10. Penelope
Hawthorn
Come to the boat, now. You’re mine until it’s over…and it’s not over yet.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve read his message, but no matter how many times I close down the app, then reopen it again, the words never change.
I don’t understand. When he agreed to help me, he said it was a one-time only thing. That’s what we agreed to. Those were his rules, not mine. He was in charge, no condom, and it was just once to break the will, nothing more. So, what’s changed? What does he mean it’s not over?
My skin shivers a little as I think about the way he sounded when he told me his rules. Memories of that morning have been haunting me ever since I left, and even though I should be trying to forget him and the way it felt to be under his control, I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s only been a couple of days, but already the pain has faded from my memory, and now all I can see and feel and taste when I think about us together is pleasure. So much pleasure, that now I’m not sure how much of it was real and how much I’ve fabricated to gloss over the fact that it was just an act and not something deeper.
I know he’s expecting a reply, but I have no idea what to say. Is he playing with me, toying with me to see how pathetic I am? Or does he really expect me to just go to him because he demands it?
The hardest part is that I want to go to him. My body remembers his touch, and my mind craves his dominance. Since I handed over that letter to my sister, I’ve felt completely adrift. For nearly four years, I’ve had purpose, and now I’m just here, wallowing in my misery but knowing that I’m not worthy of anyone’s sympathy. But thinking about him wanting me somehow makes everything easier.
I’m still in bed, beneath the covers, the same way I have been since I dragged myself out of the bath last night. I know I should move, that I should start to embrace my new life, that I should plan what I’ll do now that I’m free of my parents’ and dead great-grandfather’s control. But my limbs feel too heavy to move, and I’m so incredibly tired.
The last time I ate was the breakfast I had with Hawthorn, but every time I think about food, I start to panic because I don’t know what I can eat now. Mom has meticulously planned every morsel of food that’s gone into my mouth for so long that I’m not sure I’m even capable of choosing without her directive.
The realization of just how pathetic I am adds another layer of weight on top of my already heavy body, and I sigh, pushing the pang of hunger I feel away and locking it in the box I’ve been conditioned to keep it in.
After receiving texts and missing calls from her all day, I finally texted Izzy back an hour ago, but when my cell beeps, I know it’s another message from her.
Opening up the text app, I read the message thread.
Me
I’m fine, please stop calling and texting. I’m not ready to come back to school yet.
Izabella
Where are you?
Let me come to you.
Or you can come to us. Gulliver has plenty of spare bedrooms you could stay in.
I don’t want you to be alone.
Are you at the house?
Have you spoken to Mom and Dad?
Hawthorn is worried about you too. What happened between you guys?
Clicking out of the message thread with her without replying, I open up the messages between me and Hawthorn again and stare at his words.
Hawthorn
Come to the boat, now. You’re mine until it’s over… and it’s not over yet.
His demand is so alluring. Hawthorn wants me. I don’t know why, but he wants me, and right now, when I don’t have a home, when I’ve alienated my parents and my entire life focus is gone, his wanting me is a lifeline that feels like a siren call.
But the temptation also feels like I could drown in it. The biggest part of me wants to give myself over to him, but when he inevitably walks away, there’ll be nothing of me left. My life is so empty right now, and I’m terrified that I could let Hawthorn’s attention fill the gaping hole that’s left now that I’m not scheming and manipulating. But no matter what, I can’t allow a boy to become my everything.
I need to make some choices and grow the fuck up. Izzy left our parents’ house covered in bruises and scared and became this badass, kicking ass and taking names, but I’m not like her. I’m not strong, and I have no idea what to do. My trust fund is large enough that I don’t have to worry about money, but do I buy a house, an apartment, or do I just stay at this hotel until I graduate and go to college? I’m so used to having my days, my weeks, and my life planned out for me, and now that all those plans have fallen by the wayside, I don’t know what to do.
