Chapter 5 – ANNA
5
ANNA
“ S o, how was Africa? Where were you exactly?” Summer asked.
I chewed my burger slowly, pretending to savor it so I could buy time while I tried to remember the official story Daddy’s PR woman fed me over breakfast this morning and came up blank.
“It was great. Really nice people,” I said in a way I hoped conveyed my disinterest in talking about it. I felt bad lying to Summer and shitty for kowtowing to my father’s perfect lie about his supposedly perfect daughter, but I couldn’t tell her the truth. She wouldn’t get it, and like my dad always said, trust no one with family secrets.
We were friends once upon a time but that felt like another life. I was a different person now, so that meant she probably was too. The actuality of my existence over the past six years was more than a little shameful and I wasn’t ready for her judgment.
“I feel a little guilty for not donating more of my time,” she said, dunking her straw in and out of her drink.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s a shame that charity has to exist in the first place,” I said. “How was China? You mentioned that you spent a year out there.”
There was a wistful smile on her face.
“It was good. Different, but good. I’m glad that I went. I wouldn’t give up the life my parents gave me for anything, but it was nice to… I don’t know, honor that part of me.”
I was happy for her. Mr. and Mrs. Rockwell completed their happy family with an adopted baby daughter from Chongqing, China. Meeting them was the first time I realized that some people’s parents kissed, on the mouth . Like in movies.
“Will you ever go back?”
“Oh yeah, definitely. Hey, did you ever end up going to law school?”
I laughed through my grimace, looking down at my food. “Didn’t happen. Besides, it’s too late for me now, right? I’d rather not be the oldest one in the classroom.”
“No way. It’s never too late, but you didn’t want to go anyway, right?”
“Still don’t,” I said, sighing. That was one of the worst fights I’d ever had with my father; law school-gate. I was going to Yale to study pre-law before seamlessly moving into law school the way he had and he didn’t care what I had to say about it. It was one thing for him to say I had to dress a certain way and give me a curfew. I could deal with that. In his house, I had to live with his rules.
But my future too? When did it end? I didn’t want the kind of marriage he and my mother had, and knowing him, he’d be introducing me to his approved suitor list as soon as he finalized it. I shuddered to imagine the kind of man he wanted as a son-in-law. Himself , basically: thirty years younger with valuable family connections. Any degree I earned prior to him marrying me off would’ve been nothing but a framed certificate in a hallway somewhere. I shuddered.
“If not law school, then there has to be something you’d want to go back for,” Summer pressed.
“Any suggestions?” I asked.
“What do you mean, do I have any suggestions?” she asked, looking confused. “ Photography ,” she said when it took me too long to catch on.
“Oh.” I looked down into my plate of food again. The fries were cold now and instead of looking inviting, they looked shriveled and flat. “Right. That.”
“You still take pictures, right?”
I shifted in my seat. Yeah, I’d taken plenty of pictures, but they weren’t the kind of photos I could just show off.
Photography had always been a way for me to deal with the world around me. Back in high school, I used it to keep my life at a distance, safe inside a frame. I spent years feeling like I was failing to fit into my father’s mold, like I could never be the person I was supposed to be. Photographing the cotillions, the expensive schools, and the trips to the beauty salon made me feel like an anthropologist, capturing the weird world I’d been thrust into.
Then there were the photos I took on the midnight beach with Carter’s arms around my waist from behind, his scent in my nose and his lips whispering against the nape of my neck.
Some of my best work.
After everything happened and I left home, I started working at the Butterfly Room in St. Louis and took pictures of that. The women I worked with were funny, brash, and sassy. I loved taking photos in the break room, capturing them pushing up their boobs, putting on their make-up, and trying on each other’s teeny-tiny dresses. They sang along to shitty pop songs, painted each other’s nails, and made goofy faces when they caught me pointing the camera at them.
Then there were the harder shots. The ones I took after a girl had three too many men touch her that night and needed to vent her frustration to the others. The ones where the others would huddle around her, making her feel safe and loved and protected.
The vengeful looks in their eyes when they went back out onto the floor, ready for revenge in whatever form the girls deemed fit for the crime.
When we were out working, all anyone saw was our bodies. We were commodities, existing only to serve the patrons who paid enough to cover cocktails at the glorified titty bar. In my photos, we were people , with humor, intelligence, and dignity.
Most importantly, I photographed what Josh did to me. Every time he struck me, every time he left a mark, I’d take a picture. Taking self portraits of the abuse he inflicted on me was the only thing that made me feel like my body belonged to me again. If I could photograph it, then I didn’t have to shove it in the back of my mind and pretend it never happened. I had the proof, and that made me feel strong.
Of course, I could never show anyone those pictures. There would be way too much to explain.
Instead, I just shrugged. “Sure, I take photos. But it’s more of a hobby than anything else.”
