The Lie That Traps (Lies and Truths Book 1)

5. Izabella

IZABELLA

With each hate-filled, disgusting word that slips from his mouth, I react more and more viscerally until I’m trembling, my throat so thick with emotion I can barely swallow past it.

He hates me.

Not me, I remind myself. He has no idea who I am, but he hates my sister, and clearly, he hates this money-fueled, nightmare situation even more.

To be honest, I’ve never really considered the boys whose families were named on Great-grandfather’s list. I’ve always just considered them to be villains just waiting to take their pound of flesh.

Since the day the will was read, my sister and our parents have shown their willingness to do whatever it takes to secure her inheritance, and I guess I just assumed that whoever she ended up marrying would be just as bad as they are.

But clearly, Gulliver isn’t excited at the prospect of my sister or her money. He’s angry, and if he and my sister do get married, it definitely won’t be a love match. But despite everything he’s said and the awful, demeaning things he just suggested, I, or I suppose what he suggested Penelope should do, my body isn’t reacting in the same way as my mind.

I’m scared, but alongside the fear is something else that I’m almost too confused and ashamed to acknowledge. My nipples are tight and sensitive, and there’s a pulsing between my legs that absolutely should not be there.

I don’t know if I’m turned on by the dirty things he’s saying or the way he’s saying them, or maybe it’s just him. But whatever it is, and even though I know it’s wrong, my body is still reacting. I’m trembling, vibrating with a mix of fear and desire, and I’m grateful I can’t speak right now because I have no idea what would come out of my mouth if I could.

“I guess she didn’t teach you how to follow through,” he scoffs coldly. “Jesus, Penelope, look at the fucking state of you. Maybe you really are a virgin. But I need you to listen really fucking carefully. No matter how much money comes strapped to that virgin cunt of yours, I’ll never want you. I’ll never touch you, and I’ll never fucking marry you. So, I suggest you go tout your goods to some other idiot who might,” he says with a dismissive shake of his head as he turns and walks away.

My legs move on autopilot as I follow him along the path, sucking in deep lungfuls of air in an attempt to get my trembling limbs under control. When he pauses, I tense, bracing myself for more insults, but instead he sighs, rolls his eyes like I’m being difficult, then strides toward me.

Flinching when he reaches for me, I try to shuffle backward, but his palm lands firmly on the base of my spine. Ignoring my discomfort, he forcefully guides me up the steps and onto the terrace that leads back to the living room and our parents.

All of the parents look up when we step into the room. Mom looks like she’s searching for proof that I just landed myself a husband. Dad looks calm, although his eyes are calculating and cold, and Mr. Winslow looks excited, like he can see the dollar signs flashing in his eyes.

“How was your walk?” Mom asks, her excitement almost disgustingly obvious.

“Lovely, thank you, Mrs. Rhodes,” Gulliver says smoothly. “We cut it a little short as I was worried about Penelope having to walk so far in her beautiful but impractical Louboutins.”

“Women and their shoes,” Mr. Winslow barks loudly. His cheeks are tinged a little pink, and the whiskey in his glass is sloshing around as he talks with his hands. “Perhaps this weekend, Gulliver could give Penelope a proper tour of the estate. I’m sure she’d love to see the water gardens. Then another family dinner?” he suggests more to my mom than to me or Gulliver.

“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” Mom gushes. “But Barnaby and I already have plans this weekend. I’m sure Penelope would be thrilled to join you, though,” Mom answers without even glancing in my direction. But then, I suppose it doesn’t matter if I agree or not because it won’t be me attending, it’ll be my sister.

“That sounds perfect, doesn’t it, Gulliver?” Mr. Winslow says a little too brightly.

“That does sound wonderful,” Gulliver says sardonically. “But I already have plans to go sailing with Davis, Kip, and Thorn, and it would be terribly bad form to cancel at such short notice,” he says, not sounding in the least bit regretful.

“That’s okay, you can just take Penelope with you sailing instead,” Mr. Winslow suggests, his voice hardening and his eyes narrowing.

