2. Josie
“Mom,” I said, my voice shaking, breaking, burning all at once.
I held the papers up between us.
“Explain this,” I snapped, “Why,” I yelled, my words cracking, “why are you paying my boyfriend to be my fucking boyfriend?!”
Her eyes went wide, panic flashing in her eyes but it vanished in a second. Her shoulders squared, chin lifting a fraction. She looked at me the way she looked at bad quarterly reports, inconvenient, manageable, temporary.
“Josephine,” she said carefully, “there is no need to overreact. Let me explain—”
“Explain what exactly?” the words tore out of me before she could finish, “Explain how my entire relationship was staged from day one? How you planted a man in my life and watched me fall for him like it was a controlled test? Were you taking notes too, dates, reactions, emotional response levels?”
Her jaw tightened just slightly, a tiny tic near her ear, the only visible sign she didn’t like where this was going. She hated mess. Hated emotion when it wasn’t scheduled.
“Lower your voice,” she said automatically, the way she corrected staff who spoke out of turn.
“No,” I shot back, shaking my head, tears already blurring my sight but my anger holding me upright, “No, you don’t get to adjust the volume of me right now.”
“I hired him to protect you,” she said, tone flattening further.
I laughed as I dragged a hand across my face and stared at her like she’d spoken another language.
“Protect me,” I repeated slowly, “By putting him in my bed. By letting him touch me. By letting me believe he chose me.”
Her gaze sharpened at my phrasing, “You are twisting the situation to fit your feelings,” she replied.
“No, you’re scrubbing it clean so it sounds acceptable,” I snapped, jabbing a finger toward the desk, “You didn’t just hire security. You gave him a character to play. You gave him access to my routines, my friends, my private space. You handed him me.”
“You are my daughter,” she said, “My only daughter. I will not apologize for making sure you remain alive.”
Alive. She said it like it outranked everything else.
“Stop using that word like it fixes this,” I fired back, “Safe from what, dating someone you didn’t approve of? Choosing wrong? Making stupid mistakes? Being a normal human?”
“You are not a ‘normal human,’” she answered, “And you definitely do not understand the risks that come with it, Josie. I see intentions earlier than you do,” she said, “Motives. Patterns. Men who approach you with calculations, not feelings.”
“And your answer was to assign one with a salary package?”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened so hard it hurt to breathe. The anger didn’t disappear, it went deeper, “You don’t trust me,” I said, “You don't trust my judgment, not my choices, not even my heart.”
“I trust your intelligence,” she replied evenly, “I do not trust your emotional exposure.”
The phrasing sliced straight through me.
“Especially after the last boy,” she continued, “He had a weak background. He had no future value. I had to remove him so—”
She stopped but it was too late.
My stomach dropped cold, “So what?” I whispered, “Finish that sentence.”
Her face drained a shade, then reset to a color colder than before, “I got rid of him,” she said.
I blinked, “You got rid of him,” I repeated slowly, stepping toward her, “What does that actually mean?”
She exhaled, annoyed now, as if I were dragging out something obvious and inefficient.
“I made him an offer. He accepted it.”
“You paid him,” I said.
“He named the price,” she corrected calmly. “I agreed to it. He chose money over you,” she continued, “That is useful information about character.”
“He was a person,” I choked, “I loved him and you broke my heart!”
“And now you love Harrison,” she said smoothly, “Which proves my strategy worked.”
“Harrison was a lie!” I shouted.
“Controlled,” she corrected, "Not a lie, just controlled.”
I stared at her, tears falling freely now, breath shaking, heart pounding so violently it felt bruised, “Do you even hear yourself?” I spat, “How can you stand there and act like this is normal?”
She crossed her arms, “You think this is easy for me? Everything I do, I do for this family. For you. One day you’ll understand that sometimes we have to do things we don’t like for the greater good.”
“The greater good?” I laughed bitterly, “You don’t even know what that means. All you care about is control. You’ve ruined everything, and for what? So you can feel powerful?”
Her face flushed with anger, “Powerful?! You’ll thank me one day when you’re older and not ruled by your emotions, you’re going to thank me for every choice I made.”
“What are you so scared of?” I demanded, stepping closer, “Why are you always acting like danger is around every corner? From who? No one has ever threatened me. No one has ever touched me. But you’ve been pushing this ‘protection’ story on me since I was a kid. Why? Tell me why!”