Izzy has been relentlessly trying to speak to me, but apart from a couple of texts from Hawthorn, no one else has reached out to me to check if I’m okay. I’m not dumb, I know my friends were only interested in me because I was going to be worth a fortune, but it still stings a little to be faced with the reality that none of them even care enough to check I’m still alive. I’m not surprised that my parents haven’t called to check on me, but despite knowing I was simply a pawn to be used to gain access to my inheritance, I’ve still almost called my mom three times today. I’ve been so conditioned to ask her permission for everything beyond breathing that I’m not sure if I know how to exist without her stifling control.
Izabella would tell me this is my opportunity to discover who I am and figure out what I want to do, but I’m not her. She’s brave, and I’m weak. If this will has taught us both nothing else, it’s the fact that when faced with life-altering decisions, she will do the right thing, and I’ll just do as I’m told.
The thought of going back to Green Acres Academy is almost unbearable. I’m not sure I’m brave enough to cope with my fall from grace, and I know I’m not strong enough to face the sneering retribution from all the people I’ve disregarded simply because my mom told me they should remain beneath my notice.
There are other prep schools in the city and hundreds across the States. I could enroll somewhere else, where no one knows who I am, where my surname isn’t recognized and isn’t important. I could finish out my senior year and then go to college. But if I’m being really honest with myself, despite the stack of college acceptance letters that have started to arrive, I don’t think I can cope with the level of work an Ivy League will expect without my sister to do it for me. Apart from a couple of electives, Izzy has taken the bulk of my core classes for me for years, she’s the smart one, not me.
Izabella would help me if I asked her to—she’s simply too nice to say no—but isn’t that what started all this mess—her coming to my aid because I wasn’t smart enough to succeed on my own? No. I’ve already fucked over my twin enough, this is my problem, and I need to grow a pair and figure out how to stand on my own two feet.
As much as I want to, I can’t stay in this bed forever, whining over how shitty my life is. It’s time to pretend to be my badass sister. Tomorrow I need to go back to school. I’m Penelope Rhodes, and if nothing else, I know how to act like I’m the smartest person in the room.
* * *
It’s harder than you’d expect to find a prep school uniform on short notice, although not impossible, if you throw enough money at the problem. I could go home and pack a case. I’ve no doubt my parents have already left. By now, they’re probably on a beach somewhere avoiding the scandal I caused when I broke the will and my mom attacked me in a room full of high society, but I still don’t plan on going back home to find out. That house is full of every bad decision I’ve ever made, and I’m nowhere near ready to handle that particular trip down memory lane yet.
As I smooth the barely visible creases out of my GAA uniform, I feel a little more centered than I did yesterday. When I was ordering DoorDash to pick up supplies for me last night, I bought a hair straightener because having poker-straight hair is part of the look Mom chose for me, and she’s never allowed me to deviate from the style. But as I stood in the bathroom this morning, straightener in hand, something stopped me from falling back on my classic look. Maybe it’s that I don’t feel like the same person I was three days ago. Maybe it was my backbone clicking back into place and reminding me that Mom doesn’t get to pick who I am and what I look like anymore. But either way, I made the choice to make a change.
Lifting my chin, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, twisting from side to side to admire the halo braid that curves around my head and the loose strands that fall in waves on either side of my face. A smile that is oddly unfamiliar spreads across my lips. I look different, and not just because of how I did my hair.
Buttoning up my blazer, I pull in a breath, then run my eyes over my reflection, checking everything is perfect the same way I’ve done every day for years. My feet are clad in black Mary Janes, my white uniform socks are shorter than I usually wear, finishing at the ankles and leaving my legs on display. My skirt is the same plaid I’ve worn for years, but it’s shorter than I usually wear, ending mid-thigh instead of the conservative inch above my knee I’m used to wearing.
I look the same as normal, but somehow different too. Mom used to have my uniform tailored, and although everything I’m wearing fits, it doesn’t feel the same. My shirt seems to cling in a way that makes me look skinny, and the length of the skirt seems almost provocative with the ankle socks and heels. Combined with the different hair and makeup, I feel…different.
