis she is relieved from her duties for the evening.”

She nods once and then hurries from the room leaving me to my twisting gut. My makeup is painted on expertly and my silky, golden hair is pinned loosely so that tendrils escape, framing my angelic face.

That’s what he says.

I have the face of an angel.

Twisting my features into a scowl, I appreciate, for a moment, that I’m not the perfect girl he’s molded me to be. Sometimes, the real me can escape, even if only for a brief glimpse in the mirror.

After indulging myself for a few seconds, I relax my features and neutralize my expression. All the simmering anger that’s ever-present will have to be pushed back down and covered by the lid of pretend.

One day, I won’t have to pretend.

But, for at least the next twelve years, I’ll be an actress, playing a part in this ridiculous play because at the end of it, I’ll take Della far away from here. She’ll be eighteen and the law won’t force her to be his prisoner anymore. We’ll live a life filled with laughter and freedom and happiness. This hell will become a distant memory.

Glancing at the clock, I take note of the time. Della still hasn’t shown up, which means Sandra is keeping her for some reason. Dinner, when he’s home, always starts at seven which means I’ll need to finish up and locate Della myself before he arrives. Quickly, I rummage around in my jewelry box, overlooking Mom’s old rings and necklaces, before seeking out the bracelet he gave me on my eighteenth birthday last March.

I hate this bracelet. I hate him. Yet, I slide it onto my wrist and turn my arm, watching the light glint off the gold.

“You look stunning,” a deep voice rumbles from the doorway. “A spitting image of your mother.”

Every hair on my body crackles to life and stands on end as if awoken by dark energy clouding around me. His familiar voice alone is enough to tell me who is prowling into my bedroom, but when I catch whiff of his expensive cologne scent, it solidifies the answer.

Daddy’s home.

“Thank you, Dad,” I say, flashing him an ear-splitting grin. “We’ve missed you.”

He opens his arms, waiting for me to greet him with a hug. I walk into his strong grip. His embrace is brief before he quickly lets go of me. A wolfish, calculating smirk tugs at his lips as he holds up a fisted hand.

If Della were here, that fist would be a weapon.

But, for me, his beloved older daughter, it’s a gift.

It wasn’t always this way. I’ve just gotten really good at performing perfectly for the most vicious critic in the world.

“You brought me something?” I bounce on my toes in girlish eagerness despite the sourness in my gut. “I can’t wait to see.”

He lets loose a rumbling chuckle. “You’re spoiled, sweetheart.”

My smile falters and it takes effort to tighten the muscles, forcing it to stay in place. “You spoil me,” I sass back. “It’s your fault.”

Pleased with my words, he twists his hand and uncurls his fingers to open his palm. Sitting like a coiled golden snake, a necklace shimmers beneath the overhead light. His gifts feel like weights, dragging me to the bottom of the abyss—a constant reminder of why he gives them.