12. Penelope
My feet are moving, but I’m not sure that I’m the reason they’re doing it. The last twenty minutes definitely happened, I can feel it in the bone-deep shaking that’s still vibrating through my legs and the rapidly cooling liquid that’s slowly leaking out of my sore pussy.
I just had sex with Hawthorn Benedict, in a room at our school, over the arm of an old couch. I let him touch me and fuck me and talk dirty to me, and it was unbelievable. But I shouldn’t have let it happen again. He gave me a chance to leave, but all I’ve wanted since I left him at the marina was to feel the warmth of his control again, and even though I know keeping my distance from him and my sister is the sensible thing to do, I needed him today.
I needed the brand of control he showed me the other morning on the boat. My entire life is spinning out of control, but with him, all I have to do is trust him to take over. It’s as exhilarating as it is terrifying.
Maybe if he wasn’t my sister’s friend, things could be different. But he’s part of Izzy’s new family—literally one of the five people in this school that I need to stay away from. So why do I seem incapable of ignoring him?
Everything about Hawthorn is starting to become a compulsion, and even though I know having any kind of relationship with him will only end up destroying me, I can’t seem to tell him no. Right now, his cold and exciting commands are the only kind of connection I feel capable of. Izabella is desperately trying to offer me a chance at reforging our family, but I don’t want it, I don’t deserve it, but I can’t seem to walk away from him as easily as I can her.
Darting into the closest bathroom, I lock myself in a cubicle and clean up as best as I can without a shower. I have no experience of sex with a condom, but without one is messy, especially in a skirt with no underwear. An unbidden giggle breaks free of my lips, and I slap my hand over my mouth to stifle the sound. I’m not sure if I’m happy or hysterical, but either way, it’s better than the nothingness that has been trying to consume me since I got back from the engagement party two days ago.
After flushing the toilet, I smooth down my skirt, checking and rechecking that you can’t tell I’m not wearing anything beneath it. After washing my hands, I leave the bathroom and step into the corridor. I used to love coming to GAA, this school was my platform, a place where I was adored, even if it was only because they wanted to use me. Now, I’m a pariah, the formerly almost super rich, it’s not exactly the most impressive title.
As I walk toward my class, no one follows me with their eyes, and when I happen to glance in the direction of a boy I don’t recognize, he winks at me. A week ago, he wouldn’t have dared to flirt with me. But now I’m not important or interesting anymore. No one envies me, no one wants me, or wants to use me, they just don’t care, and as the realization dawns on me, tears fill my eyes.
I want my mom, only she doesn’t care either—I’m not sure she ever did—because she hates me now. I ruined all of our lives, and I have no one else to blame but myself. Pushing my feet to move quicker, I dart past the class I’m supposed to go to, and before I realize it, I’m running down the hallway, through the school, and out the front door. I can’t be here, I can’t be this nobody, I just can’t.
Rushing across the lawns I dart for the road, pulling up the Uber app on my cell and almost collapse with relief when there’s a driver only four minutes away from me. My bag is still in my locker, all I have is my cell phone and my credit card that my parents could have canceled by now, but I can’t go back. I can’t face my classmates’ ambivalence.
When the car pulls to the curb, I hurry to climb in, wiping the tears from my eyes as I slide into the back seat. The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, her hair a mass of black, tightly wound curls that bounce as she turns to look at me, her eyes softening when she sees my tears.
“Are you okay, sweetie?”
I nod but don’t speak, and after a moment of awkward silence. she pulls away from the curb and blends into the lunchtime traffic. When the hotel comes into view, I unclip my seatbelt and have my hand on the handle ready to open the door before we even come to a complete stop.
“Thanks,” I say offhandedly as I climb out of the car and rush into the hotel lobby. Wiping a fresh bout of tears from my eyes, I march to the elevator and stab my finger against the call button. While I wait, I reach for my bag, only to remember that I left it and my key card in my locker at school.
Tipping my head back, I squeeze my eyes shut and inhale a weary, shaky breath. Turning, I pad across the lobby to the reception desk, blinking as I try to keep the tears that are leaking from my eyes at bay.
“Good afternoon. How may I help you?” the chipper male receptionist asks me, his smile wide, flashing his gleaming white, perfectly straight teeth.
“I’ve lost my key card, could I have a replacement, please?” I ask, my voice a little shaky as I try valiantly to keep my emotional meltdown under wraps.
“Of course, what’s your room number?”
“Ten sixty-five.”
Tapping at the computer in front of him, he looks up and smiles at me. “Your name, please?”
“Penelope Rhodes.”