“Oh, is that Davis Aldrich?” Dad asks.

“Yes, sir,” Gulliver says, with a cautious nod. “And Kip Tudor and Hawthorn Benedict.”

“Brian Aldrich and I are good friends from our own GAA days,” Dad says brightly.

“Well then, that’s perfect,” Mr. Winslow coos, taking a sip from his glass. “Penelope can go sailing with you all, then I’ll give Brian a call, and he, Barnaby, and I can play a round or two at the club.”

Gulliver stiffens like he wants to argue, but knows he can’t. If I were truly my sister, then I’d probably be excitedly planning a suitable sailing outfit right now, but instead all my mind can focus on is the heat coming from Gulliver’s hand that’s still pressed against my back.

Dad and Mr. Winslow start to reminisce about their own time at Green Acres Academy, while Mom smiles and laughs along with them. I jolt when Gulliver drops his hand and steps away. Risking a glance at him, it’s easy to spot the barely restrained anger in his eyes as he pinches his lips together in a hard line, his jaw tense, and his shoulders rigid. He’s not happy about this, and I don’t know how or if it’s even possible for my sister to convince this boy he wants to marry her, but honestly, right now, I just don’t care. This is her life and her problem. The moment we get the hell out of this house, she can deal with her own reluctant suitors from now on, because I’m not doing this again.

Thankfully, ten minutes later, Mom declares that it’s time to leave.

“Thank you for dinner, Mr. Winslow,” I say, forcing a weary smile to my lips. “See you at school, Gulliver.”

Once we get outside, I flash Mark a grateful smile, then slide into the car, exhaling in relief the moment I’m out of sight. Mom climbs in next, with Dad following her a moment later, and Mark closes the door, leaving me trapped in the small space with my parents.

“What happened with Gulliver?” Mom demands the moment we pull away from the house.

“Nothing,” I answer.

“I want to know every single detail. I’m serious, Izabella, every detail,” she demands, her tone cold and ruthless.

Allowing my gaze to drift to the front of the car, I catch Mark’s eyes in the rearview mirror and immediately look away, ashamed. This is my family—these sociopathic, narcissistic assholes.

“Izabella,” she snaps.

Unable to look at her, I keep my eyes downcast. “He ignored me for the most part, then he called me a whore for sale and asked me to lift up my skirt and expose myself to him so he could see what marrying me would get him,” I confess, my voice barely a whisper.

The air in the car becomes so thick that I struggle to swallow as I keep my gaze fixed firmly on my knees, not wanting to look at either of my parents.

“And did you?” Dad asks.

I snap my eyes upward so fast I jar my neck as my mouth falls open, and I stare at my dad like he’s grown a second head. “Did I what?” I gasp.

He clears his throat. “Did you give him what he wanted?”

“No!” I cry, appalled. “Of course I didn’t. Why would you even ask that?”

Grabbing my chin between her fingers, Mom’s sharp, pointed fingernails dig into my skin. “The Winslows are an old, powerful family, and they’re who we’ve chosen to ally ourselves with.”

“But,” I start to say, then immediately stop as she tightens her hold on me until my face is burning from her nails buried in my chin.

“Gulliver will be marrying your sister, and we all have to do whatever it takes to smooth that path.”

“What?” I gasp, shocked at what she’s implying.

“Don’t act stupid, young lady, you know exactly what I mean. If Gulliver wants to look, then you show him. If he wants to touch, you let him. You do whatever you have to do to keep him happy.”

My mouth falls open as I process what my mother is telling me. She really is prepared to whore out her daughter for this marriage. She’s prepared to whore out both of her daughters.

“Next time, you’ll do whatever the hell he wants you to,” Dad says, his tone bored, like he’s discussing the weather, not suggesting his virgin daughters trade off on performing sexual acts to persuade a guy to marry them.

This is it; this is how far my family is willing to go. I should be shocked. I am shocked. But somehow, I’m not surprised. I think I’ve always known they’d be this depraved because money corrupts, or at least my great-grandfather’s money does.

