Perfect.
Anabelle
My body was ravaged by Rourke—ravaged by Brody. They didn’t even let me have a taste of pleasure. I couldn’t even focus on that. I was too consumed by what Rourke said. I didn’t want to believe him, but he had never lied to me. My father had. Not only did he lie to me, but he also made me lie to the police—he made me accuse Rourke and Brody. Was I really living in a dark, twisted nightmare instead of a fairy tale? Did people really fear my father? I never saw that side of him. The only thing I saw was his iron will, even-keel temper, and occasionally a hint of rage when I did something wrong.
Except for one night—the night I saw desperation.
Maybe I should have realized something so unusual for him wasn’t real—that it could have been a ploy to take the one thing I truly loved.
One year ago
“Here, have a drink.” My father walked up and put a glass in my hand.
“What is this? Whiskey?” I looked up at him in surprise.
“Yeah, trust me—it helps.” He sat down across from me with a glass of his own and started clipping the end off of an expensive cigar.
He’s never served me anything before, much less alcohol.
It had been two days since John’s body was taken from my father’s study on a body bag and less than twenty-four hours since Rourke and Brody were arrested. I couldn’t even turn on the television without seeing their faces—haunting me as the image of them being put in the back of a patrol car was replayed again and again. The District Attorney came by to confirm my statement—and my father’s lawyers were present—probably to make sure I didn’t screw anything up. I felt like my eyes betrayed me, but the District Attorney didn’t seem to care. He just kept repeating what I had said—asking me if it was true. When I nodded in agreement, he presented me with a document to sign, then my father’s lawyer held my hand while I put my signature at the bottom. I’m not even sure it looked like my signature because my hand was shaking so much. They called it stress. I called it heartbreak.
“I’ve been thinking.” He leaned back against the couch and lit his cigar. “One of my business associates has a son—a nice young man named Rickard Weber. I think he’d make a very nice husband for you. His father recently took care of something important for me, and I think our families would be stronger if we had the right alliance in place.”
“You’re really bringing up a wedding right now?” I sipped the whiskey and winced when it burned my throat. “I’m not getting married to anyone—much less someone you pick out for me.”
“Anabelle, I know this has been a traumatic experience, but the world is going to move on and you have to move with it.” He exhaled sharply. “Rickard’s father is about to be very wealthy, and he’s got assets that extend beyond Chicago. His
son will probably be running the New York branch of Weber Acquisitions within a year. You always said you wanted to live in New York.”
“That’s because I wanted to go to Broadway as often as possible—and I was twelve. I haven’t wanted to live there in a long time.” I took another sip of my drink, enjoying the burn.
“Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is.” My father exhaled smoke and sighed.
Don’t react—hold it in.
“If you want me to testify at the trial, then we have to come to an understanding. You said I wasn’t a little girl more—it’s time for you to prove it.” I felt my hand shaking, but I controlled it.
“What do you want? I’ll give you anything I can…” He nodded.
“To start with, no more talk about marriage.” I swallowed hard. “I understand my duty as a Prescott, but I’m not ready. I don’t know how long it’s going to be until I am ready, but you’ve gotta give me space.”
“I…” I saw his eyes filling with anger, but he immediately nodded. “Okay, I guess that’s fair.”
“It’s more than fair, considering what you’ve asked me to do. If I ever reach a point where I want to see someone, I expect you to back off.” I exhaled sharply. “Regardless of who they are.”
I doubt I’ll ever find the kind of love I just lost, but there’s a part of me that just wants to torment the man who stole it from me—even if he didn’t mean for it to go down like that. I need someone to lash out at—and he’s just going to have to take it.
“Anabelle—you said you understood your duty as a Prescott. Who you marry is important…” He titled his head to the side.
“I didn’t say I was going to choose a husband—just that I may want to see someone. There’s a difference.” I sipped my drink again.
“Right…” I saw an uncomfortable look spread across his face.
And if your little girl becomes a slut, you only have yourself to thank for it.
“When I’m ready for you to find me a husband, I’ll let you know.” I nodded.
At least if I give him hope, he might leave me alone about it for a little while, so I can grieve what I just threw away—for him.