“And do you have the payment card you provided us with?”
Handing over my credit card, I pull in shallow breaths, trying to stay calm as misery threatens to overwhelm me.
“Okay, here is your key, we have you due to check out tomorrow, do you need a wakeup call or a breakfast order placed?” he asks, his smile never slipping an inch.
“No, I need to extend my stay for a week, please,” I say, turning to leave, my new key card gripped tightly in my hand.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Rhodes, but I’m afraid your room isn’t available after tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I nod, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “Can you book me into a different suite?”
“I’m afraid all of the suites are booked for the next five days. We have a large group of guests that have reserved all of the suites, as well as both penthouse apartments. We do have standard rooms available,” he says, his infuriating smile still firmly fixed in place.
“Oh my god, are you serious?” I shriek, a torrent of the tears that I’ve been fighting to hold back finally breaking free.
“Please accept my apologies, Miss Rhodes, I can check at our sister hotel?—”
“No,” I snap, interrupting him. “It’s fine, just give me the key to a standard room and I’ll move now, there’s no point waiting until the morning,” I cry, looking away, not wanting him to see my composure slip even further.
“Of course,” he says, clicking at the keys on the keyboard for a second. “Here is your new key, your room is number 459. Call down to reception once you’re ready, and I can send Henry up to assist you with your luggage if you need, and please feel free to order anything you’d like on room service as an apology for your inconvenience. Can I book you a wakeup call or breakfast?”
“No,” I gasp on a sob, grabbing the key from him and rushing away before he has a chance to say another word.
It only takes me a few minutes to collect my handful of possessions from my suite and move them to my new standard room. By the time I’m lying on my bed, staring at the tiny room around me, I stop trying to hold back my despair and collapse in a heap of loud, uncontrollable sobs.
I don’t know if I’m crying for the loss of my old life, the money, or the prestige, or if I’m just crying because I’ve never felt more alone in my life. Whatever the reason, I sob until my eyes are gritty and swollen and the pillow beneath my head is wet.
Grabbing my cell, I do what I’ve been doing for the last four years: I dial my mom’s number, knowing that she will tell me what to do. Only instead of hearing the voice of the woman who has spent every day for the last few years shaping both me and my life into what she decided it should be, I’m met with an automated message informing me that the number has been disconnected.
Pulling up my father’s number, I call it and receive the same message saying it too has been disconnected. With trembling fingers, I dial the landline for the house, then sag with relief when someone answers.
“Rhodes residence,” an unfamiliar voice says.
“Hi, could I speak to my mom, please?” I ask.
“May I ask who’s calling, please?”
“It’s Penelope, her daughter.”
“Oh,” the female voice gasps, clearly shocked. “I’m afraid your parents aren’t here, they’re out of the country.”
“I’m sorry, but who are you? Where’s Mrs. Humphries?” I demand.
“I’m the new housekeeper, Geraldine. Your parents advised me that they have no immediate plans to return and that the house would be empty for the rest of the year,” she says, sounding unsure.
“Right, of course,” I say, forcing my voice to become polite and calm. “I’ll arrange for a moving firm to collect my belongings.”
“Err, I’m afraid Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes have given me strict instructions not to allow anyone access to the house.”
Closing my eyes, I drag in a slow breath, scoffing lightly. “Of course they did,” I say slowly, then end the call.
Staring down at the cell in my hands, I don’t notice the tears that continue to fall from my eyes. I should have expected this. I did expect it, but to find out from a stranger that my parents have left the country and banned me from the house feels like a physical wound to my chest. They know I left their house with nothing, and they’ve made it so I can’t even go and get my things. This is their way of punishing me. The money is gone, and I’m guessing Mr. Kingston, the lawyer, told them there’s nothing they can do about me no longer being eligible to inherit. But they can do this. They can take my home and my things. I’d lay money on the fact that they’ve stopped my credit card, and that my cell will be disconnected soon too.
I took the future they wanted from them, so now they’re taking from me in the only way they can. I’m not sure why I’m even surprised, I know what they’re capable of because I’ve been their weapon of choice for years.
Dropping my cell to the comforter beneath me, I fall back to the bed, squeeze my eyes shut, and just lay there, heartbroken, stupid, and alone. I’m not sure how much time passes before I eventually force my lids open. I don’t have time to sit here and dwell on how awful my life is. Calling the lawyers who deal with my trust fund first, I have them arrange for a new credit card to be overnighted to me, then I contact the cell phone company and change my cell to a new plan in my name. Thirty minutes later, I at least have access to money and a cell phone my parents can’t disconnect, even if I only have a cocktail dress, the outfit I chose when Hawthorn took me to the mall, and two sets of school uniforms to my name, and I’m living in a hotel.
