Chapter 11
ELEVEN
HANNAH
My hands grip my steering wheel, my heart pounding with the bass in my car.
“Tears” by Sabrina Carpenter blares through my speaker, but it doesn’t calm the tension in my chest.
High beams on, my Porsche rolls onto the gravelled driveway, but I don’t get far.
A long line of cars blocks me from getting closer to the door, forcing me to park at the edge like I’m a visitor.
Twigs and leaves snap and crunch under my slides as I climb out of my car, the night air cold against my skin as I approach the front door.
My dad spent millions making our Scandinavian-inspired retreat into the epitome of cozy luxury. Nestled right into the woods overlooking Silver Lake, this place, our place, is a serene escape. Not a playground for Rye’s boyish whims.
Bass bumps through the frosted glass door, and before I can turn the handle, a couple of girls in lingerie stumble out. I swerve past them as I step foot into our second home, and it’s worse than I thought.
He’s claimed every piece of this place, all our decor arranged in what looks like some sort of sex dungeon. Furry red blankets and silk sheets drape over our white furniture, all our bulbs replaced with red ones. It’s dim and dark in a way I’ve never seen before. Even the air smells like him.
My eyes land on the centre of attention amongst the debauchery, my skin prickling with heat.
Rye sits on a large velvet armchair in the middle of the main living area.
All our friends surround him, but his eyes are already on mine.
It doesn’t help that he’s in fewer clothes than last time, a long, silky trench coat over his tight black boxers.
A crystal bottle half-filled with clear liquid hangs between his fingers.
My eyes narrow on it. It’s my father’s favourite, worth a few grand.
Without another second to think, my feet storm towards him, all eyes moving to me. He watches me walk over, that intense stare unwavering.
“Get out.” The minute I speak, Mac and Gray appear on either side of me, like Rye’s bodyguards.
I stand tall. They don’t scare me, but the way Rye stares into me is soul sucking, like he’s studying the shape of my brain.
I don’t know what this is, but the more he stares, the more sweaty my thighs get.
So I break the silence. “Get out," I repeat since he's acting like he didn't hear me. "Now.”
With a tip of his chin, Mac and Gray back off, sinking into the seats next to him. Rye takes a swig from the bottle before he rises, approaching me until his red socks point at the tip of my heels.
“We had a deal,” he says, his eyes like black holes.
“I can’t go home, and right now, you're in my second one." I get it, I know how privileged I sound, but two homes and nowhere to go isn’t the luxury I’m used to.
He takes another swig. “Not my problem.”
“It’s about to be.” Before he takes another drink of my father’s gin, I snatch it out of his hand.
My eyes on his, I empty the bottle on the fluffy black rug in front of him.
Ignoring the piercing look on his face, I turn to the crowd whose attention I now have.
“The party's over! Everyone can get the fuck out of my house.” No one moves, eyes shifting to Rye as if he owns the place. Turning back to him, I stare him in those cold, dead eyes. “Don’t make me call the cops.”
“Oh, Hannah,” he chuckles, holding out a hand. Marisol places a black cigar in his palm, a gold ring around the middle. She even lights it for him. “Go ahead, call the cops. I’ll tell them about the vandal who burnt down my mother’s studio.” He takes a puff, letting the smoke out on my face.
Fighting back my cough isn't helpful. My blurry eyes give away my discomfort. A tear wells in my left eye before it drips down my face. His smirk grows as he reaches out, wiping away the teardrop with his free hand. Heat settles across my face before I slap his hand away.
“Tell you what, my little fire-starter.” He ignores my slap, a spark coming with his touch when his finger lands on my chin. “You drove all this way, why don’t you join us?”
“I don’t want to be part of your wannabe Playboy party.” I slap his hand away again, ignoring the twist in my stomach.
A jolt fires through me when his arm comes around my waist. Hate. He spins me around to the party, my back to his chest as he pulls me close like I’m his special guest.
“Don’t you want to experience what everyone's talking about?" His words in my ear make the knot in my stomach tighten.
Trying to pull away doesn’t help. It only proves he’s stronger as his grip sinks into my skin, his hard body against me. “I would rather experience what it's like to strangle you."
His body shakes against mine, like he’s laughing again. “Or would you rather experience me pinning you against a desk with my fingers so deep inside your spoiled cunt you forget what it's like to enjoy control?"
Crash!
It’s only when the bottle hits the floor do I realize it fell from my hand.
“What’s the matter, Kitten? Was I wrong?"
Spinning around to him, his grip finally loosens, and I hate that the only thing I can say to that smug, dazed smirk is, “Fuck you.”
Steadying my stance, I grab the glass of cheap champagne out of Marisol’s hand and make my way down the hall.
When I get to the furthest room, I swing the door open, interrupting two girls going down on one of the guys from the hockey team. One of them is Chloe, who's supposed to be on my team.