Summer cocked her head. “Don’t downplay it. Photography is a real skill. I know girls who pay thousands of dollars to get people to do their Instagram posts.”
“I’m just…not interested,” I said. Talking about photography with her was just…too real, somehow. It hurt.
“What about guys?” she asked, thankfully changing the subject.
“ Hm ?”
“Men. Are you seeing someone right now maybe?”
My lip curled back and I shook my head briskly. “Oh no. Single and staying that way.”
Summer laughed.
“Wow, that bad?”
No, worse . I deleted another string of threatening text messages from Josh just this morning. He wasn’t even doing it for a response. Anything he could do to distract, inconvenience and harass me was a win for him. He was a mean, petty man, both drunk and while sober.
I couldn’t wait until my new phone to be delivered to the house. The stupid thing should have arrived already.
“Let’s just say I’m not looking.”
Unbidden, a memory of Josh punching me in the stomach after I came home late after closing the lounge swam to the top of my mind. My jaw clenched. Ugly thoughts broke through. Heat burned in my stomach and fizzled through my limbs. I clenched my fist around the sweating glass of my drink. I was never strong enough to fight back, but he made me wish I was, just so I could hurt him the same ways he hurt me.
I hated that he made me think things like that. I was never violent. I was never disillusioned and cold, but it was amazing what the wrong man at the wrong time was capable of doing to you. I vividly dreamt of smothering him with a pillow or slipping a knife into his carotid when he passed out drunk more often than I cared to admit—and always awoke with the taste of bitter guilt on my tongue.
“We all have those guys we regret,” Summer said.
Regret was an understatement. I asked her whether she had had better luck. Her boyfriend, James, was in his last year of med school. He was an upstanding member of society who treated her like a princess, doting on her every chance he got while supporting her aspirations until they were ready to have kids, and filling her bank account with more money than she could ever spend.
What was that like?
And why didn’t it appeal to me?
It sounded…boring.
Suffocating.
“How about if I—” Summer started, then faltered, snapping her lips closed.
“What?”
She smiled sheepishly.
“I mean, James has friends… you said you weren’t looking, but neither was I when I met him,” she said with a suggestive raise of her eyebrows.
I was in no shape to be anybody’s girlfriend. Not even one of James’s eligible colleagues. A surgeon boyfriend would impress my father, for sure, but after Josh, I wasn’t interested in any man. With my luck, I’d garner the attention of Josh the sequel.
“I just got out of something so no. I’m not.”
The expectant look didn’t leave her eyes, but she nodded, giving up. My last relationship took from me a year I was never getting back. Maybe one day I’d try again, but right now, I still felt empty and anyone who tried to look inside would just be disappointed.
Summer and I departed with a hug and a promise to see each other again soon. I’d promised to get home for a dinner with a guest Dad was hosting tonight. He told me that under no circumstances was I allowed to be late.
I rested my head against the window as David drove me back home.
“David?”
“Yes, Miss Vaughn.”
“You can call me Anna,” I said.
He paused.
“Yes, Anna?”
“You wouldn’t happen to know who is coming to the house this evening, would you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have that information.”
I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t think it was any use pressing him. David knew all my movements outside the house. The security at the compound knew when I left and came back. There were cameras outside and inside the house so whoever watched them knew how often I checked the fridge for snacks.
I thought my freedom was worth everything that I lost when I ran away. There had to be more to life than what I was allowed to have. At the moment, I wasn’t sure anymore.
Rosie let me in when I got to the house, and I found my will to smile when I saw her face, pulling her soft body to mine for a tight hug.
“Miss. Vaughn,” she protested, but when it became clear I wasn’t letting go just yet, she patted my back, beginning to relax.
“I missed you,” I said, straightening, her familiar scent still in my nose.
“Yes, well,” she said, face red as she straightened her apron. “If you hadn’t left, you wouldn’t have had cause to, now would you.”
I only grinned wider. There was the take-no-shit attitude I’d missed so much.
“You’re right,” I told her with a little laugh. “Like always.”
She coughed into her closed fist but couldn’t entirely conceal the ghost of a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth.
I sighed, knowing this welcome would be the only warm thing I’d experience for the rest of the evening. A chill skated up my arms. Whatever, no, whoever , my father had in store for me was bound to be a fucking treat.
“Guess I should…” I trailed off, my limbs heavy as I crossed the entry to the grand staircase, but Rosie was having none of it. She trudged up after me, huffing as she followed.
“Anna, your father left instructions for you to get ready for dinner.”
“Do you know who’s coming?” I asked her over my shoulder, suppressing an eye roll.
“You know that’s not my area,” she chastised, but she and I both knew there wasn’t much that happened in this house she didn’t know about. “But…I believe it’s one of his younger colleagues.”
