Pretty Cruel Villain (House of Cards #3)

Prologue

MAURA

“What the devil were you doing sitting under the table?”

My father drags me by the arm out into a hallway.

“I was drawing,” I mutter.

He scoffs and his face does that thing where it gets all red and his eyes roll up and I know he wishes he didn’t bring me to this stupid party.

“What’s wrong with you, Maura? They’re going to think I didn’t teach you how to behave.”

You didn’t, I want to tell him. My last two au pairs did.

I don’t really care that he dragged out of the banquet. I hate it when my father makes me go to these fancy parties, where I have to wear scratchy pink dresses and eat foods that give me a belly ache.

But being shouted at in front of people still makes my face get hot. The older ladies stare at us as he scolds me about “learning proper manners,” until I want to disappear.

Normally, he waits until we’re in the car to lecture me about all the reasons my behavior disappoints him.

I don't smile enough.

I keep fiddling with my hair.

I don't make conversation with the grown-ups.

I don’t act perfect.

He doesn’t care that the new medicine the doctor gives me makes me sleepy, or that none of the grown-ups want to talk to me. They’re here so they can feel rich and fancy, and talking to an almost ten-year-old doesn’t help.

My father pulls me down a hallway toward the kitchens, and the banquet guests turn into cooks and waiters. They act like they can’t see me at all, probably because they don’t want to get yelled at, too.

My father finds a room where they keep extra tables and chairs and moves me through the doorway, finally letting go of my arm.

“Stay here and think about how you should be behaving,” he demands, straightening his jacket and hair. “I’ll come get you when it’s time to leave. Don’t cause trouble, Maura.”

He clicks the lock on the door handle and leaves me in the quiet.

I plop on the floor and stare resentfully at the door. Tear prick at my eyes, but really, it’s not so bad being left here.

I’ve still got my notebook and colored markers in my purple-beaded bag. I’d rather draw by myself than sit with a bunch of boring grown-ups, anyway.

I open my notebook to the drawing I was working on earlier. It’s a girl and her horse, from a book I was reading. Drawing horses is really hard, but I have to practice if I’m going to get better.

“Hey,” someone hisses from the door.

My head snaps up, and I see a little dark-haired boy in a suit lingering in the open doorway. He doesn’t look stiff and uncomfortable in his fancy clothes like I do.

“How did you get in here?” I ask, confused.

He wiggles the handle. “The lock doesn’t work.”

“How do you know that?”

“My parents take me to dinners here all the time.” He shrugs, running his fingers over the woodwork in the door. “They let me explore when I get bored.”

I bite my cheek. “I wish my dad would let me do that. He tells me I have to behave and talk to the grown-ups.”

The boy nods. “Is that why he put you in here? Like, for a time out?”

My stomach drops and my face gets hot all over again. “I’m not five,” I say. “I’m almost ten.”

Ten-year-olds don’t get time outs.

“Well, I definitely still get time outs and I’m almost eleven, so…”

He laughs, so I do, too, feeling a squirmy feeling in my toes.

“Well,” he adds, nudging something with the tow of his black shoe on the carpet. “If you’re not in a time out then that means you can have some cake.”

My ears perk up. “There’s cake?”

“Yeah, in the kitchens. The cooks always give me a piece early if I ask them real nicely.” Before I can ask, he adds, “Like I said, I come here a lot. Wanna go with me and ask? I’ll bet they’ll give us each a piece.”

I bite my lip. I want to, but…

“I shouldn’t. My father would be mad if he came back and I was gone.”

“Oh.” He hesitates, thinking. “Want me to bring you some, then?”

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

The boy disappears, shutting the door behind him. I fiddle with my pencil and wait. I’m not sure if he’ll come back. His parents might decide to bring him back to dinner, or maybe he’ll find something better to do than sit with a girl he doesn’t know in this boring room.

But after a few minutes, the door opens and he’s back with a little tray. Not only are there two slices of cake, but two giant glasses of orange soda, a bowl of strawberries, and a small mountain of colorful cookies.

