Chapter 3
THREE
HANNAH
Fuck the girl who wants Prince Charming.
Or Romeo.
Or that guy from The Notebook.
What about the girl who wants one day when her father isn’t throwing something at her mother’s head?
CRASH!
The Weeknd’s “Wicked Games” isn’t enough to drown out the sound of porcelain shattering on our marble floors. It’s not enough to drown out my father’s slurs, either.
“Who is it this time, Elena?” His voice is as clear as the polished mirror in front of me, lightbulbs framing it like I’m in a Broadway theatre. “Greg? Markus?”
SMASH!
That one makes me jump, a shriek from my mother following.
Checking the time tells me I only have a few hours. Pulling my rollers out of my hair, my curls tumble against one cheek, framing my good side. My left collar bare, my eyes zero in on my skin like I can still see the faint mark he left.
What he did was no worse than a papercut, but the humiliation cuts far deeper.
Heat dances on my cheeks when I remember how the sharp edge of the glass kissed my shoulder, hardly breaking the surface.
He made me freeze like some lovestruck bimbo.
Like I was under a spell. Everyone saw me under his control.
It took a trip to Bali and a dozen Mai Tais to forget it.
It’s a new era. A new reign. One that doesn’t include him.
CRASH!
“Carlos, please!” My mother’s scream makes my shoulders rise. She’s louder than usual. “Carlos! Stop!”
BANG!
That can’t be good.
Pulling my silk robe over my tweed Chanel dress, I exit the comfort of my blush-painted room to follow the sounds of chaos. Sparkles shine on my manicured toes as my feet patter against the hallway floor.
“Carlos! Don’t!”
My heartbeat quickens the closer I get. So does my pace as I pass framed Matisse and Picasso between crystal sconces on pale stone. When I make it to the double doors opened to the master bedroom, I gasp.
It’s worse than I thought.
My father ignores his snapped prized vinyls, broken Cubans, and his cracked vintage globe.
They’re all collateral damage to their dangerous dance that’s only getting worse by the day.
He hovers over my mother, her skirt hiked to her knees.
My gaze follows my mother’s wide eyes to his hand, a glass shard in his grasp.
The tightness in my chest returns as my father raises the shard, glimmering under their chandelier. “Pa, wait!”
Mom’s eyes narrow at me as I rush into the room, kicking aside the leather suitcase open on the floor.
He doesn’t even look at me when he speaks. “Mira, your mother is a good-for-nothing whore.”
“And your father is an absent drunk,” my mother spits, her Colombian accent heavy.
He raises that shard higher.
“No!” Reaching for his blazer, I tug on the fabric softer than his heart. He’s quick to retaliate, spinning around like a drunken tornado.
Slap!
A sting vibrates through my cheek as I stumble to the ground next to my mother. Looking up, my father towers over us, the light making him look like a fallen angel. Our provider. Our demon.
My parents are tragic beauties. Where do you think I get my looks? But right now, my father looks like a monster, sporting the stress of his life on his face. A devilish goatee and a jaw as sharp as the shard in his hand.
“Mister Alfonso?” The voice of one of our maids comes from the door. Carrie. My father’s muscles fall. So does his hand. My shoulders follow.
The only thing to stop my father in his tracks is an audience. People talk in The Hill, especially the help. He doesn’t turn around to acknowledge her, his gaze locked on my mother like an obsession. Not love. At least not one from a storybook. Their fairytale is dark, twisted and toxic.
My father tilts his head over his shoulder. “Clean this up,” he says, dropping the shard to the floor. My eyes settle on it, the whispers from the gallery in my head.
He turns to walk away, and as always, my mom reaches out. “Carlos!”
“Ma, let him go.” I reach for her outstretched hand, her massive diamond ring shining under the light. “He’s too upset.”
She pulls away from my reach, daggers in her glare. Her brown eyes used to shine brighter, her soft wrinkles deepening with every trip my father takes. “Why do you get involved?”
“Love hearing that right after I stopped my father from slicing into my mother.” I’ve always had her back but it’s a one-way street.
She ignores me, struggling to pick up her thinning body from the floor. She mumbles something in Spanish, too quickly for me to understand. When I reach out to help, she pulls away again.
“You think you’re different from me? You think you’re better?” she spits, but I know this anger isn’t about me. So I sit there, taking it. “I saw you let a man draw blood.”