Tapping my cell, I check the time, then exhale shakily. If I’m going to school, I need to leave, but I can’t seem to get my feet to move. Neither my sister nor Hawthorn contacted me again last night, and even though I’m glad, a part of me is terrified that I’ve pushed away the only people who aren’t going to attack me when I walk through the school doors.
I’m not worried about physical violence, but I’ve been awful to a lot of people for a long time, and now that I’m powerless and unimportant, I know plenty of people will be looking to get their revenge.
Forcing myself to leave the bathroom, I grab my bag and room key and open the door before I can talk myself out of going. For the first time ever, I wish I knew how to drive, but I don’t. Mom said it was undignified to drive myself places when I had a driver whose job it was to take me where I needed to go.
As I climb into the back of the town car I ordered, I curse myself for listening to her. If I had my own car and knew how to drive, I could park at the back of the lot, then sneak into school once everyone else was already headed to their homeroom. But there’s no such thing as a discrete arrival in a black town car.
If everything works out like I planned, I’ve timed my car to get me to school exactly five minutes before the bell rings. I won’t be the last person to enter the building, but the majority of the other students will already be at their lockers, and apart from a few stragglers, there shouldn’t be a huge crowd of people on the steps to witness my arrival. I know there’s no hope of me going unnoticed, but this way I won’t have to deal with the entire school whispering and staring at me the moment I get out of the car.
Pressing my stomach with the palm of my hand, I try to quell the wave of nausea that rushes over me the moment my car slows to a stop in front of the school. If I wasn’t such a bitch to everyone, then maybe there could have been someone waiting for me, but instead there’s nothing but a handful of people whose names I don’t know, because I never deemed them important enough to learn.
Calling on all my years of self-important bravado and etiquette classes, I wait for the driver to open my door, then climb out of the car with my head held high and an air of confidence that is so brittle a single glance could make it crumble. Lifting my bag onto my shoulder, I stride to my locker, ignoring the surprised gasps and amused snickers I can hear around me.
The moment I take my seat in homeroom, Olivia Lockley slips into the seat beside me. “Oh my god, Penelope, is it true?” she asks, her eyes wide and horrified. She’s the younger sister of one of the guys on my great-grandfather’s list, her family is old money, but they were never prestigious enough for my parents to even consider me marrying her brother.
“Is what true?” I ask, turning to face her, my expression masked by my now shaky air of superiority.
“That you’re destitute?” she shrieks.
I scoff and roll my eyes. “Don’t be absurd, Olivia.”
“Fine, not destitute, but is it true that the money’s gone?”
“The money isn’t gone, it still exists, but if what you’re asking is if I’m still in line to inherit it, then the answer is no,” I tell her dispassionately.
“What happened?” she gasps, standing up and taking a physical step back from my desk like my lack of inheritance could be contagious.
“I’m not sure how that’s any of your business,” I snap.
“Wow, there’s no need to be a bitch,” she sneers, looking down her nose at me as she turns and moves back to her desk, two rows behind mine.
My eyes fall closed, and I pull in a deep, shaky breath. Four days ago, when I was going to be worth billions, I could have told that girl to lick the dirt from my shoes, and I’m pretty sure she would have done it just to carry my favor, and now she’s calling me a bitch to my face.
Perhaps if it wasn’t true, I might argue, but if anyone here really knew everything I’ve done, they’d be calling me a monster, so a bitch feels mild in comparison. But her questions have confirmed one thing: everyone here already knows…I just wonder what version of the truth they think is the real one.
Now that my sister got herself placed in almost all of my classes, I know there’s no way I can avoid her for long. Homeroom seems to take forever as I try to ignore the way everyone is talking about me, but I still dally leaving the room because I’d rather deal with gossiping kids than face my sister.
“Penelope.” I hear my sister’s voice a moment before she barrels into me, her arms wrapping around me as she pulls me in for a hug. I freeze in the middle of the hallway, the physical contact from her unexpected and, honestly, a little weird. Our family are not huggers, in fact, we’re not tactile at all. I can probably count on one hand how many times either of my parents have hugged me. But then Izabella has never been like the rest of us.