When the car stops outside our house, I wait impatiently for my parents to climb out before I slide out after them, my heart racing, my brain whirring with horror and disgust. The moment I’m upright, Mark grabs my arm, stopping me. Shame rises inside of me when I realize he just overheard everything my parents just said to me.

Glancing over his shoulder, he watches the front door open and my parents disappear into the house before he turns back to me, his sad, concerned eyes running over me like he’s checking to make sure I’m okay.

I’m not sure how old he is—late forties or early fifties, maybe. His hair is a distinguished salt and pepper, but there are fine lines at the sides of his eyes and mouth that suggest he might be older than I think. “It doesn’t matter what time of the day or night it is; it doesn’t matter where you are, you call me and I will come for you. I’ll get you away from here, away from those people. I’ll take you right now if that’s what you want,” he says, his voice just loud enough for me to hear.

“I can’t,” I say simply, my voice cracking.

“I know I’m supposed to pretend that I don’t hear the conversations that happen while I’m driving. But you shouldn’t be here, not after what they just said. You’re a good girl, Miss Izabella, and your…” He pauses, swallowing thickly. “Your parents,” he spits. “You’re not safe here anymore.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, placing my hand on top of his and squeezing gratefully as tears fill my eyes. “I wish I could run. But I can’t, not yet. It’s only a few months until graduation, and then I’ll be gone.” Swallowing, I force a brittle smile to my lips. “And this is the first time I’ve been…her for anything other than school. I won’t do it again,” I tell him, wanting to explain more, but letting the unspoken truths hang in the air and fill in the gaps.

Worry fills his warm, caring eyes. It’s clear he wants to say more, but instead he nods. “The moment anything changes, you call me. I mean it. Any time, any place, no questions asked.”

Emotion thickens my throat. Nodding, I squeeze his hand one last time, then step back.

Releasing me, he watches me move toward the open front door. “I worry about you, kiddo. Be safe.”

A single tear falls from my eyes and rolls down my cheek, but I don’t turn, because if I do, I’ll take him up on his offer and run, and I can’t, not yet. My parents need me to help Penelope graduate. If I run now, they’ll chase. I need to bide my time and keep my head down until graduation, then this will all be over, or at least for me it will be.

When I enter the house, I can hear my parents in the family room, but I head straight upstairs, wanting to be as far away from them as possible. Penelope’s bedroom door is shut, but I still find myself standing in front of it, my fist raised and gently knocking before I can talk myself out of it. When she doesn’t immediately answer, I knock again, then quietly turn the handle and push the door open.

Her room is dark and quiet, but just like earlier, it’s empty, her bed still tightly made. She’s not here. She’s not fucking here. I had to take her place tonight. I had to pretend to be her, deal with Gulliver’s vitriol and disgusting perversion, and our parents’ toxic willingness to do whatever it takes to land a Winslow as a son-in-law, all because she had other plans.

Anger starts to swell inside of me, forcing out all of the hurt and outraged disappointment and replacing it with blind rage that makes me want to take Mark up on his offer and run from this godforsaken house and the evil bastards that live here.

Righteous indignation radiates through my veins, burning me from the inside out until all I want to do is scream and shout and tell them that I won’t play this game anymore, that I refuse to be a pawn. But as fast as my anger rises, it drains from me, because what’s the point? My family doesn’t care about what I think. They don’t care if I’m angry or hurt or sad. All I am is a mannequin, a convenient lookalike. I don’t have any value to them beyond my ability to be a stand-in for my sister. My feelings, my wellbeing, my sanity—it’s all inconsequential to my family, unless it affects my ability to play Penelope 2.0.

Leaving her room, I storm into my own, closing and locking the door behind me. Kicking my ridiculous heels off, I fling them toward the corner of the room, enjoying the sound of the thousand-dollar shoes bouncing off the wall. Reaching behind me, I tear at the zipper of my dress until I hear the sounds of the fabric ripping. The moment it’s loose enough, I wrench myself free of the horrible, constricting thing, shoving it over my hips until it falls like a puddle of lace to the floor at my feet.

