Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
DAMIEN
My phone vibrates against my hip; the buzz lost under the blare from the cinema’s surround-sound speakers. Each orchestral swell makes my eardrums throb.
Beside me, Chelsea sits, her eyes reflecting the action on the screen. She gives me occasional sideways glances, and her frown lines deepen when I check the message.
Just a mate from my last school: Party at Jake’s tonight. You in?
I tap out a reply: Busy, then scroll down my notifications, stopping on the appointment confirmation from Rothschild Optometry. The sheer audacity of Ophelia quoting me that inflated price makes me smile. Another taunt… or a challenge.
If it’s the latter, I’m failing.
When I asked for a time early next week, the receptionist had laughed in polite disbelief. “We can put you on our waitlist,” she said, sounding more like a ploy to get me off the line than a genuine opportunity.
The earliest confirmed appointment is for next June.
Chelsea leans into my side. “Are you enjoying it?”
The dim lighting softens her features, making her appear prettier, but even if my cock were on board with Chelsea, it’s not like I can do the things I’d want to do to her. Not with her father’s goodwill on the line.
“Sure.” I scoop a handful of popcorn from the box on her lap, the buttery aroma filling the air. “Good pick.”
Onscreen, some period-drama guy struts into view wearing a waistcoat so tight it must be stitched directly onto his torso.
I stifle a yawn, letting my eyes defocus while my mind worries at the delay with the optometrist. If I can’t get the appointment moved sooner, my reciprocal blackmail is doomed, and I don’t yet have another plan for leverage.
The credits finally roll, pulling me back into reality as we shuffle out of the tiny theatre into the crisp night air.
Chelsea gives an exaggerated shiver, and I put my arm around her, even opening her door like a gentleman, before getting into the driver’s seat. I drum my fingers on the wheel as she buckles her seatbelt.
It’s just past eleven according to the glow of the dashboard clock. “You want to go somewhere else? There’s a party in Sumner if you fancy it.”
She hesitates, her brows pulling together. “Not this late,” she finally says, apologetic. “I really need to get home.”
“Fair enough.” Shifting gears smoothly, I steer out of the carpark and aim for her neighbourhood.
“What were you doing with Ophelia in the office yesterday?”
Chelsea makes the question sound blasé, but a glance at her tight jawline tells me it’s anything but.
I stick near the truth. “Bribing her out of reporting me.”
Her face relaxes. “You know me and my friends would back your side of the story. If it’s between Ophelia’s word and ours…” She gives a sniff.
“Thanks. It’s good to have your support, but it’s not worth risking expulsion again. Not over something so petty.”
“Is being expelled really something you’re worried about?”
Her eyes are too sharp, expression too curious. I aim for indifference. “Not for myself but Dad’s getting pretty sick of smoothing ruffled feathers with the school trustees. Besides”—I shoot her a cheesy grin—“I don’t want to leave now I’ve met you.”
The play works far too well and Chelsea’s hand lands on my thigh. My expression slips for a second and I duck my head, fumbling for the right script.
Regret. Nervousness. Play it soft, apologetic.
I cover her hand with mine, just firmly enough to set a boundary without shattering her pride.
“Sorry, but this…” I give a reluctant sigh and pause, letting the weight of the moment hang. “This is difficult because I really like you.”
Her lips are slightly parted, the rest of her features unreadable. I rub the bridge of my nose, feigning a nervous tic.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. “It’s just…”
“It’s okay.” Chelsea squeezes my forearm. “You don’t have to be nervous. I’m a virgin, too. If you want to wait, that’s fine.”
Not where I was going, but this works just as well. “You are? No way.”
She laughs, tossing her head. “It’s true.” Her teeth sink into her lower lip, really biting it. “My boyfriend cheated on me the night we were…”—she waves her hand—“you know.”
“Sounds like a lucky escape.” When she nods, I hazard a guess. “Did he… with Ophelia?”
Her wince tells me I’m right before she nods.
“I’m grateful you felt able to share that with me.
” I cover her hand with mine, then transfer it back to her lap, and grip the wheel.
“Listen… are you free the weekend after next? My dad’s having a party…
” I shake my head, chuckling. “I know how lame that sounds, but there’ll be lots of important people there. ”
“It doesn’t sound lame at all.”
“Black tie, and don’t worry about the dress, it’s on me. We have an account at Effie Walker’s boutique, but I can borrow the jet if you want to try an Auckland designer?”
“Effie’s is fine.” Her fingers tighten on the seatbelt. “Did you want to help me select an outfit?”