I chuckled cynically, tossing my purse on the bed. By “younger colleagues,” she meant “eligible young asshole.” Tonight’s dinner was a setup, and I would be the main course.
Of course Dad’s plan for me didn’t end with lying about charity work at galas.
I’d skipped law school, so he went ahead with phase two.
I was to be a trophy wife, married off to one of his cronies. Maybe whoever married me would be Dad’s vice president when he finally started the presidential run he’d been threatening for years.
This was how he saw me. A broodmare, to be sold off for gold and a head of cattle. My fists curled, nails biting down into my palms.
“I don’t know how you do it, Rosie.”
“Do what, dear?”
“Work for him.”
She gave me a confused look, as though it wasn’t a daily challenge for her not to smack him upside the head.
She and Denise, his personal assistant at work, were the only people able to maintain long-term employment with Hudson Vaughn. Denise and Rosie orchestrated the complicated ins and outs of my father’s life, from flights and rallies to events to suit fittings. The two of them probably knew enough secrets to put him in federal prison for life without parole.
Sometimes, I wished one of them would.
Fuck. I knew I had it good here. I woke to breakfasts I didn’t have to pay for or prepare. I never had to worry about missing a train or bus because a personal driver was hired to take me wherever I wanted at any time. Every need was taken care of.
But there was something so empty about a life that was so frustratingly predictable.
If I missed something about being in St. Louis, it was the fact that every day felt like a challenge. When I came home hours before the sun came up, after my shift at the Butterfly Room, I felt like I had really done something. I would be tired with the sort of bone weary exhaustion only earned from a nine hour shift in heels with a fake smile plastered on your face.
Every day was an achievement. Here, every day was the same. Planned to within an inch of its life. Staged.
And no matter how long I played the part, I’d never felt like I belonged. There would always be a part of me that just didn’t fit.
“I pressed your blue Chanel dress,” Rosie said. “Your father wanted you to wear it tonight.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Don’t you think about not wearing it to prove a point,” she lectured, obviously reading my mind. “I took the time to press it, and I don’t want him thinking I didn’t pass the message on.”
“Fine,” I promised. “I’ll wear it and look nice, but for you, Rosie. Not for him.”
“I don’t care why you do it. Just do it.”
She bustled off, probably to bust somebody else’s balls, but paused in the door with her hand on the frame. She didn’t quite look over her shoulder as she said, “It’s good to have you home, little bug,” and then she was gone, leaving me with the sting of tears in my eyes because she was the only one in this house who could say that and mean it.
I shut the door and leaned against it. I had to look on the bright side—whatever bullshittery my father had planned, at the very least, there would be good wine.
Flopping down on the bed, I opened my phone to search for Carter.
Sue me—my day had been exhausting and old habits died hard.
Flicking through the usual photos, I found a few on google from the gala.
There he was as I’d seen him. Tall and brooding.
I could see the difference between the photos.
One definitely taken before he’d ever seen me. With his new mask firmly in place.
And one from after, or at least I guessed so by the scowl on his lips and the way he was angrily pushing his hair away from his face.
That one was my Carter. The angsty boy on the midnight beach, only older.
My thighs squeezed and I bit my lip, trying to temper the feelings seeing him always roused in me.
God, I missed him.
And I hated that I missed him.
I slid my fingers under the elastic band of my panties, gathering moisture from my entrance while I studied the shape of him in his perfectly fitted suit. Imagined ripping it off him. Imagined him in his trademark dark wash jeans and loose black tee.
He was every inch the gorgeous CEO, and he probably had women lined up around the block to play his sexy secretary.
Scrolling down, I saw more pictures of him taken at events. He always had a different date on his arm. Here was a big- eyed blonde woman, so tiny that she barely came up to Carter’s collarbone. Then a svelte, dark-skinned model who gave me serious Grace Jones vibes.
I quickly swiped past them, not wanting to see.
My eyes widened when I spotted a completely different shot. It was Carter on a yacht somewhere, a glistening blue sea in the background behind him. It was taken with a long lens, obviously by some paparazzi. I couldn’t look away from it.
Carter was glistening with water, the sunlight emphasizing the lines of his muscles. His sun-kissed skin was marked with extensive tattoos, which only made him look more like a devil, out to seduce virgins to join him back in hell.
I knew that if I zoomed in, I could see the scars, too. The ones I’d run my fingers over on the beach so long ago. I could still smell his warm skin, still imagine the weight of him over me.
I pressed harder on my clit, circling it until my entire body felt tight with pleasure. Memory and fantasy blended into a potent brew, making me get even more wet. I could hear the obscene sounds of my fingers moving over my folds. My eyes screwed shut while I brought myself closer and closer to the edge.
I couldn’t stop the breathy moans escaping me.
Fuck him.
Fuck Carter Cole.
I almost screamed his name as I came. My back arched, and my vision went black, the cage around me vanishing, just for a moment.