Chapter 3 #2
His words hit me squarely in the chest, pushing the oxygen from my lungs. It’s so sudden and so intense that the room seems to swim in my periphery. Surely, what happened… it wasn’t that bad, was it? I’ve fucked up before, and sure, the media caught wind of it this time, but to cut me off for it?
“Evidence?” I ask in a broken whisper, staring at the packet of paperwork, which suddenly feels more like a bomb waiting to explode.
This can’t be happening. It just can’t.
“Evidence,” my father confirms, his lips pulled into a grim, satisfied smile at my reaction.
“That you are not of sound mind to make responsible, informed decisions with the money entrusted to you. The filing requests that an impartial trustee be appointed to handle any financial disbursements. For you to receive so much as a cent, you’ll need to submit an official request. In short, Blair, you’ve been put on a very short leash. ”
Crying will not help me here. If anything, tears have been previously proven to make Lord Porter annoyed rather than sympathetic, but I can’t help it. My eyes burn and I blink rapidly, scrambling for the correct thing to say, the precise sentiment he needs to get me out of this.
Even as I search for a way out, though, I know there isn’t one. He might have forgiven me if I’d only embarrassed myself, but I didn’t. This time, I embarrassed him and the family. He won’t let that go.
Like he knows I’m beyond words, Dad continues, his lips pressed into a flat line. “The election is in eight months, and you have become a liability. Perception is vital, Blair, so until you have proven yourself capable of exercising restraint and managing your own affairs, it will be done for you.”
My hands twist in my lap, and I stare at him, still mentally scrambling for a loophole, a way out. “What… what do you want me to do?”
“You will stay here, at Thornhurst, until the court order expires in May.”
His words hit me squarely in the middle of my chest, so sharp and sudden and powerful that I can barely breathe. Eight months. I have to stay in this godforsaken place for eight months.
“None of your friends”—his mouth twists at the word, as if the people I’ve spent my time with are too vile to mention with a straight face—“will be permitted onto the grounds. There will be no drugs and no alcohol.”
I grit my teeth. “I don’t do drugs.”
Often, anyway.
Dad gives no indication he heard this. Lacing his fingers together atop the desk, he leans forward, cold eyes boring into mine.
“Your mother and I think a little stability and routine will do wonders for your well-being. We’ve decided you’re to use this time to focus on your health, committing to regular exercise and improving your diet. ”
Unthinking, I let out a sharp, disbelieving noise. “God, I haven’t gained that much—”
Again, he continues as if I haven’t spoken at all, his sharp, authoritative voice cutting over mine.
“In addition, Candice has made arrangements for you to attend online intermediary classes, to brush up on your studies in preparation for the upcoming school year. Upon which time, you will enroll at Orwick University and earn a degree in something sensible. Something that can be leveraged to give you a position in the family firm once you’ve graduated.
I’ve already pledged a sizable amount to the alumni association, and they’ve generously agreed to hold a place for you. ”
The noise I make in response is part cry, part laugh. “You can’t just… decide all that. You can’t make me stay here. I’m not a prisoner.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re more than welcome to make your own way in life, with no work history, no university education, and a proud history of displaying your breasts for half the world to see.
Or you could enter a lengthy legal battle.
Unfortunately, as you have already provided us with more than sufficient evidence of your erratic behavior, I can’t see it going well for you. ”
My lungs ache as I sink back in my chair, staring at him as I struggle to contain the panic swelling inside me. My father has never been soft with us, and while I’ve seen hints of his ruthlessness, it’s never been directed toward me.
The phone sitting on his desk chimes, and Dad holds up a finger to stop my rebuttal, his eyes flying over the screen. When he looks up again and sees the tears streaming down both sides of my face, he merely sighs. “For Christ’s sake, get yourself together, Blair.”
My bottom lip trembles, and I shake my head bitterly. “I’m so very sorry that I have feelings.”
“Perhaps that is another thing you can work on during your time here,” he suggests blithely, rising from his chair. I watch, silently reeling, as he gathers up his phone and a few folders. Stepping out from behind the desk, he pauses, frowning down at me. “Think of this as an opportunity.”
“An opportunity?” I echo shrilly, the words slanted in incredulous disbelief.
His mouth flattens into a grim line, once again. “To better yourself. Eight months to focus on finding some purpose in life, rather than fluttering around the globe like a lost bird. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
And, obviously past caring whether or not I find it nice at all, my father pats me twice on the shoulder and continues toward the door.
An indistinct, meaningless chorus of murmuring voices carries back to me from the room beyond, but I stay where I am. I listen as they move farther and farther away, until all I hear is silence.
I’m alone.