My mouth waters—my father never lets me have so many treats. Dr. Markovic said I can't because of my bad heart. Too much sugar, too much excitement, too much anything could be dangerous.

But just this once, I want to be a normal kid. Just this once, I want to pretend my heart isn't a ticking clock.

“The kitchen staff is really nice,” the boy says, setting down the tray. “I told them I found a friend to share with and look at all this stuff they gave me.”

I can tell by the way he says “kitchen staff” that he’s used to having servants take care of things for him.

It’s not too surprising—his family has to be rich if they’re at this party.

I grab a little yellow iced cookie and bite into it.

It’s rich, crumbly, and so good I want to hide the other three in my little purple bag, but I don’t because it’s not worth my father shouting again.

It will be bad enough if he finds me with this strange boy eating sweets.

I brush the crumbs from my fingers and dress, just in case. Then I can say I didn’t have any, or that I only tried a bite.

“What are you drawing?” the boy asks, pointing at my notebook.

Reflexively, I pull it to my chest. “Nothing.”

He lifts a brow and sucks some orange soda through a straw.

“A horse,” I relent.

“Oh, I like horses,” he says, eyes getting bright. “Can I see it?”

I swallow hard and push my hair back from my face. I don’t usually like to show anyone my drawings. Just my au pair.

But for some reason, I kind of want him to see. My tense grip relaxes and I pass him the notebook, holding my breath.

The boy looks at my first drawing.

He looks at it so long that I start to wonder what he’s thinking.

After what feels like five whole minutes, he only asks, “Can I see some more?”

When I nod, he flips through the pages. He looks at every drawing with a serious look on his face, like he’s thinking very hard about it.

For a while, I busy myself taking little nibbles of cookies and cake and don’t even notice when I’ve eaten so much of them that he laughs when he gets to the first page.

“I guess it’s a good thing I already ate my cake.”

Oh.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay. I got it for you, anyway.”

My chest pricks with embarassment in the silence and I just ask the first thing I think of to make it not so awkward.

“Um, do you draw?”

“No.” The boy frowns. “I’m terrible at drawing. I don’t like being bad at things.”

“You wouldn’t be bad if you practiced.”

“No, I’m not an artist,” he tells me. “Not like you. I’m good at other stuff.”

“Like what?”

He thinks, getting that little line in between his eyebrows while his lips press into a straight line. I wonder where he goes to school or if he’s tutored like me.

Do the girls in his class think he’s handsome?

I think they would.

“Math,” he admits with a sheepish shrug. “I’m really good at math. And reading. Gym class, too.”

“I hate gym class,” I snap before I can stop myself. “It’s just…super boring.”

That’s not it, but I don’t want to tell him that they make me sit on the bleachers so I don’t get hurt.

“Hey,” I say, getting an idea. “Maybe you can go to gym class for me, and I’ll go to art class for you.”

“That would be awesome,” he snorts. “Too bad you don’t go to my school.”

He bumps his shoulder to mine and I squirm on the carpet.

I’m not used to boys saying nice stuff to me, and I realize suddenly that this boy is cute…really cute. I want to tell him that I wish I went to his school, too, but I don’t want it to come out wrong, so I don’t say anything at all.

He hands me my notebook back. “Why haven’t I seen you here before? I’m usually the only middle schooler here. It would be more fun if you came to all of them.”

“I wish I could,” I say it before I think it through, but it’s funny because I mean it. I hate these parties but if he’s going to be here then I don’t think I’d mind coming all that much.

“Can I watch you draw?” he asks.

I shrug. “If you want. You might get bored.”

“I won’t.”

I ask him lots of questions while I draw, about his friends (he has one best friend, Nate), his house (he has his own bedroom with a rocketship bed), his school (he has to wear uniforms, but it’s not so bad.)

He asks me questions too, about my favorite animals and books and seasons. He seems to notice when I don’t want to answer a question and changes the topic before I have to.

That's good because I don't want him to know I'm sick. I don't want him to change the way he talks to me, or look at me with that sad face grown-ups get when they think I'm not paying attention.

