24. Venetia
S omething is wrong. Very wrong.
I spent a night—though it lasted only ten minutes—with Elijah. Luckily, we never got to the point where he tried to shove himself inside me—the drunk idiot blacked out first. I picked the room with the best camera angles and made sure the lights were as dim as I needed them to be. I’m confident West saw enough, and with my flawless acting, it truly looked like something had happened between us.
A part of me enjoyed it—the sick, twisted part that thrives on control. After a lifetime of being manipulated, moments like this, when I turn the tables and win, feel empowering. Euphoric.
But there’s a small part of me that feels guilty for leaving West on the couch, with that flicker of hope still gleaming in his eyes. For a moment, he almost seemed to trust me.
But that must be an illusion conjured by my mind. Why would he? Just because we kissed again? Or because he was drunk?
The more I think about it, the more I realize I shouldn’t feel guilty at all. I’m not his, and he’s not mine. We’re both trapped, each chasing the goal of pleasing our fathers. I’d be fine if he decided to sleep with someone else. Probably.
Or maybe not.
The confusion this situation stirs is something I can’t stand. Everything feels distorted, like I’m drifting through a hazy, fragile world that could collapse in an instant.
West hasn’t shown up to our hotel room—neither last night nor now. It’s nine in the morning, and he’s still absent. If we were normal people, I’d be worried that he’d broken our arrangement and left me, or that he was too angry about his bruised ego after losing the game. I’d be anxious about how my father would react when I return home and tell him his plan has fallen apart.
But we’re not normal. I know West hasn’t left me. I’m not even concerned about him getting drunk and high because of what I did.
I’m worried about what he might do to Elijah. My dumb, drunken brain didn’t consider the consequences when I decided to leave with him—it only focused on how good it felt to see jealousy flicker across my fiancé’s face and that wild gleam in his electric-blue eyes.
His possessiveness is addictive. It’s toxic, sickening even, and he often overreacts for no reason—like with that poor waiter. But here’s the thing—I’ve never claimed to be sane. I’ve done so many awful things in my life, and I’ve never been in a healthy relationship. In fact, I’ve always wanted the opposite for myself. I crave challenge, passion, obsession, and toxic possessiveness.
When it comes to love, no one has ever truly done anything for me. Take Eli, for example—the perfect reminder that nobody really cares about me.
Now, I realize something bad may have happened because of my selfishness. It’s likely unfolding right now while I sit here, lost in my thoughts. Someone could be suffering because of me. And by someone, I mean Elijah.
My phone suddenly rings, and I nearly let it slip from my grip. With a tense inhale, I glance down, disappointment flaring as ‘Dad’ appears on the screen. I was hoping it would be West.
I tap the green button and bring the phone to my ear, not bothering to hide my disappointment as I mutter, “Yes?”
“What was that?”
Oh, God. I forgot I’m supposed to greet him properly , as he insists. “Sorry. Hi, Dad. Is everything okay?”
“You don’t sound so happy,” he replies, his voice flat and emotionless.
Yeah, because you called. “I’m fine, really. We’re just?—”
“Where is your fiancé?”
Typical Dad. He doesn’t care about how I’m feeling. “He’s in the shower,” I lie.
He pauses, as if doubting me. “I saw the photos. That touch of yours on his hand was very believable. Keep it up.”
It was believable because it wasn’t fake, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Yeah. I will.”
“Be good, Venetia.”
Then, he hangs up. I exhale in relief, glad the conversation is over. Talking to him always makes me anxious, and now, it only heightens my frayed nerves.
I can’t deny that I messed up his instructions. I wasn’t ‘good ,’ and the consequences looming on the horizon promise to be anything but pleasant.