Heat slaps my cheeks, a jolt rushing through me.
“He didn't! That’s different!” I’m surprised at my quick response, defending him when my father did the same. Dad was sloppy. Menacing. Ryung’s touch had control. Too much control.
My mother laughs. Not like I’m funny. Like I’m pathetic. “You’re no different.” She exits the room, leaving Carrie staring at me with the concern lacking from her.
“Miss Hannah, are you okay?” Carrie asks as I rise off the floor, the sting from my father’s strike still dancing on my skin. She's a small woman, shorter than the rest of my family, with a voice as quiet as her presence. “Do you need—”
“I’m fine.” She reaches for me as I leave the room, but I pull away. “Clean this up. Fast, please.” I don’t need my father blaming my mother for anything else.
Once I'm back in my room, I collapse into my pink velvet chair in front of my vanity. Closing my eyes, I grip the edges, like if I squeeze hard enough, it will all go away. Like I’d forget this fight. Like I’d forget my parents need a fucking divorce.
Taking a deep breath, I try to remember what tonight has in store.
A chance to remind people I've changed. Another breath and I lift my head, wincing when I see the damage.
My cheek looks like a cherry, bright and irritated.
Leaning in closer, I hiss when my fingers graze my skin, a sharp burn coming with my touch.
“Don’t let it ruin your day, girl.” Today’s a big one, and glancing at the clock tells me I’m behind.
Brushing my robe off my shoulders, my eyes fall to the imaginary scar on my collar again.
“I call this one… ‘Mine.’”
His voice echoes in my head, his touch doing the same on my skin.
Why didn’t you stop him?
The chime from my phone helps shake me out of my daze, my head turning to it on my fluffy bed behind me. Texts from the Posse group chat light up the screen.
My stomach flutters with excitement as I pop over to my bed. Then it sinks, a knot tightening.
“You got to be kidding me,” I mutter, sitting up as I read their words.
Zurie: I’m sorry Hannah, I cant make it tn, but I know itll still be great! [yellow heart emoji]
Chloe: same
Marisol: sorry Hannah
Hell, even Marisol?
Hannah: Is something going on?
My back hits the soft mattress, the down duvet providing less comfort than usual. There has to be a good reason for them to miss such a big moment. But staring at the chat doesn’t give me an answer.
Hannah: Guys?
As I wait for an explanation, I reach for the closest distraction.
QuickGram. The first video is a makeup tutorial with a trendy eyeshadow palette.
The next, fashion inspiration on how to style a silk scarf.
The third video on my feed makes me sit up.
It’s from Marisol. Zurie and Chloe are in it, posing in front of Marisol’s massive mirror, dressed in black leather.
My eyes narrow on the words on top of the video.
Ready for @CrimsonChamber tn.
Is this a joke? Crimson Chamber isn’t a place I’ve heard of and I know every spot in Paradise Hill. More notifications appear on my phone from my email. The one we set up for tonight’s event.
Subject: Tonight’s cancellation
Subject: Revoke RSVP
Subject: Unavailable
What the hell is going on?
Tapping the account in Marisol’s post brings me to a page that already has thousands of followers and only three posts. The images don’t show the venue, just stylized photos of BDSM equipment instead, and they’re all tagged with one account. @RyeReigns.
Tapping his name brings me back to those demon eyes, the first photo featuring him alone on a red carpet. The way he stares down the camera reminds me of the way his eyes pierced into me at Ember’s gallery. A shiver shoots up my spine. Then it hits me.
Did my posse ditch me for a party I wasn’t invited to?
The room spins as the realization becomes clearer. It’s worse, they ditched me for a party Ryung didn’t invite me to.
How could they? They know he’s the enemy. I hit up the group chat with a screenshot of Marisol’s story and wait for a reply. Two minutes: nothing. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Still nothing.
Hannah: Guys? Pls don’t bail
Another fifteen minutes go by without a response, my muscles tenser than my mother's face after Botox.
Hannah: you’ll regret it
I wince when I press send, knowing my old threats won’t fly. But my panic doesn’t settle as my email lights up with more cancellations. Scrolling through my phone for Ember’s number, she’ll know what’s going on. I want answers, and I want them now.
“I’m guessing you heard?” Ember asks when she answers. Soul music plays in the background, the usual when she’s painting a new project.
“Did you know?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know it would affect the Athena Affair. They’re so different.” Ember’s words don’t soothe me. Neither does chewing my nail. “I’ll still be there. I wouldn’t miss it.”