The moment I’m standing in nothing but my bra and panties, I exhale a relieved breath, feeling some of the heaviness of the night fall from me with the dress. Striding purposefully into the bathroom, I turn on the shower, leaving it on warm while I strip out of my underwear.

The water is scalding hot when I step under it, but I don’t care; all I want is to wash off the filth and grime this night has left me coated in. Being around these people has made me feel dirty, and grabbing my washcloth, I scrub at my skin until it’s red and tender.

As each layer of my Penelope costume falls away, the bravado and resolve that’s gotten me through the night dissolves with it, and by the time I’m clean, my body is sagging with exhaustion against the cool tile.

Sighing, I let my head fall forward to rest against the tile and exhale a slow, ragged breath. How is this my life? Tonight has shown me just how out of control everything has gotten. How depraved this money has made not just my parents and sister but also the boys whose lives were altered by my great-grandfather’s will too.

If Penelope and I were closer, maybe I’d have known about all of this before it got to this point. I watched her leave the house every night knowing that she was going to be paraded in front of her potential husbands like cattle at an auction. I saw the way she changed from my confident but humble twin to the vapid, money-hungry monster she is now, and I assumed she was a willing participant in our parents’ schemes. But is she?

Has my sister just been doing what she’s told the same way I have? Have our parents demanded she do whatever she has to to secure an appropriate fiancé, the same way they ordered me to tonight? Is it possible that she hates this just as much as I do?

Once I’m clean and my skin is red and sore, I turn off the shower and pat my abused skin dry with a towel, wincing when the soft cotton touches me. I have a dresser full of Penelope-approved silk nightdresses Mom has tried to insist I wear. But as always, I dismiss them and pull on a baggy shirt and my favorite cotton shorts, feeling more like myself than I have all night the moment I’m dressed.

Grabbing a hairbrush, I drag the bristles through my hair until it’s falling in smooth, wet rivulets over my shoulders. Exhaling, I look up into the vanity mirror and finally feel a small sense of peace settle over my ragged, frayed nerves. For the first time in hours, I look like me. I see the blemish on my cheek from the first time my mom hit me and cut me with her ostentatious diamond ring. I see the freckles across my nose that I’m forced to hide because Penelope hates them and refuses to allow them to be seen. I see my odd purple eyes, the only thing my twin and I don’t share.

Tonight, my eyes are hard, but the violet has never looked brighter, and somehow the effect is startling, almost inhuman. I look like me, but I feel disconnected from my reflection in the mirror. I don’t know if that’s because I’ve spent the night pretending to be someone else, or if it’s simply because I’m losing sight of who I really am. All the hiding, all the lying and pretending, it’s becoming too much.

I feel love for my sister, and I feel love for my parents, but tonight really highlighted just how much they’ve changed in the pursuit of this money. Do they even recognize themselves anymore? Does my mom stare at herself in the mirror like this and wonder how she became the kind of person who was willing to sacrifice her own flesh and blood for money and power? Does my dad question if he truly is the kind of monster who’d tell his daughter to allow herself to be used and abused just to forge an alliance with the right family?

I wish I knew the answers to all of my questions, but a part of me already knows the truth. My mom, dad, and sister are exactly who they’ve shown themselves to be, and no matter how many excuses I think up to try to defend everything they’re doing and have done, it doesn’t negate the fact that they haven’t and won’t stop.

Crawling into bed, I reach for my headphones and slide them on, selecting a playlist from my iPad and pressing play. I might not have any need for a fancy cell phone, but music is my escape, and right now I need to be moved, be centered, be calmed, and this is the perfect way to do it.