“Sure. We can coordinate.” My voice drops half an octave. “Then everyone will know you’re with me.”
Her expression softens. As I pull back onto the road, I’m pleased with the trajectory of the entire conversation. Hopefully, my father will be, too.
After dropping off Chelsea, I turn towards home, letting out a long breath now there’s no one there to hear it. The night’s conversations replay in my mind and I analyse each pause, each flicker of emotion across her face, with far more scrutiny than during the actual moment.
I park the car in the garage and walk the long way around to our main entrance, steps crunching on the quartz gravel. Crossing the lobby, a whiff of cognac tells me that my father’s here, and I divert towards the basement. His favourite set of rooms in the entire house.
Cold air emanates from the door even though it’s draught proof. The underground suite is carved directly into the hillside rock, cool in summer, freezing in winter.
You could scream your lungs out down there with no one hearing.
I did.
I open the door and keep hold of the handle, disguising the tremor in my fingers. But there’s no disguising the way the steep steps pitch and yaw before my eyes.
A girl’s down there with him. Sixteen, seventeen maybe. His favourite age—just legal. She perches on the edge of a carved wood armchair, legs crossed at the ankle, hands clasped tightly in her lap. For the briefest moment, our eyes meet, something desperate already parked in hers.
“Wait here,” my father orders without looking her way. She nods mutely and her shoulders hunch tighter.
I retreat into the hallway as he emerges, softly closing the door behind him.
“Where were you tonight?”
“Out with Chelsea.” I snap my heels together. “As ordered.”
He doesn’t acknowledge my sarcasm; just studies me like I’m a faulty piece of machinery. “How’d it go?”
“Good. She’s coming to your party next Saturday and we’re going dress shopping beforehand.”
His brow lifts slightly. “And her father?”
I shrug. “Hasn’t entered our conversation at all, but I’ll invite myself back to hers after the dress fitting, wrangle an introduction. Snoop a little.”
Dad’s gaze sharpens further, but I keep my face impassive until his eyes stray back towards the basement door. “Don’t fuck it up.”
“I won’t.” I hesitate, then add in a rush, “There’s something else.”
His eyebrows arch as he turns back to me.
“Do you know Rothschild, the eye doctor?” He gives the barest nod; he knows everybody. “I need an appointment for next week. A tutor at school is fully booked up for the term… but this would sway her.”
“A tutor,” he repeats flatly.
“For music. I’ve already sorted my other classes; it’s just this one left. And it’s the only way I’ll catch up now.” His face stays impassive. “I don’t want Chelsea thinking I’m thick.”
He frowns for several long seconds, then he pushes away from the wall. “Send the request through Gregorie, and he’ll sort it.”
“Thank—”
The basement door clicks shut, his final word. He knows I won’t follow him down there.
Tension eases from my shoulders as I head upstairs, already typing on my phone. Need an appointment with Rothschild next week, outside of school hours.
There’s no elaboration needed. Once dad’s private secretary gets a command, it’s done.
Inside my room, I nudge off my shoes and slide open the doors onto the wide balcony, inhaling lanolin and tussock from the sheep dotted hillside, salt spray from the sheer ocean cliffs on the other side.
Beautiful, everyone says so.
All I feel is the hollowness inside.
My knuckles sting when I grip the railing, and I flex my right hand, the skin itching as it knits together.
The emptiness is at a manageable level now, but last week it was a starved creature chewing through my ribs, lunging at the first fresh prey it saw. My English teacher’s cheekbone had cracked like a wishbone snapping.
If my father hadn’t been hip-deep in this Impaglia merger, the resulting exclusion would have been my final chance. He’s threatened me with banishment to the Rarotonga office before. Nothing but a Pacific island cage. Eyes everywhere. The sort of place they’d arrest me for spitting on the footpath.
And that’s a merciful option compared with my mother.
Until he’s safely on the other side of his planned deal, I need to focus on Chelsea.
But my mind’s eye fills with the delicate colouring along Ophelia’s cheekbone, the tempting hollow at the base of her throat.
There would be such satisfaction in playing both sides of their rivalry. Dating the virginal queen while indulging my baser instincts with the impoverished beauty.
It’s what my kind are born to do.
Instead of getting into bed, I put on my sneakers and grab a hoodie. My fingers close tight around my car keys as I slip silently downstairs.
I’ll just do a drive-by. Maybe mount a cheap camera on the lamppost across the road to keep tabs on her.
Something to watch while I meticulously plan what I’ll do once my leverage falls into place.