LOLA
My heart races, almost as fast as the wind on a stormy day. I couldn’t get the image of Brody out of my head. Those eyes, like fog in a cemetery, the moon on a cold night. They were filled with hatred and fire when he looked at me in the studio.
Why do I care so much about what he thinks? We broke up three years ago. He hurt me. He left me. I need to be over him, not obsessing over him. So, why am I getting butterflies at the thought of seeing him at their house?
When Sophie invited me over, I almost said no. Almost. I couldn’t afford to be around Brody. Not now. Not when the leash around my neck is as tight as ever. I close my eyes and think of my mother. She would know what to say. But, then again, if she were alive, I wouldn’t be in this position.
Marcus is a monster, worse than ever, since she left.
I am his project, his prisoner, and he’s gotten more creative with the leash since my mother died.
She was the only force in the world that could slow him, could make him play nice.
Now, with her gone, he has unleashed a violence.
He wants me to be his daughter, his lover, his trophy, and his business partner, all in one.
I am the only thing that makes him feel anything other than rage, so he’s determined to consume me.
He’s determined to make me grateful for the privilege.
If she were alive, maybe Brody and I would still be together. Maybe I would be happy.
The best I can do now is give Sophie companionship when she calls.
Sophie is a lonely girl, I can see that.
Ever since the death of their mother, and Brody being gone for so long, she fell into an all-consuming grief.
I will be a good friend today and hang out with her.
Screw Marcus. Screw Brody. I can lie to Marcus, I’m a good liar.
I type out a text. Words on a screen are easier. Safer. He can’t see how fucking nervous I am through a screen. My hands shake while I type.
I will be home late tonight. I have a last minute modeling shoot in another town. No touching will be involved. They reached out to me through your client after they discovered how great I am.
His response comes in seconds.
I expect nothing less. Make me proud. But if you let them touch you, I won’t let you forget a fuck up like that. I will know if you lie.
I look at the words on the screen, and feel my muscles tighten with anxiety. Fear shoots up my skin, knowing all the ways he could punish me for lying. Sometimes, I wish I could have the courage to poison him.
I’m a bird in a cage, too afraid of taking flight. I survive, that’s all.
It doesn’t take me long to walk to their house. Sophie’s door opens before I can knock. She beams, pink-cheeked and all gentle warmth, wrapped in one of those cardigans that looks soft enough to sleep in.
“You made it,” she whispers.
I slip inside, pulse rolling. “Sorry I’m late.”
She grabs my hand and tugs me past the shoes in the entryway. I think for a second that maybe this is the normal I could’ve had if things had broken differently.
“Wine?” she offers, already reaching for a bottle on the kitchen counter. “It’s just, like, pinot. If you like that.”
I hesitate, Marcus’s rules pressed between my ribs. But the thought of turning her down feels more exhausting than the risk. “Sure. Just a little.”
“Just a little.” Sophie grins.
I slide onto a barstool at the kitchen island, fingers curled tight around the edge.
My cutoff top isn’t warm enough for this house.
Voss house always runs cold, maybe out of habit, maybe because he’s here.
Brody. He’s not in the room, but he’s everywhere.
I can feel him, like a storm at the edge of vision, waiting to crash over the horizon.
Sophie fills two glasses. I watch the red fan out, smooth, pretty, and dangerous. “Movie?” she asks. “You deserve a break.”
She’s always saying I deserve things. Love, safety, all the soft stuff she believes in. It’s both endearing and impossible. I nod anyway. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”
We collapse onto the couch and I sink into the cushions, body too heavy, breath too shallow.
Sophie flicks on the TV, streaming something with chattering dialogue and an upbeat score.
I barely even register what it is. I’m watching the hallway, the shadows, the way my nerves flicker when I sense movement above us.
It doesn’t take long. Brody’s footfall is unmistakable, the sound of control. Every step is measured. I remember when that used to mean comfort, not a threat. The way he let me curl up against his chest those endless summer nights, hands skimming over bare skin.
Not anymore. Now I know what it feels like to be gutted by that stare.
He stands in the threshold, looming. Lean muscle, black shirt, unreadable eyes fixed on me. Cold. Hungry. The kind of hungry that doesn’t want food, not really.
He doesn’t say anything. He never does, unless he’s cutting you open to see what bleeds.
Sophie glances up. “Brody, you want to watch the movie?”
He shrugs, barely a motion. It pulls his shirt tighter across his chest. “Not my thing,” he says, voice flat. Not for me but for her, signaling which side he’s on.