When I go down for breakfast the next day, Penelope is sitting at the table, sipping a glass of green juice and pretending like everything is fine. Taking my seat at the table, I smile at Mrs. Humphries when she places a plate full of pancakes drowned in maple syrup down in front of me. Glancing at my sister, I wait for her to offer any kind of explanation for her absence last night, but instead she just ignores me the way she always does. For a moment, I rehearse what to say to her in my head. I tell her how angry I am that I had to pretend to be her. What I endured at the Winslows and how much Gulliver seems to hate her. But before I can even open my mouth to speak, Mom announces that she and Penelope are going shopping for next weekend’s sailing trip, and they both leave. Once they’re gone, Dad finishes his breakfast in silence, then stands and leaves without even glancing in my direction.

I barely see any of them for the rest of the weekend. They all go to a party on Saturday night, and while Dad plays golf all day on Sunday, Mom and Penelope spend the day at a spa. I spend the time alone in my room, eating ice cream in my pj’s. After Friday night, I’d rather stay at home alone than go to any kind of social event with my parents, but I don’t miss the sad, sympathetic look in Mrs. Humphries’s eyes every time she knocks on my bedroom door to remind me to eat.

Monday morning and a new school week comes much quicker than I’d like. Once I’m awake, I shower and dutifully style my hair in Penelope’s signature style. Applying my makeup just the way my sister does hers, I dress in my GAA uniform and head downstairs.

Once I sit down at the dining table, Mrs. Humphries slides a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me. “Thank you,” I say quietly a moment before Penelope sashays into the room, her face identical, but as usual, just a little more polished and perfect than mine. When I think back to our childhood, it’s always been that way. She’s always been that little bit better than me. The most well-behaved and the one who was the best at amusing and impressing Dad’s clients. I guess it makes sense that she made an impression on our great-grandfather too.

Instead of sitting down, she taps the toe of her shoe impatiently against the floor while she waits for Mrs. Humphries to finish making her usual wheatgrass and Goji berry smoothie, or whatever green juice is on her nutritionist’s meal plan for the day.

“Finally,” she hisses rudely when our housekeeper hands her the glass to-go thermos. Grabbing it, she turns and looks at me, her lip curling in disgust as she eyes the half-eaten plate of food in front of me. “We’re leaving. Now,” she demands coldly a moment before she turns and walks away.

Sighing resignedly, I push my plate away, wishing I could finish, but knowing that if I try to, she’ll only come back and scream at me until I give up and get in the car. “Thank you,” I say, my voice quiet as I take my backpack from Mrs. Humphries and walk out of the dining room.

Our town car is idling outside the house with Mark standing at the car door, his hand resting on the top as he waits stoically for me to arrive. Offering him a small smile, I slide into the car next to my sister, lowering my backpack to the floor at my feet.

She doesn’t speak to me as we pull away from the house and onto the street, her attention entirely focused on her cell phone.

“Where were you on Friday night?” I ask, unable to stop myself.

“Sick,” she replies immediately, not glancing up from the message her fingers are busily typing out.

I want to call her out on her obvious lie, but what’s the point? I know she won’t tell me what she was really doing or who she was with, even though I feel like I deserve to know. Exhaling wearily, I let my head fall back to the seat and stare out of the darkened windows at the scenery as we drive the familiar route to school.

When the imposing school buildings come into view, I feel the all-too-familiar pressure settle on my shoulders. No matter how many times I come here, it never gets any easier, and it never will, not while I’m living this strange double life.

When our car slows to a stop beside the school steps, Penelope preens, fluffing her hair and straightening her blazer before her door opens, and she slides out without a backward glance in my direction.

Just like every other day, the door closes again with me still inside. Mark climbs back behind the wheel, and we pull away from the school, circling the block until moments before the final bell. When we approach the school again, we stop in the same place we dropped Penelope ten minutes ago, and I drag in a breath and wait. When the door opens, I climb out and strut away from the car, just like she would.

The moment I stepped through the entrance doors, I scan the hallway and find it almost entirely absent of students. Reassured that no one is watching, I drop the Penelope act and curl into myself, lowering my head and hunching my shoulders forward as I scurry through the hallways toward my homeroom.

It says something about the quality of the kids in my class that, in three years, no one has noticed that I’m not my sister. The school’s policy of identifying students by their surname has definitely helped, but surely by now, someone should have figured out that Miss Rhodes is in more than one set of classes.

