19. Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Nineteen
Maggie
I know he’s coming for me. I know he’s going to make me his again. -Maggie
Prescott…freakin’…Masters. Those two goons brought me back to marry Prescott I’m an asshole Masters. I have no desire to find out his real middle name, just as I have no burning desire to make his last name mine.
“This is your duty, Magnolia. Do you understand?” my father’s hard voice echoes through the massive study.
He narrows his green eyes, so like mine, in a way that makes my stomach curdle with nerves.
He’s been making me want to puke since I first learned what that look meant.
That look meant pain…not physical pain, but finding a way to hurt me nonetheless.
Whether it be by taking away my puppy, my friends, whatever hurt the most… my father always knew how to hurt me.
I nod meekly. “I understand, Father.” The rebel within me snarls at me. Stand up for yourself, Maggie. Don’t let him make you weak.
Unfortunately for her, I’m stuck. The two goons who brought me back across country stand there with smirks on their faces and guns in their side holsters.
“You will greet your guests to this party as I expect, and you will act as the dutiful fiancé. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, father,” I murmur.
“As for your little trip out west, we’ll come up with a proper punishment for that soon.” He steeples his fingers together on his desk and the smile that crosses his face is positively predatory. “Samantha Shivers.”
My stomach drops at the mention of my pen name. Shit.
“She can leave now. You’ve done well.” My father nods at his two goons and they give him satisfied little smiles and nod in unison. I’m surprised they don’t bow like the little pussies they are.
With those words, I’m dragged out of the study that I was rarely ever allowed in as a little girl. I say dragged, but the truth is I don’t fight, so it’s more like a forced walk.
My mother waits for me in the parlor. Her skin is even more pale than usual and she sends me an awkward smile.
“It’s so good to have you home, Magnolia. I know your father is a bit upset, but this will all work out. You’ll see.” She pats my shoulder awkwardly and I slump even more.
She puts on a bright, fake smile. “Let’s go greet your guests. Prescott is so excited to see you again.” She runs a critical eye over the gauzy pink dress that was on my bed this morning with a note to “Wear me” along with a warning to not dare disobey. I want to sink even further into despair.
“You’ll do.” Her perfect manicured pink nails pick at a piece of imaginary lint on my shoulder. “And remember your posture. You’re a Malone, dear. We always stand up straight.”
Fuck you . That’s what I want to say. But instead, I merely nod my assent.
Can I really blame her though? This woman, with her perfectly coifed dark red hair and her perfect trim figure, never had a chance. She was practically sold to my father, much like I’m being sold to Prescott now.
My family is part of the Southern Mafia.
I looked up the term once- mafia , and it explained exactly who my family is.
Despite its’ Sicilian beginnings, these families in the South have appropriated the term to encompass their “good ole boy” mentality and the rich families that belong to this group.
I knew I was different when I was growing up.
I was always meant to be shown off as a price, not a person.
While my friends played, I silently sat by while my father and mother ran off to “meetings”.
My nanny was my best friend and she was let go when I was twelve.
After that, I hovered in doorways trying to figure out what important “business” my rich father was a part of, but I was always shut out.
Whispered conversations between household staff gave me clues. My father was part of the “brotherhood”, a group of wealthy Southern families that committed felonies like others did good deeds. They bought off lawmen and evaded responsibility. They also married each other.
Hence, why I had been promised to Prescott freakin’ Masters. The Masters family was from Charleston and this marriage would further my father’s connections there.
My hands are sweaty as I make my way to the front foyer. Prescott waits there. His blonde hair is slicked back and his smile is cocky when I walk in.
“There’s my beautiful fiancé. You look lovely as always, Magnolia.” His sneer is so smarmy I want to punch his too perfect face. He leans closer and I try to step back. My mother’s hand on my back stops me. “I can’t wait until our wedding day, my love. Especially our wedding night.”
Bile rises in my throat. No way in hell am I sleeping with this ass.
I smile back. “It’s good to see you too, Prescott,” I lie. I wave my hand in front of my face. “Dear, we really will have to visit your choice of colognes once we’re married. It’s a bit too strong.”
Prescott’s face instantly hardens and my mother inhales sharply.
“Bitch,” he mutters and grabs my hand in a tight, bruising grasp.
For the next hour, I paste a fake smile on my face while we greet our guests. I almost forgot what being “Magnolia” was like. I miss being Maggie. I miss my life out west. Most of all, I miss Hawk.
Still, I muster on, my mind whirring with escape ideas. Maybe I could escape out the side door during everyone’s exit, maybe I could…
“You’re tied to me now, Magnolia. You’ll always be mine.” Prescott’s shark-like smile makes me shiver. I say nothing.
My mother claps her hands. “To the ballroom, my doves. To the ballroom.”
I turn to do my duty. I have my head down and my heart is heavy.
Then a loud sound interrupts the murmur of guests and the clink of the china in the ballroom. People start to notice and a sense of panic ripples through the room.
A roar…an overwhelming roar that grows closer and closer. A smile blooms on my face.
It’s the unmistakable roar of motorcycles. Fuck yeah.