Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
There it stands.
Home.
There is a sliver of discontent as I pull my car up to the security shed that stands in front of the gleaming metal gate that leads to the place I have called home since I was three years old.
There has always been an unease that lingers in my core when I drive through these gates.
I always chalk it up to simple jealousy.
Knowing that the moment I step inside, I am no longer Bailey Jameson, star reporter, but Bailey Jameson, unwanted daughter and mistake.
Rolling down the window, I show my face to Grant, the regular daytime security guard my father employs.
“Welcome back, Miss Jameson.” Grant tips his head at me as he presses a small button on the high-tech panel inside the shed. “I already radioed ahead to let your family know you have arrived. They have been worried.” He shoots me a disproving look.
“Wipe that look from your face,” I sneer at him.
Grant has always been cordial to me, but he is my father’s lackey.
A spy who documents my comings and goings.
His brows bury in his hairline, and his eyes go wide at my sudden hostility toward him.
It is not often that I portray much beyond the docile and meek daughter my father has tried to raise me to be.
In this house, everyone wears a mask.
Not bothering to waste any more time, I drive through the open gates.
Gravel crunches beneath my tires as I pull into the opulent circular driveway.
I leave my car idle in front of the grand steps that lead up to the porch, waving off the porter as I pull my suitcase from the back seat.
The story I plan on telling them runs through my head a dozen times, again and again.
My family needs to believe that I have been holed up in a hotel in Portland to heal my broken heart.
Pfft.
Broken, my ass.
My fingers play nervously with the hem of my long-sleeve blouse, fiddling with the small communication device I have sewn into the lining.
It won’t be able to be detected, the frequency too low for my father’s anti-listening devices to pick up.
Somehow, despite my reticence about my father being some criminal mastermind, having it makes me feel safer.
With a long sigh, I step inside the house.
It feels cold and impersonal compared to the warmth and design of the Kavanaughs’ penthouse.
The furniture is large and garish. It is also as uncomfortable as hell.
There is no family media room, and dinners are rarely taken together unless Father has his business associates over.
“You little cunt.”
Hindsight is twenty-twenty.
A painful sting radiates across my cheek, catching me off guard. I stumble, tripping over my suitcase and landing painfully on my ass.
Fuck, that hurts.
“Nice to see you too, Sarah,” I sneer, holding my hand to my cheek to quell the burn.
“Where the hell have you been?” she snarls. “You think you can just walk out on the deal your father made with the Knights?”
“Well,” I pick myself up from the floor. “I would say that, yes, I can. I am not marrying someone who has been actively cheating on me.”
Sarah crosses her arms against her chest and rolls her eyes. “Oh, grow up, Bailey,” she chastises. “Men cheat. It is who they are. You have always known this marriage isn’t about love,” she spits the last word out with disgust. “It is about forming an alliance. It is about power.”
The edges of my mouth twitch in disdain. “If you think I am going to marry someone who makes me as miserable as my father makes you, think again,” I spit at her. “It’s over. If you want this alliance so bad, give him Dalia instead.”
Sarah steps toward me with her arm raised as if to hit me again. She stops at the last moment, her eyes hardening. “Ungrateful little bitch,” she sneers. “I told him to get rid of you when we had the chance. I told him you would be useless, even as a pawn.”
Get rid of me?
Her jaw sets as she lifts her chin. “You will marry Drew, Bailey.” She takes a long, resolved breath. “Or I will see to it that you end up just like your mother. Slit throat and all.” Without another word, she turns on her heel and stalks out of the entry hall.
There isn’t much time to contemplate what she said before Carson, the family butler, clears his throat from the entryway to the long hall that leads toward my father’s office.
I turn my head to look at him, taking in his tailored coattails and polished shoes.
He stands firmly erect, shoulders pushed back, chest out.
The perfect slave in a dynasty of masters wrapped up in an air of civility.
He has served my father’s household since he was seventeen, but in the end, he is nothing more than a cog in the machine. Just like me.
“Your father is requesting you, miss,” he informs me, his crisp voice tainted somewhat painfully.
Out of everyone in the household, he is the one who always takes care of me.
My father never bothered with nannies for me like he did with Dalia.
Instead, he gave me away to the household staff.