My parents would never admit to bribing the faculty, but some hefty donations have been made in our name since the news of the inheritance hit. All of the teachers know that there are two of us, but they either don’t care that my parents don’t want my existence to be public knowledge, or Principal Smith has convinced them all to overlook it. For the most part, the entire faculty pretends I don’t exist, and the only one of my teachers who ever comments about me skipping classes is Mr. Brooks, my English teacher. The rest happily accept my absence and late papers without penalizing me.

The ironic thing about this whole situation is that even though I take most of Penelope’s tests for her, I’m still maintaining my own perfect 4.0, despite regularly missing most of my classes to attend hers.

Once I’m seated at my desk in homeroom, the teacher takes attendance. When the bell rings, there’s a cacophony of noise as everyone grabs their stuff, ready to head to their first class. Like most days, I receive a few calls of hello and a few flirty smiles from the guys I vaguely recognize but assume must be on the list of potential husbands. But no one bothers to wait for me while I hang back the same way I do every day. When I finally step out of the classroom, the halls are emptying, and no one notices the blonde moving unobtrusively toward her next class.

Hiding in plain sight has become one of my special skills. I’m invisible because no one knows to look for me, and apart from my sister, I don’t think there’s a single person in this entire school who actually knows my first name.

The moment I round the corner and spot the door for my history class, I straighten and pull back my shoulders. Striding purposefully into the room, I take my seat, three rows back, three rows in, and place my laptop and the assignment I finished the day after it was given out onto the desk in front of me.

School has always been easy for me. I don’t consider myself super smart, but having no friends, no one to distract me, and a complete lack of social life makes it easy for me to read ahead in all of my books and have a basic understanding of whatever is going to be taught before the teacher even opens their mouth. Considering how many of my own classes I miss, it’s a good job that I do find it easy to retain information.

Dutifully listening as the teacher explains something I already understand, I’m relieved when the bell rings and the kids around me surge to their feet, eager to pack away their laptops and books. As I save my notes and slowly put my things back into my backpack, I hear the familiar chime of a text message coming from my ancient cell phone.

Closing my eyes, I exhale sadly, already knowing exactly what the message will say before I even look at it. My next period is social studies, but Penelope’s is AP chemistry, a class that in the last eighteen months I’ve attended more often than she has.

A wave of rebellion crashes over me, dousing me with righteous indignation. Why should I do this for her? Why, when she disappeared this weekend and left me to deal with her life, should I drop my class and go to hers instead? She wouldn’t do it for me, no matter how much money was at stake.

I can feel the weight of the darkroom key in my blazer pocket, and its presence offers more comfort than anything else in this school. With each day that passes, it’s been getting harder and harder not to retreat to the only space in this place where I actually exist as Izabella.

Hugging my bag to my chest, I bite my lip. I know there’ll be hell to pay later, but right now, the excitement of not doing what’s expected of me and not playing by my parents’ rules is more than I can resist.

Waiting until the classroom is empty, I move to the door, a smile tipping at the edges of my lips. My cell beeps again, but I ignore it and step into the emptying hallway. Instead of heading to the science block or my own class, I walk slowly and confidently, with my head held high, all the way to my darkroom.

By the time I reach the door, the hallways are empty except for a handful of stragglers all rushing to get to class. But I won’t be missed. My teachers have been conditioned not to expect me to attend, so no one will question why I’m not there.

Glancing over my shoulder, I look to my left, then to my right to make sure no one is watching as I slide the key free from my pocket and push it into the lock. Checking once more, I turn the handle and step into the room, closing the door behind me.

Smiling widely, I squeal with excitement as I twist the lock and secure the door. My cell beeps for a third time. Penelope is going to be losing her mind, but instead of reading her messages, I pull my cell from my bag, hold down the button, and turn it off.

My legs feel a little shaky as I fall down onto the couch, but I’m still grinning maniacally when I twist my hands into fists, lift my middle fingers into the air, and wave them at the door, my sister, and this fucked-up pretense.