“Get out!” I scream. Un-poised. Wild. Intense. My eyes land on Chloe. “Or I’ll tell everyone about Professor Dubois.”
Chloe’s eyes widen. “We should go.” She scrambles for her clothes, the other two students following before all three of them stumble out. Slamming the door behind them, my back sinks against it, my face dropping into my hands.
How am I supposed to keep my crown if I can’t even rule my own home?
By one-thirty in the morning, this room is a cell despite the giant bed, comfy sofa and soft lighting. The lake house was always such a comfy escape, but nothing can soothe the chaos he created.
The sounds from the party echo through the house. Laughter, yells, and moans seep through my locked door. I’d use headphones, but they’re in my car, and there’s nowhere in hell I’m going back out there.
I reach for the bottle of champagne on the bedside table before pouring it down my throat. Don't judge me. I'm coping.
Dealing with Ryung is like dealing with a disease.
A terminal one. He’s taken over my life, and I let it fucking happen.
At least in here, I can catch my breath.
I can recoup. I'm relieved my parents believe every room should come with an ensuite.
After I down the rest of this bottle, I'll take a bath and try to forget the invasion of my home.
Tomorrow, I'll know what to do.
A call comes through my phone. A video call from a number I don’t recognize.
I focus on the area code, trying to figure it out.
My eyes widen.
No.
No, no, no.
Wiping my mouth, I drop the champagne bottle on the bedside table.
How the hell did I forget?
Rushing to the mirror across the room, my reflection isn’t pretty. Along with my glossy eyes and messy hair, it looks like I haven't slept in weeks. I try my best to wipe off the smudged mascara and accept the disaster I am before I answer.
“Madame Sinclair,” I say, forcing a huge smile on my face. One that's almost scary. Balancing my phone on the desk, I ignore the little square showing how horrible I look. “Such a pleasure to speak with you.”
My cheeks burn, Madame Sinclair's eyes dropping to my cropped tee. Meanwhile, she wears a fitted blazer to perfection. It’s hard to swallow being so caught up with Rye’s bullshit that I forgot to save my career.
How fucking pathetic is that?
“Miss Alfonso.” It’s hard to hear her French accent over the phone, the bass still bumping in the background.
“So sorry to disturb you at this hour, but I’m so happy you—” Her words muffle when the music gets louder.
Leaning in closer doesn’t help, and there’s no way to raise the volume further.
Nodding along, I try reading her lips, but now she looks like she's waiting for an answer.
“I’m so sorry. Can you repeat that?” I ask, wincing. “The connection is a little choppy.”
“Ah, I said, why did you decide to apply for our internship?”
Easy. “Paris is the fashion capital of the world and if I really want to hone my skills, IOU is the way to do it.” The music rises again, forcing me to yell over it. “From Chanel’s little black dress to Hepburn making Givenchy iconic, fashion has been a solid part of—”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A knock comes to the door, but I try to ignore it. “Fashion has been a solid part of—”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Open the fucking door!”
My muscles tighten as someone cuts me off again. It’s not a voice I recognize, but once this is over, I will end them.
“Is everything alright, Hannah?” Madame Sinclair asks. “It sounds like you’re at a—”
“No!” I cut her off. She needs to know I’m serious about this position. Taking a business call at a party is not the way to do that. “No! I’m—”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I push that wide smile back on my face. “I’m so sorry, can you give me a moment?”
“Hannah, we have other interviews scheduled.”
“It’ll just take a second, I promise.” Before she answers, I rise from my seat and head towards the door. Cracking it open, I send a message. “You better hope to God—Hey!”
Three students push themselves in, almost toppling me in the process. One girl has a bottle of my parents’ vodka in her hand, another holds a leather paddle. They stumble onto the bed, right in my camera’s view.
“Get out!” I scream, but they’re way too busy getting their clothes off to care.
Rushing to the phone, I hope I can salvage this. “Madame Sinclair, can I please call back at your earliest convenience?”
“You mean when you aren't in the middle of a party?” Her mouth twists. “Hannah, I know it’s late there but late nights are common in an international business. If you’d like to be part of this brand, you’ll need to take things seriously.”
“I am! I swear I’m not hosting this, I…” My voice trails thinking about explaining what’s really going on. I’ll only make this worse. “Can we please rendezvous again at a later date? Today has been… a lot.” A lump forms in my throat.
“I can see that.” Her eyes move to the ongoing makeout sesh behind me. “I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to continue with your application. It is a shame. Your work is great, but we need someone more mature. Ciao, Hannah.”
“No! Wait!” The call ends, my tired face in the reflection of the black screen.
My head hangs, my hands gripping the desk so tight I crack a nail.
I own you.
His words fill my head. His chuckle. His taunts. That confident, smug fucking voice.
My hands bang on the desk, so hard the sting vibrates up my arms. It’s not enough. A fire fills my gut. One that I need to let out. On him.
Rye’s reign ends now.