Sighing tiredly, I twist to the side, letting my feet fall off the side of the bed. As I move, my skirt ruffles up, leaving my bare ass to rub along the soft cotton of the comforter. Oddly, it takes me a second to remember that I’m not wearing any panties because they’re in Hawthorn’s pocket. I should have insisted he give them back, told him he couldn’t keep them, but I was too drunk on his words and the orgasms he’d given me to protest.
The filthy, depraved part of me wants to hand over every item of underwear I own as a gift to him, but right now, I only have a couple of pairs of panties and now I have one less because he decided to punish me for being a bitch.
Heat fills my cheeks, and my sex clenches. A pulse of sore pain tugs inside of me, and a warmth feels like it seeps out of me, reminding me that an hour ago his cock was inside of me, fucking me unapologetically hard while he demanded I play with my clit until he came inside of me.
Ignoring the thrill of excitement that rushes through me at the memory, I try to focus on something else. I need to get some clothes, I can’t stay in this room and only wear my GAA uniform, but the thought of going shopping is paralyzing. For the last four years, my mom has chosen all my clothes without exception. She even created outfits for me, not willing to allow me to pair shirts with skirts without her interference. She molded me into a walking, talking heiress Barbie doll, and I trusted her to do it, just like I trusted her to shape my actions and my behavior because she told me everything we did was for me, to help me and guide me because she loved me.
Walking into the bathroom, I strip out of my uniform and bra, then pull the hotel robe on so I’m not naked. Shoving my uniform into the bag for cleaning, I place it outside the door, then scurry back to the bathroom and turn on the shower. Once the water is warm, I shuck off the robe and step under the stream, using the complimentary shampoo and wishing I had my stuff from home.
Melancholy and anger war with each other as I wash quickly, then turn off the shower and dry myself with the white hotel towels. My parents are assholes, but I’m still their daughter. The people who created me shouldn’t turn their back on me the moment I stop doing exactly what they want me to do, especially when what they want me to do is awful and a felony.
Clean and dry, I shove my arms into the robe, wrap it around my naked body, and sit back down on the bed. Inhaling, I breathe in the scent of pink grapefruit and not the musky fragrance of sex and Hawthorn that I hadn’t realized I’d liked quite so much. A fresh batch of tears falls from my eyes, and I let my head fall forward into my hands and allow myself to cry over losing the smell of him on me.
Shaking my head, I wipe my cheeks with the hem of the robe, then grab the remote and turn on the TV just for some noise to fill the empty room. When my cell beeps, I grab for it, hopeful that maybe it’s my mom, that the new housekeeper told her I’d called and that she was reaching out to me, but of course it’s not her.
My disappointment dissolves when I see it’s a message from Hawthorn.
Hawthorn
Where the fuck are you? Why aren’t you in class?
I read and reread his message, wondering why he even cares where I am. We’re not a couple. I don’t really know what we are, but whatever it is, I doubt it’s the type of relationship where he’d worry about me if I wasn’t where I was expected to be. For a minute, I think about not replying, then I realize that he’s literally the only person I want to talk to, even though I know I shouldn’t. I don’t understand his agenda anymore, the will is broken, and my sister is free. Only he doesn’t seem to want anything from me except my compliance and my body, he doesn’t care that I gave away a fortune, he doesn’t even expect me to be nice.
Me
I had a headache, so I left.
Lifting the comforter, I crawl beneath the covers, then roll to my side, placing my palm beneath my cheek and closing my eyes. My cell beeps again, and I sigh. I want to talk to him, but at the same time, I don’t. He belongs to my sister, he’s her friend, so I should stay away, but after this afternoon, it feels like he’s a tiny bit mine too.
Hawthorn
What hotel are you at?
I absolutely should not tell him where I am. He could come, or he could tell Izzy to come, and I refuse to allow her to see me this pathetic. But I still type out a reply, secretly hoping that a small part of him actually cares.
Me
The Haywood.
Hawthorn
Room number?
His response is immediate, like he was watching his screen waiting for my reply.
Me
Why?
Hawthorn
Room number? Don’t make me ask again.
I don’t know why I’m stalling, I’m going to tell him, I always was, even though I know I shouldn’t.
Me
459.
I hold my breath as I wait for him to reply, but nothing comes. The two blue ticks show that he read it, but he never texts back. Refusing to admit how disappointed I am, I close my eyes and fall asleep, ready for today to be over.