Looking at my inbox again, our guest list dwindles.
“This is not what it’s supposed to be.” If this event is already a failure, there’s no sense in having it. That’s embarrassing. And he’s embarrassed me enough. “We have to cancel."
“What? No,” Ember says, but she’s delusional. I’ll cut her some slack, she’s from The Valley. “You put so much work into this and it’s for a good cause.”
“It’s not worth it if no one shows up.” This was more than a lavish moment with the perfect theme.
Rewritten Feminist Fairytales. It was my moment to show everyone that while I still run campus, I can run it better than I ever have before.
That’s by putting the women in this town first instead of bringing them down.
“That’s social suicide and I need people to take me seriously. "
“I’m sorry, Hannah.” Ember accepts my defeat as I tap to an old photo of the Crowns with the Posse, buried on Ryung’s feed. We’re by the fountain on campus. Our kingdom. We all look so happy. So confident. “At least I got you reading Virginia Woolf instead of socialite memoirs.”
“Socialites are revolutionary in paving the way for people like me.” Ember laughs and I smile as I can imagine her waving me off.
“Hey, Em?” I don’t know if I want the answer to what I’m about to ask but I ask it anyway.
“Are you going to this Crimson thing tonight?” Silence follows.
The longer I wait, the wider my jaw drops. “Ember!”
“You cancelled!” Unbelievable. “Don’t be mad. I’ve been working hard on this event and my projects. I haven’t gotten to spend any time with Mac and he’s obviously going.”
“You’re my favourite plaything.”
His voice rolls through my head again. Smooth. Confident. Possessive. Like he truly believed I’d be his. “He did this on purpose.”
“Ryung?”
“No, don’t say his name!” Those eyes pop in my head again.
“Why? Hannah, what did you do?” This isn’t the first time she’s asked.
“Nothing that deserves this.”
“Okay, well, it’s crazy that I’m the one to warn you about this but, don’t get more involved.
I know I got with a Crown and had a happy ending, but it was rough.
You’re turning over a new leaf. You’re going to land a kick-ass internship and you’re going to be self-sufficient.
That’s the goal. Don’t lose sight of it. Leave Ryung alone.”
Ember’s right. “Don’t worry.”
“I remember telling a friend that same thing.”
“I promise, Ember, Ryung is dead to me.” Ending the call, I stare right into those cold eyes on my screen, knowing what he’s capable of.
I’ll fix this despite him.
Muffled voices come from down the hall, my parents laughing. Then the inevitable happens. A moan, the squeaking of the bed, another slam and a squeal.
Raising the volume on my music doesn’t take away the image from earlier in my head. It doesn’t stop me from trying to make sense of why time and time again my mother accepts him back into our lives.
With a deep breath, I tap the QuickGram icon on my screen, revealing stories from others I follow.
But it’s not the distraction I’m hoping for.
There are so many videos of Saint Bons students getting ready for this party instead of my event they all RSVP'd to.
My palms sweat as I scroll through my phone, until I land on his name.
“Leave Ryung alone.”
Walking away from this will make me a bigger person. But it’s hard when he’s rubbing his win in my face.
“Carlos!” My mom’s voice bellows down the hall, pleasure wafting with it.
My eyes narrow on Rye’s username. The extra bonus to having my event tonight was that I wouldn’t be around for my father’s arrival from Wroclaw.
“Yes, Carlos!”
Yet, here I am.
“Leave Ryung alone.”
“Carlos! Yes! Yes!”
I raise the volume higher. When my parents aren’t around, my room is my calm oasis. A sophisticated blend of luxury and comfort. Blush silk sheets, a feather chandelier, fluffy white rugs. It’s like living inside a Dior campaign. But tonight, it feels far from comfy.
“More, Carlos!”
He’s fucking with my world.
If all my friends are at his event that leaves me with no one to hang out with. Even Ember’s going. And it’s not like I can hang out at Sun House on my own. I’d have to accept mortification if someone saw me at our private social club alone.
“Leave Ryung alone.”
And I will. Once he leaves me alone. Staying quiet means I’ve accepted his humiliation. Twice.
The feeling I’ve tried so hard to overcome fires through me as I storm to my closet.
I’ve earned my place in this town. He doesn’t get to leave me out.
I belong here.
So, if everyone’s going to this party, so am I.