The face that says they're already practicing saying goodbye.

Hours must go by, because I’m able to finish drawings of four different horses by the time the door opens again. My body goes stiff when I hear it creak. Please, don’t let it be my father. Please, don’t let us get in trouble.

It’s not. It’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She has long dark hair that hangs halfway down her back, and she’s wearing a pale blue dress that matches her eyes. “What are you doing in here, sweetheart?” she asks the boy.

“How did you find me, Mom?”

She smiles, and it looks like she came out of a magazine. “I asked the cook, of course.”

She turns toward me. “And who’s this?”

“This is my friend,” the boy says, and my cheeks get hot again.

I’ve never really had a friend. Does he mean it?

“Nice to meet you.” The woman extends her delicate white gloves hand to me and I shake hers in mine. “You look very pretty in your dress. Don’t you think so, darling?”

The boy clears his throat, dropping his eyes to the carpet. “Yes. She’s very pretty.”

My heart skips a beat and my belly falls out through my toes.

“I’m sorry to break up the party,” the pretty woman says. “But we have to go. I have an early day on set tomorrow.”

The boy frowns, his lips twisting into a halfway scowl. “Do we have to?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sure you’ll see your friend again soon.”

The boy turns to me. “I wish I could stay longer.”

“Me too,” I murmur.

The boy takes his mother’s hand and they walk away.

My good mood pops like a balloon. This is the best night I can remember in a long time…maybe ever. For once, I got to be with someone who didn’t know I was sick. He didn’t treat me differently from anyone else, and he thought I was pretty and a good artist and he called me his friend.

If I’m extra good, maybe my father will be bring me to the next party and I’ll get to see him again.

Footsteps thud down the hall, and the boy is in the doorway again.

I scramble to my feet.

“Hey,” he says, sounding a little winded. “I didn’t say goodbye.”

My heart pounds in my chest, but for once, it doesn't scare me. For once, it doesn't feel like a warning.

It feels like this is how it's supposed to beat—like maybe my heart knows something I don't.

“Oh.” I try to hide my frown. “Goodbye.”

He strides toward me and extends his hand, pinky out. “Pinky swear you’ll come to the next party?” he asks.

I wish I could promise that, but I have so many appointments at the hospital, and I know my father doesn’t like to bring me to many of these if he can help it.

But I can’t disappoint the boy by telling him that. “Okay.”

Our pinkies link, and it feels like static electricity, but a thousand times stronger. My toes curl and my chest gets prickly.

“I promise I’ll try.”

He pulls away and gives me a shy smile. “Okay. Bye.”

He jogs to the door and back to meet his mother. Even though it means my dad might catch me, I can't resist following just for a minute.

I poke my head out the door and watch as the boy and his mother join a tall man in a suit. He wraps his arm around the boy's mother and kisses her cheek softly, like she's the most precious thing in the world.

She whispers something to him and he chuckles before rustling the hair on the boy's head and guiding them all into the entrance hall. A real family. The kind I used to draw in my notebooks before I learned they weren't real.

But this one is.

This boy has parents who love each other, who love him, and suddenly I want that so badly it hurts.

I wonder if he knows how lucky he is. I wonder if someday, someone will look at me the way his father looks at his mother.

Probably not. Girls like me don't get fairy tale endings or forevers.

My throat burns when they vanish around the corner, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever see the boy again.

Oh no!

He didn’t tell me his name.

I step out the door to rush after them, but stop.

If I’m caught, my father will never bring me back here. So, instead, I shut the door and clench my fists. I hide the tray of sweets under a table in the corner and clench my fists as I go back to my notebook lying against the carpet.

I flip to a new page and try to draw the boy, just as I remember him. I don’t want to forget his face. It takes me a while to get it right, the way his mouth looks serious even when he smiles, the way his eyes are light under dark lashes.

When I’m done drawing him, I draw myself next to him.

Then, even though it’s stupid, I add a veil to my dress, and little band on my finger.