4. Hailee
Chapter four
Hailee
D rip. Drip. Drip.
Slow, steady, and hypnotic, each droplet falls from the faucet to the same leisurely rhythm. Sinking deeper beneath the bath water, I plug the leak with the tip of my freshly painted pink toenail, breaking the trance.
The heat of the water seeps into my cold bones and relaxes my muscles. I’ve always preferred my baths scalding hot. The hotter, the better. If I can’t feel the prickle of burn against my skin, it’s not hot enough. As I sip from my nearly empty wine glass, my eyes begin to droop. I don’t know why wine makes me so tired, but it does—especially on an empty stomach. Such a shame I didn’t get to eat anything tonight. What a waste of a nice restaurant.
I raise the glass to my lips once more and sigh. The idea of switching to vodka flits through my sleepy mind, but the minibar is too far away, and I’m too comfortable in this warm cocoon.
The sudden jarring vibration of my phone against the tiled floor jolts me wide awake. I stretch my arm over the edge of the tub to reach it; the glowing screen displays Beth’s name. My wet thumb swipes across the screen, but it refuses to unlock. With a determined sigh, I carefully rise from the water, my legs unsteady beneath me as I lean over to snatch the towel from the wall rack. It’s a bit far, and I have to juggle my wine in the same hand as my phone, but damn it, I will reach it. I know I should get out of the bath or put my wine glass down at the very least, but being the stubborn and lazy bitch that I am, I place my foot on the edge of the tub so I can lean over further. I have the towel in my fingers when my foot abruptly slips off the bath ledge. I fall hard back into the bath, arms up to protect my precious cargo, making the water splash over the edge and flooding the floor in the process. Pain shoots through my side as the edge of the bath jabs into my ribs.
Ouch, fuck!
Gasping for air, I drop the towel to the floor and clutch at my aching ribs with my spare hand, struggling to draw in a breath as waves of pain radiate through my body. I think I’ve been winded, though I’m not entirely sure. This is probably something sports people would know. But I’m no athlete, far from it. In fact, the last time I set foot in a gym was back in high school. I lift my arm and check for damage, wincing as I touch the tender, red skin across my ribs.
Shit, that’s going to bruise nicely.
Hopefully I didn’t break anything. One of these days my laziness will get me killed. I sink into the warm water once again, this time swiping my phone with my dry hand. Success!
Beth
How’d it go? x
As I’m typing back, a series of texts from Beth flood the screen.
Maybe I should have come with you.
You shouldn’t have gone alone.
If Mom says no, it’s not the end of the world. We’ll find another way.
I don’t want you to feel responsible. I love you, and we’ll get through this together like we always have.
Beth’s always been the type to communicate in rapid-fire bursts rather than craft a single cohesive message. A lump forms in my throat at her last text. When did she become so mature, so wise beyond her years?
She’s wrong, though: I am responsible. After all, I was the one who took her out of that toxic environment. Since then, she’s been my sole focus—my responsibility to protect, to nurture, to provide for. This is my problem to solve, my cross to bear.
Baths have always been my sanctuary, my favorite place to think. There’s something about the warm embrace of the water that relaxes my mind, allowing ideas to bubble to the surface, so I can problem-solve my life as though it’s a mathematical equation. If I put my mind to it, I reckon I could work out the scientific calculation for time travel in a bath. My lip twitches at the ridiculous thought.
Okay, time to lay off the wine.
I lean back and methodically sift through my options, dissecting each possibility with the precision of a seasoned analyst. My accounting degree may have instilled in me the skill to make calculated decisions, but it’s my ability to detach from emotions that proves invaluable in moments like these. In my experience, making emotional decisions nearly always ends in disaster. Approaching Liz for help was my final resort. Now that line has been crossed, it’s a matter of making the deal more favorable.
I mentally compile a list of non-negotiables. Moving back to New York to be part of my mother’s life again is a hard no. I didn’t uproot my life at eighteen and whisk my sister away only to end up back where I started. Beth’s wellbeing is my number one priority. At sixteen she’s still impressionable, and still grappling with the trauma of her congenital heart condition. The last thing she needs is a narcissistic and manipulative mother in her life.
Could I marry a stranger, someone not of my choosing? Could I let him touch me, fuck me? For Beth, absolutely. I never had any intentions of marrying anyway. A traditional marriage and kids have never been a dream of mine, so it’s no hardship to give that up.
Do I want to be a mom? I realize that I’ve never really considered whether it’s something I desire for myself. It was a role I took on from a young age, one that I embraced without question. Raising Beth was not a conscious decision; it was simply what needed to be done. And yet, Beth turned out to be a decent human being—more than decent. She is kind-hearted, compassionate, intelligent, honest, loyal, and overall, a kick-ass girl. I could do it again. I would embrace any child that came into my life with open arms and an open heart. Even if the sperm donor turned out to be an asshole, I would raise the child on my own, just like I did with Beth.