“I’m trying to protect you from the same people that killed your father, Josie,” she snapped, her eyes blazing with pain and anger, “Your father was murdered, Matthias is missing, and every single time I feel like I’m closer to my happiness, it gets taken from me.
So you can’t blame me for being cautious about my only daughter! ” she shot back.
“Well, good luck protecting the daughter you don’t even have anymore!” I spat, my heart pounding in my chest as I tried to push past her.
But she grabbed my arm, her grip ironclad, “Don’t be ridiculous; you have a meeting,” she said, her voice suddenly calm as if nothing happened.
My chest hurt when I thought about Harrison.
I really believed he was my person, the one who understood me without me having to explain anything, every habit, every fear, every little thing.
Now I knew the truth. He didn’t learn me, he was briefed on me.
My mother had been feeding him the answers the whole time.
The betrayal didn’t just sting, it dug in deep and kept turning.
“Mom,” I said, leaning in closer to her, “fuck your meeting and fuck you!” I snapped, yanking my arm out of her grip with a force that surprised even me. I heard her gasp in shock.
“Josephine Van Alen, get back in here!” she shouted.
I grabbed my bag, and headed straight for the door, vision blurred, chest tight, pulse thundering in my ears. She was still calling my name behind me but I kept going.
I stopped by the elevator and stabbed the button again and again until the doors finally opened. I stepped inside, breathing hard, fingers still shaking. Just before they closed, I looked up.
She was coming down the corridor fast, heels striking the floor, one hand outstretched. The doors slid shut between us.
I held her gaze through the narrowing gap and lifted my middle finger.
The elevator ride felt like an eternity. As soon as the doors opened, I bolted for the exit. The security guards at the front doors tried to block my path, undoubtedly instructed by my mother.
“Ms. Van Alen—” one of the front security guards stepped into my path, palm raised, fake-polite smile glued to his face. Orders. Definitely orders.
“Move,” I snapped.
“I’m afraid I can’t—”
I didn’t think. My knee drove up hard and fast. He folded with a choked grunt, hands dropping, body collapsing sideways into the marble. The other guard flinched back, shocked more than ready. I shoved past him and slammed through the glass doors into the sunlight.
Air. Finally air.
My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped my keys.
I spotted my car in the reserved row and sprinted, heels slipping once on the pavement.
I jumped in, slamming the door shut with a thud.
I reversed out of the spot with a screech of tires.
I tore out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell, my mind racing as fast as the car.
I had no destination in mind, only a burning need to escape. To be anywhere but here.
My own mother played with my personal life, not once but twice, and I don’t know how many other things.
Who else had been fake? What else had been arranged? Approved? Cleared through her office?
I took a sharp turn, barely slowing down.
The tires squealed in protest, but I didn’t care.
I decided to ditch the car in an alleyway.
I pulled over, the engine ticking as it cooled.
I grabbed my wallet and tossed everything else inside the car, including my phone, which was blowing up with calls from my mom and Harrison.
I stepped out into the glaring sunlight. I started walking, my heels pounding the pavement as I tried to outrun the pain in my chest until I found myself outside a nightclub.
My friends had been talking about this place all week, some brand-new nightclub on the Upper East Side. Exclusive, expensive, impossible to get into without the right name or the right invitation.
My mother hated places like that. She said nightclubs were where bad decisions and worse headlines were born.
Perfect.
With my wallet clutched tightly in my hands, I approached the entrance, “Is it open?” I asked the security guard.
His broad shoulders and stern face gave him the appearance of a pitbull in human form.
He nodded without a word, stepping aside to let me through. I walked through the door, down a long, neon lit hallway that led to a vast, empty dance floor. The bar circled the entire space, with six or seven bartenders stationed at different spots, meticulously arranging bottles and glasses.
Only a handful of people were inside, most of them staff. Clearly, no one else was desperate enough for a drink in the middle of the day except for me and a few others going through a midlife crisis.
Waitresses in skimpy bunny outfits moved about, while cleaners in blue uniforms worked all around. The rest of the men scattered around looked like they had stepped straight out of a bodyguard movie.
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat refusing to go away. My heels clicked loudly against the floor as I made my way to the bar. I took a seat on a barstool where a bartender was polishing crystal tumblers.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
I opened my wallet with trembling hands, pulling out five one-hundred-dollar bills and slamming them on the counter, “I want martinis. Keep them coming as soon as I finish one. Understand?”