When I don’t reciprocate her embrace, she pulls back, looking at me quizzically, like she’s worried I’m about to implode or something. I see the flash of hurt in her eyes as she steps back and melts into Gulliver’s arms when he appears behind her.
“Are you okay? Where are you staying?” she asks quietly.
“I’m fine, I’m at a hotel for the moment,” I tell her stiffly, still confused by why she cares.
Since that night at the party when I got so drunk I was sick, we’ve become less hostile toward each other. But the will’s broken, it’s done and over, our parents won’t care about her and Gulliver now, so I don’t understand why she’s even speaking to me. Maybe I’m just such a terrible person, that her being nice makes me uncomfortable, or maybe I’m suspicious enough to assume it’s all an act, and I’m waiting for her to enact the revenge she so rightfully deserves to get on me. I deserve her hate; I want her hate because I have no idea what to do with all this concern she keeps showing me.
“What hotel? Why don’t you come and stay with me and Gulliver? That’s okay, isn’t it?” she asks her fiancé.
“Of course,” he says, looking down at her with so much love I feel a little sick.
It’s not that I begrudge my sister and Gulliver’s happiness, it’s more that I don’t know how to deal with it. Seeing the two of them together is the first time I’ve seen a couple who genuinely care for each other. I know it started out as a lie, but even I can see that it’s real now. A part of me hates it, but the other part is jealous, because even when every man I met was falling over himself to marry me, I was never going to have what they have. Marriage was always going to be an arrangement for me.
“No, thank you, I’m fine where I am,” I say, shouldering my bag and turning to leave, not wanting to spend more time than I have to with the happy couple.
“Wait, where are you going?” my sister asks.
“Class,” I say, not turning to look at her as I continue to walk away.
Izabella talks to me in every class, sitting beside me in the ones she can and rushing to catch up with me every time I leave the room. Either Gulliver or one of their friends is in all of my morning classes, and they dutifully follow her, following me.
“Come sit with us at lunch,” Izzy says hopefully, as we step out of the classroom and turn to head to the cafeteria.
The urge to cling onto the olive branch she’s offering me is so overwhelming, I feel myself leaning toward her. But I can’t allow myself to give into her comfort, because if my sister truly is as nice as she’s being right now, then she deserves so much better than I can ever be. Most people would be overwhelmingly grateful for how generous my twin is being toward me, considering my behavior for the last few years. But the truth is that I’m not a nice person, and I refuse to hurt her any more than I already have. I need to push her away now before she realizes exactly who I am. I’d rather upset her for a moment than disappoint her for a lifetime.
“Look,” I say, spinning around to face her. “I know you think I’m just like you, that I’m a victim of our parents, and that we share this trauma bond or whatever. But nothing’s changed, Izabella. We’re not friends, and everything that’s happened didn’t unite us. I did what I had to do to save myself, and it worked out that it saved you too. So, let’s not pretend that we’re real sisters or that we’re going to skip off into the sunset together because we’re not, okay?”
I turn to leave and gasp as I almost slam straight into Hawthorn, his brows furrowed together, his eyes hard. Without another word, I step past him, forcing my head to stay held high as I make my way into the cafeteria alone, leaving my sister and her new family in my wake.
I’ve always enjoyed the feel of the envious glances from the other students, knowing they were looking and wishing they were me. But today all I feel is the lack of eyes, no one’s looking at me anymore because no one cares. Without the money, I’m not worthy of their attention and adoration. I’m just Izabella Rhodes’s sister. She’s the important one now. She’s Gulliver Winslow’s fiancée, and the article they did in the society pages confirmed that she’s now very much a part of the power alliance that will see him, Davis, Kip, and Hawthorn take the business world by storm when they come of age.
My sister’s star is on the rise while mine is sinking. Instead of being Penelope Rhodes, the heiress, I’m invisible, unimportant, and unremarkable, just like I was four years ago before all of this started. For the first time since I gave Hawthorn my virginity and broke the will, I regret my decision. I regret walking away from a fortune. I regret ignoring my parents, and I regret making myself forgettable again.