But he sits anyway. Drops down into the armchair with the heavy, bored grace of a predator conserving strength. He’s not watching the movie. He’s watching me. I focus on the TV, feigning interest.
Sophie makes a game of it, talking back to the screen, giggling at every stupid joke. She fills my glass again when it’s only half empty, nudging my foot with hers. “You need to relax,” she murmurs. “Let it go, just for tonight.”
I want to. God, I want to. I down the wine. It burns sweet, then bitter. Brody’s gaze drags over me. I try not to look, but I can feel it.
Sophie keeps up the banter, determined to break through the fog. “Remember that dumb movie we saw in sophomore year? The one where the girl faked her death?”
“I think I blocked it out.”
“Looked like you were blocking out something at the studio the other day, too,” Brody’s voice cuts in, icy. His face is carved from stone.
A flush starts at my throat, creeping up. “I was working.”
“It looked like work. If your job is to shove your tits in a guy’s face and bounce on his lap. Not judging. You looked… comfortable.”
Sophie’s eyes dart between us. She doesn’t speak. She never does when the tension gets like this, she just wants it to go away.
I swallow, fighting the urge to shrink back. “I do what I have to do. I didn’t exactly see you volunteering to help.”
Brody leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Didn’t realize you needed help. You always made it clear you could take care of yourself. Guess that was a lie, too.”
It’s almost funny how quick he is to pour acid on any weak spot. I shake my head. “Why do you care? You’re the one who left.”
His jaw flexes, something feral in the way his lips curl. “Yeah. Because I had to. Because you and your family made it clear I didn’t belong here anymore.”
I scrunch my face in confusion. ‘What?”
Sophie clears her throat. “Lola, can you help me grab snacks from the kitchen? Please?”
The reprieve is brief. She tugs me off the couch, warm hand on my arm, and whispers, “Just ignore him. He’s trying to get a rise out of you. He’s always been like that.”
Not always. The Brody I loved would’ve defended me. Now? He wants to see me squirm.
We grab popcorn, but when we return, she gets a text, something urgent about work, and runs off to “fix a crisis,” leaving us alone.
The silence is heavy, crushing the air from the room. I perch at the end of the couch, wine glass clutched like a lifeline. Brody doesn’t move, just studies me. Eyes storm-dark, ringed with something almost tortured, but colder than any winter wind. He waits until the silence is unbearable.
“Do you ever regret it?” His words fall hard, no inflection. “Becoming just like them.”
“Like who?”
He shrugs, gaze flicking to my chest, then back up to my eyes. “The girls who get paid to sit on men’s laps and pretend they like it.”
Each word lands like a slap.
“I’m not pretending,” I shoot back, desperate for some ground to stand on. “It’s a job. Not that you care, but it pays.”
He lets the silence drag. I let the shame bloom in my throat. Brody’s eyes narrow. “If that’s how you rationalize it.”
“You think you know everything?” I spit the words, defensive. “You don’t know what I have to do to survive.”
His voice is barely above a whisper. “I know you could’ve made different choices.”
All my muscles tense, knotting around the old wounds. “Maybe so could you.”
He laughs, bitter, mirthless. “I did. I left.”
The finality in that sentence is a guillotine. I can’t breathe for a second.
“Congratulations,” I say. “You got out. I hope it was everything you wanted.”
“You could’ve gotten out too, Bambi. But you didn’t want to leave the glass cage.”
Hearing that name stings more than I want to admit. “That’s not fair. You don’t know—”
He cuts me off, standing, looming over me, predatory. “I know you belong right where I found you the other day. Spread over some stranger for a camera. That’s the real you, isn’t it?”
My cheeks burn, shame and anger warring. “Go to hell.”
He leans in, his eyes are on fire. “Already there, princess. I thought I’d find some company.”
My hands shake. I want to hit him, or kiss him, or both. Instead I sit, hollowed out. “You’re cruel, Brody.”
He straightens. “You don’t know half of it.”
Sophie returns, her smile is too wide, too forced. She doesn’t ask what happened as she plops down between us, shoving popcorn at my face. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”
For a little while, I try. I let the wine fuzz out the ache, let the movie’s flickering light distract from the black hole chewing at my insides. But Brody never stops watching. Not really. His eyes keep finding me, latching on, branding me as his.
Nothing else gets said. Not out loud.
After a few hours, I stumble up, the world tilting just enough to make it hard to walk a straight line.