“Sure…”
The first martini was placed in front of me, and I downed it in one go, feeling the burn as it slid down my throat. The betrayal I felt was scorching, a fire that wouldn’t die out. I wanted to hit someone, and I knew exactly who: Harrison fucking Brown.
Before I could signal for another, it was already there, the sweet bartender on top of his game. I muttered a thanks, my voice barely audible over the clinking of glasses.
My mother was probably losing her mind right now, wondering where I had disappeared to. Another martini appeared, and I grabbed it, my hands shaking. The alcohol wasn’t dulling the pain fast enough.
I downed the second martini, slamming the glass down harder than I intended. The bartender’s eyes flicked to me before he turned away to make another drink.
As the hours passed, I lost count of how many martinis I’d downed. The bartender kept them coming, as instructed, and I kept drinking, the alcohol mixing with my bitterness.
Gradually, the quiet club began to fill up. The once-empty dance floor started to fill with people. And I was well past tipsy. I swayed on the barstool, the room spinning around me. I tried to focus on the martini in my hand, but it was difficult.
I glanced around, watching as people danced wildly, their bodies moving in time with the music. They seemed so carefree. I envied them, wished I could lose myself in the music like they did. But all I could feel was the alcohol numbing my senses and the persistent ache in my chest.
“Another one?” the bartender asked, his voice cutting through the haze.
I nodded, and he slid another martini toward me, and I took a sip, my vision doubling as I tried to focus on the glass.
More people filled the club, and the noise grew louder. There was laughter, shouting, and the heavy beat of the music playing nonstop.
I tried to stand, intending to join the dancers, to lose myself in the crowd, but my legs gave out, and I stumbled, nearly falling. The bartender reached out, “Maybe you’ve had enough,” he suggested gently.
I shook my head stubbornly. “One more,” I insisted, slamming more cash onto the counter.
At some point, I noticed three men standing all around me. I turned to the bartender but he was busy with other customers now. Even in my drunken state, I felt a shiver of unease. They were too close.
"Hey, sweetheart," the man hissed, and he let his eyes slowly crawl up and down my body, "A girl like you shouldn't be sitting here all by herself. Why don't you come with me? I can show you a real good time."
My brain screamed at me to fight, "I’m fine," I choked out. I tried to pull my head away, hoping the creep would just leave me alone.
He didn’t, he just laughed in my face, "Don't be a bitch," another guy growled. Before I could move, a rough hand slammed onto my arm, squeezing so hard it felt like my bones would snap, "We just want to have some fun with you, sweetie."
I tried to yank my arm away, but his grip was strong. His fingers dug deep into my skin, "Let go," I croaked.
A third man stepped up behind me. His heavy hands landed on my shoulders, pinning me to the stool. "You’ve had way too much to drink, babe," he whispered, "We’re gonna take real good care of you. We'll make sure you get 'home' safe."
Panic hit me, cutting through the drunk fog. I looked around the crowded club, praying for help, but everyone was just dancing and laughing. No one cared.
"Please, just leave me alone," I begged.
The first guy leaned in, his face inches from mine. I saw the nasty look in his eyes and the way his lips curled into a sick smile, "Don’t worry, gorgeous," he said. "We’re gonna have a blast with you."
Terror took over as they dragged me off the seat. I tried to scream, but only a weak whimper came out. I felt a hand slide high up my thigh, and I tried to kick, but I was too weak.
"Get off me!" I yelled.
The guy behind me shoved me forward, "Let's go outside, bitch. You need some air."
I stumbled as they forced me toward the exit. When we hit the door, one of them grabbed my wrist and hauled me into a pitch-black corner beside the huge building. The cold air hit my face, but I couldn't think straight.
"Time for the fun to start," one of them said, his grin turning into a hungry sneer as he stepped closer. His hands started roaming all over my body, grabbing at me. I tried to push him, but I had no strength left.
"Please, stop," I sobbed as my knees gave out, "Help! Help!"
"Shut up!" the second guy barked, twisting my arm painfully, "No one is coming to save you."
I felt a hand shove up my dress, and I thrashed wildly, but one of them slammed me hard against the brick wall.
"Hold the bitch still," the third man ordered. The others pinned me down, their hands like clamps on my arms and shoulders.
Then I heard footsteps, and everyone around me suddenly froze. I blinked hard, trying to see clearly through the blur as I tried to pull away.
“Let her go,” a voice ordered, and the men released me at once, stepping back like they didn’t want to risk being a second too slow.