I was raised by Mary, the cook, Celia, the maid, and Carson, the butler.
It is where I get my drive to work hard for what I want.
Not that anyone would hand it to me anyway.
I give him a tight nod and smile as I step past him. The man lays a gentle hand on my shoulder, stalling my feet. I look up at him, the lump of unease growing thick in my throat.
“That boy doesn’t deserve you.”
A choked chuckle leaves me at his words. He doesn’t say anything more. Simply removes his hand and leads me toward the one person I fear most.
My own father.
“Are you going to tell me where you’ve been?” I barely step through the door before the barrage of questions begins. “Do you not understand the repercussions of disappearing? Are you honestly that stupid?”
“Hello to you, too, father.” I sink into the seat across from his desk. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking. No, I’m not going to tell you where I’ve been.”
My father growls, his lips twisting into a sneer.
Looking at him now, I wonder how much of my mother I resemble, rather than him.
Other than the color of our hair, we barely look anything alike.
I’ve never seen a picture of my mother. I barely remember what she looks like, but I don’t recall her having dark hair or blue eyes.
My father’s are brown. His skin has a darker coloring to it.
A stark difference to my pale complexion.
Even our personalities differ.
I wonder if this is why he treats me so differently from Dalia. Not just the fact that I am the product of an affair, his greatest shame, but because he sees nothing of himself in me. All he sees is my mother, the woman he holds responsible for nearly ruining his career.
“Don’t talk back to me, Bailey,” he snarls, his fists clenched tightly on his desk. “You need to apologize to Drew about your behavior immediately.”
I give an unladylike snort.
“That’s not happening,” I tell him firmly. “How about he apologizes to me for screwing Brittany behind my back for the last three years? But even then, you still won’t get an apology out of me. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“If you satisfy him like a woman is supposed to,” my father leans forward, his dark eyes holding mine, “he wouldn’t have to fuck other women.
” There is a coldness there that I have never seen before.
A dark, dangerous glint. My mind flashes back to the images of him mounting underage girls in a dirty cell.
His face holds the same malevolent look while the girl beneath him cried.
I want to tell myself that those photos are fake.
Manipulated. Now, however, as I look at the man who raised me, I am having a hard time living in denial.
Maybe it isn’t just a river in Egypt after all.
“I’m not marrying him,” I reiterate. “End of story.” Rising from my seat, I go to leave the office, wanting to clean off the disgusting film this conversation has left on my skin.
White-hot pain pulls at my scalp. I cry out as I am wrenched backward. My feet stumble, but the hand in my hair keeps me standing. Another hand wraps around my throat, squeezing hard enough to cut off precious air.
“You listen to me, you little slut,” he hisses, spittle flying.
His face is red hot with anger, his eyes bulging as he glares down at me.
“You will apologize to him, and you will be marrying him. Otherwise, I will sell you off to the highest bidder. There are men out there who would take great pleasure in breaking you. So you are going to be a good little whore, just like your mother, and do as I say. Understood?”
Air. I need air.
I nod my head the best I can, tears streaming down my cheeks as I fight the blackness surrounding me. My father tightens his grip on my throat before letting me go completely. Coughing, my knees buckle beneath me, and I sink to the floor, holding my throat and crying.
“I have given you everything, Bailey,” my father reminds me as he looks down at my crumpled form. “None of that is given for free. You will obey me in this, or there will be consequences. Your mother faced hers, and I’ll make sure you face yours.”
My brow furrows. What does he mean by that?
“How did my mother die?” I rasp. “Did you kill her?”
He hesitates. It is barely there. Less than a microsecond, but I catch it.
“You know how she died, Bailey,” he utters in disgust. “She overdosed.”
“Sarah said her throat was slit.”
There. The slight widening of his eyes before he shakes his head.
“Sarah is no doubt drunk and rambling. You have caused her a great deal of stress over the past few days.” He walks back behind his desk and takes his seat. The overlord on his throne. “Now, get out of here before I decide to call Fernando in to give you a real punishment.”
Something isn’t right, but the threat of a beating from Fernando is enough to get me to drop the subject and hightail it out of his office like my ass is on fire.
I am not going to let it go, though.
Not yet.