Is bringing a life into this world to save another ethical? I don’t know. But what I do know is that I would love this child fiercely and I would do everything in my power to protect them.
As I steel myself to broach the subject with Mark, I compile a list of stipulations to discuss. Then I finish off my text to Beth.
All sorted. You’ll be running marathons in no time;) x
***
When I peel my eyes open the next morning, my mouth resembles the Sahara Desert and my head pounds relentlessly.
God, wine sucks balls.
With a moan, I roll over, relieved to see I had the foresight to place a bottle of water on the nightstand alongside a couple of painkillers. I pop them in my mouth and gulp down half the water, soothing my parched throat. Picking up my phone, I see it’s close to midday, which would explain the bright sun streaming through the cracks of the blinds. A text from my stepfather is already waiting for me.
I groan and swipe it open.
Mark
Call me when you get this.
With a deep breath, I dial the number I haven’t dared to call in ten long years. Each digit feels heavy as I press it, a silent countdown to the moment when the trajectory of my life will be irrevocably altered.
He answers on the first ring. “About time you called.”
“What’s the rush? I said I would call when I had made my decision.” My voice is hoarse from sleep.
“There’s a charity gala tonight that I want you to attend as my plus one, since your mother isn’t here. There will be lots of wealthy men in the room, many potential candidates. I have two men in particular I want to introduce you to, and tonight is the perfect opportunity to show you off.”
Great, like a prized cow on the auction block.
“I’m sending you a gown. Please wear it, Hailee.”
I can’t help but grin. He knows I would show up in my flannel pajamas just to piss him off.
“I haven’t agreed yet. I have stipulations to our agreement.” I let out a rushed exhale.
“We can discuss it tonight. I’m not an unreasonable man, honey.”
I cringe again at that dreadful name. But I know better than to believe in his apparent willingness to bend the rules. Let’s see how “reasonable” he is once he hears my terms.
“Do you need someone to do your makeup and whatever else?”
I sigh. “I’ve got it covered.”
“I’ll send a car at eight. Text me the address.”
“Fine,” I mutter and disconnect the call. Flopping back onto the pillows, I close my eyes and contemplate the night ahead.
***
A loud, insistent pounding on my door startles me. Or is that in my head? The knocking grows louder and more aggressive, each rap echoing through my room.
No, not in my head then.
I stagger toward the door on heavy legs and wipe the sleep from my eyes. What time is it? What day is it?
Jesus, that nap fucked me up.
Whoever is on the other side seriously needs to chill. With a swift motion, I swing the door open to a bellhop holding a large black garment bag and two boxes tightly under his arm, clearly unimpressed. My lips curl up into a saccharine smile. Nothing pisses off angry people more than being extra kind. “Can I help you?” I ask sweetly.
“Miss, I’ve been knocking on your door for the past five minutes. You have an urgent delivery.”
“Apologies, I was in the bathroom. Please do come in.” I realize too late that he now thinks I have a serious case of diarrhea. I hold the door open wide, allowing him to pass with a huff. He places the garment bag on my bed and the boxes on the small table, his annoyance palpable.
Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I stifle a laugh. It’s painfully obvious that I wasn’t in the bathroom—crease lines from the pillow are still etched into my face and my hair is a tangled mess.
“Thank you, and apologies for keeping you waiting once again.” I hand him a generous tip. He inclines his head in thanks and strides out of my room.
That guy is loving life.
With a curious gaze, I fix my attention on the garment bag and boxes, anticipation fluttering in my chest. My teeth sink into my lower lip as I wonder what my stepfather has selected for me—or more accurately, what his assistant has chosen on his behalf.
Opening the boxes first, a sense of relief washes over me as I find a pair of shoes and a matching handbag. At least he remembered the essentials. As I delicately unwrap the tissue paper surrounding the shoes, my breath catches in my throat. They’re nothing short of breathtaking—crystal-covered pointy-toe pumps with a four-inch heel from Jimmy Choo. I’ve had my eye on these bad boys for a while. With trembling fingers, I run my hand over the sparkling crystals, marveling at their exquisite beauty. It’s the quintessential Cinderella slipper, fit for a princess. And if memory serves me right, the crystals are none other than Swarovski. With bated breath, I flip over the heel to check the size. Perfect . I let out a girly squeal. The small clutch matches the shoes, and I think I’ve died and gone to fashion heaven.
I eagerly unzip the garment bag and pull out a floor-length white gown, the silky fabric shimmering in the light. At first glance, it’s beautiful, but as I hold it up, a sinking feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. With a low-cut neckline and backless design, this gown is designed to showcase every curve and contour of my body. I’m going to be on show tonight, just as I feared.